>It’s been about half an hour after you just kept your wigger of a geist from mag dumping in the parking lot of the gas station, and she has yet to give you a proper answer. Instead, the ride’s been deathly quiet save for the country music flowing from the sound system. >You could cut the tension with a knife. “Fuck this,” you think to yourself before utilizing the next highway exit. >You turn into the first parking lot, one of those large truck stops with a small motel and restaurant in the same complex. Before Sam can say anything, you step out of the truck and shut the door behind you, leaving her alone for the time being. You don’t see it, but she pulls her legs to her chests and buries her face in her knees as you walk inside. “What am I gonna do,” you mutter, splashing cold water from the sink across your face. >The chill snaps you out of the funk of the awkward drive and you stare at yourself in the dingy mirror after drying off with a handful of paper towels. A long, tired sigh escapes as you mull over the appearance of a weapons grade wigger spirit in the middle of your cross-country journey. >Being unfamiliar with how women truly work, you decide it best to consult an expert. Your fingers fly across the touchscreen of your phone before hitting the send button. You’re barely out of the bathroom until the phone buzzes in your pocket. “Sup?” >“Not even gonna ask what you did, or who it is,” says the woman on the other end. “But whatever the issue, apologize and talk about it, like actually discuss it and actually listen.” “But- “ >“No ‘buts.’ Don’t care who’s at fault. Knowing you, apologize to her for being an asshat and let her know that you genuinely want to know what’s wrong… You actually do care this time, don’t you?” >You pause for a moment, trying to dredge a response from the muck that is your thought process. >“Anon?” Her voice is like the blade of a knife with how sharp it comes across. “Y-Yeah, enough to want get shit sorted,” you stammer out. “Good. Now, buy her something she might like, even if it’s candy or some shit. Peace offering.” “Alright, easy enough.” >You scan the drink cooler and find a watermelon Arizona. >“And for the love of God, Anon, think before you speak. Take her emotions and opinions into account.” “Got it… thanks, C.” >”Just don’t fuck up this time. You keep bitching to me about not having a girlfriend and then go and fuck shit up. Keep this up and I’ll date you myself just to unfuck you.” >The line closes before you can respond, but your “expert” on the matter at hand said what needed to be said. You start to wonder if she was serious about the dating you thing, but that thought exits stage left when the small of truck stop food reaches your nose. “Something she likes… Well, if she likes Black&Milds and watermelon Arizona, why not.” >A few dollars later and you’re standing next to your idling truck, plastic bag and Styrofoam container in hand. You can’t see inside the cab because of the tint, but you know Sam is in there from the thumping of the bass. Sounds like she found your iPod playlist of rap and R&B. You tap a knuckle on the glass. “Sam?” >No response. You tap the glass again, this time with all knuckles. “Sam? I wanna talk.” >Again, no response. You swear the music gets louder. “You little,” you begin to mutter. You catch yourself, however, C’s words still fresh on your mind. >Deep breath in, deep breath out. You knock on the glass once more, holding up your haul as you speak. “I got you something, if you’re hungry… if not, I can toss it.” >Still nothing. With no change in the situation, you move to the back and drop the tailgate. >It’s beginning to seem like things might be worse than you thought, so you consider calling C again. Your phone is halfway out of your pocket when you hear the door open, Dre blasting from the speakers before being muted when the door slams shut. >You don’t look, but you know the black-haired shorty has hopped up on the tailgate when the truck rocks a bit. You spy out the corner of your eye that she’s as far from you as possible, arms folded over her chest as she looks anywhere but at you. “So, I wanted to apologize for snapping earlier,” you begin, setting the watermelon Arizona between the two of you. >She peers out the corner of her eye, gaze moving from the can to you, then back to the can. Seeing as how she’s not making any movements, you deploy the second barrage. You open the Styrofoam container and set it next to the drink, steam rising from the contents. “Truck stop tater logs and fried chicken may not be the healthiest, but it’s some decent comfort food.” >Before the last syllables are out of your mouth, the container is scooped into her lap and the tab on the drink popped as she begins attacking the greasy cuisine. You take this opportunity to further explain the reasoning behind the peace offering. “Look, I shouldn’t have snapped as bad as I did earlier. It’s just been a really stressful 24 hours, ya know?” >She nods as she stuffs her face, drinking deeply from her can after shoving three potato wedges into her maw. “Like, not only do I have to deal with a bunch of nigs tryin to kill me, but suddenly I find out my gun has a damn spirit that manifests as a wigger chick, followed by a couple of gun totin cholos, all on top of driving across the entire country!” >She seems to be mulling over your words as she continues eating, nearing the end of her meal. “I want things between us to be smooth from here on out, specially since we’ll be livin together and shit. Plus, it might be beneficial if we’re cool with one another if I’m gonna be shootin you.” >With a final swig of her watermelon tea, Sam lets out a satisfied belch before falling backwards to lie in the truck bed. She lazily kicks her legs back and forth as they dangle from the tailgate, arms folded behind her head. >”I