I woke up that morning like any other. Lay on the couch in my parents' office for an hour, groaning and swearing and trying to get my knees to work. Eventually I have to piss or want breakfast and a cigarette bad enough to roll over with my legs onto the floor and then I can push myself up and walk, and my knees don't bother me the rest of the day or two that I'm awake. But before all of that, before I uttered the phrase "Why God, why?" the first time as I did any other morning when I woke up in a cold sweat, was put my hand in the black backpack that leans against the couch I sleep on and brush my hands against the soft, smooth mahogany stained grips of my 1911, just to make sure it's still there. 
I managed to crawl to my feet, the day's first battle won. I slipped a pair of board shorts and a hoodie on and walked through the dark house to the fridge. The clock on the microwave said it was 3 AM. I grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the fridge and ate it with my eyes half closed, washing it down with yesterday's lukewarm coffee. I sat down in the garage and lit a Marlboro, taking a long slow drag on it and allowing the nicotine and caffeine to take in. After taking 30 minutes off my lifespan I went back to my room and checked my tablet. Some floozy from /soc/ was complaining to me on Snapchat about how her Xanax hook up wrecked the BMW her parents bought her. I muttered something about white girls and replied with a simple message. "Lol sux but where them noods at familam?" I was groggy enough for this to seem like an appropriate response. I opened my laptop to see that once again /k/ had delved from a normal, levelheaded discussion about battle rifles to furry shotas. What is it with /k/ and chicks with dicks?
After a few hours of arguing about the best craft beer to give your dog on a Cantonese picture book and weapons sub forum I decided it was time for another smoke and a shower. I said hello to my mom as she drank her coffee and watched CNN. Why she, a vehement Trump supporter, insisted on watching the Clinton Nigger Noggin' escaped me. I sat thinking about that job offer in Corpus someone emailed me about, worried it would be some strange old man looking to suck my dick for $50. Eventually I looked down to realize I had been smoking filter