feel ya, nigga,” she sighs. “We needta be chill and shit, yeah?” “Yeah, exactly,” you nod. “So I think it might be good if we try and actually get to know each other a bit better.” >”Yeah, guess so,” she grunts, closing her eyes as she slowly succumbs to a food coma. “Glad you agree… So, for starters, I’d like to know what ticked a nerve with you earlier, like if I said anything out of turn.” >Her breath catches and you realize you moved a little too quickly back to the problem that prompted this little powwow. Her eyes open as she slowly sits up, slumping forward with her elbows on her knees. >Damage control, go, go, go. “Actually, you know what, how bout we forget about what happened earlier, yeah? You can- “ >”Hold up, nigga,” she whispers, voice cracking as evidence of her holding back tears. >Fuck. “Sam, if you don’t wanna- “ >”Shut up for a sec, honkey,” she grumbles, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoody. >”You know how I told you bout how at the factory, we heard bout our owners bein gangbangers and shit?” >You nod, recalling what she said earlier in the day. >”Well, we also heard about the rep that fuckers been slingin bout us on the block,” she sighs, pulling her knees to her bust and resting her chin atop them. >Realization spreads over you as the rumors about Hi-Point firearms run through your mind. The trash talk, shitting on, and general negative views. >”When you go through your entire existence hearing and being told that you and your kin are pieces of shit that are only good for throwaway guns, barely worth the materials used to make you… You wanna prove em all wrong, show that you’re just as capable as the other guns, ya feel?” “Sam, I… “ >”Nigga, all anyone else has seen me as is a piece of shit carbine that barely passes for a trunk gun or range toy,” she chokes out, tears quietly starting to roll down her cheeks. “Fuckin, all these bitches look at me and just see a dime store, blowback gun that’ll blow up in their hands on the first shot.” “That’s not true,” you interject, brow furrowed. “You’re a damn good carbine built to be affordable and reliable at the same time.” >She lets out a tear stained chuckle, trying her best to keep her eyes and face dry with the sleeve of her hoodie. >”Fuckin honkey, that’s why I wanted to smoke those fuckbois… “ “What?” >Whatever point she’s trying to get across, it’s gone right over your head. >”Anon, the day you bought me is one I’ll never forget,” she quietly sobs, restraint falling away. “You came into that backwoods FFL and told the dealer you were there for a Hi-Point carbine. Even when he tried to convince you to buy something else, you stood firm that you were walking out of there with me… “ “Well yeah, I had done my research and was dead set with buying you.” >Another tear soaked chuckle and sniffling. >”Shiet, you were so excited to show me off to yo crew. And when they started throwin shade, you jumped on their asses to represent me.” >She looks over to you, watery eyes meeting yours. >”Homie, you get why I wanted to smoke those taco munchers? Cause those newjacks threatened the one real nigga who ain’t done nothin but treat me like a damn princess,” she cries, slamming her fist down on the tailgate. “I just wanted to prove to you that I can legit earn to be treated the way you do me, fam… “ >You’re at a loss for words, to say the least. Here you are, talking to your carbine, who has just confessed that she only wanted to mag dump a pair of shitty gangbangers because she wanted to prove herself worthy of your care and affection. “Sam, you ain’t gotta go and try to do some crazy shit just for me,” you reassure her, reaching over to place a hand on her back. >”Homie, I just wanna prove… “ “Prove what, Sam?” >”That I ain’t a piece of shit and that I’m just as good, damn it.” >She buries her face into her folded arms atop her knees, tears now freely flowing from her hazel eyes, silently streaming down her face. Your heart is beyond broken at this point, your own eyes threatening to mist over. >You move until you’re right next to her and pull her close, a comforting arm wrapped around her as she releases the anguish that had been building inside her. As you search your brain for something comforting to say to her, anything to change her outlook, a billboard catches your eye. “Hey, Sam,” you say with a gentle nudge. “How bout we go prove you ain’t a piece of shit, yeah?” >She lifts her head, albeit barely, and follows your gesturing hand to the billboard advertising a local indoor range. >”I don’t know, Anon,” she sniffles. “C’mon, Sam, don’t you wanna show that you’re just as good as any of those fuckers that talk so much shit?” you encourage, rubbing her left arm as you continue to hold her. “You and I both know that you’re pretty damn good at 25 yards. Hell, even fifty ain’t that bad.” >She shrugs and makes no comment, but the tears seem to have stopped and a light blush of embarrassment is now painted across her face at the mention of her groupings. Seeing as she’s not going to make any real response, you lean down to whisper in her ear. “We can mag dump one of those twenty rounders and pretend it’s a drive-by, if ya want,” you tease. >She starts chuckling at this, mood slowly lightening. Slowly, she starts to nod in agreement. >”You got that good shit, yeah? Not that rank-ass steel cased?” “Only the best for you.” >”Hmm… Aight, Homie, let’s go put some holes in paper.” >You smile as she jumps from the tailgate, tossing her trash into the bed with your luggage. Her mood, while still a little downtrodden, has obviously improved thanks to the impromptu range trip. As you close up the gate and climb back into the cab, you mentally pray that some quick range time well help ease her negative thoughts and views of herself, especially considering how much you enjoy her as a carbine.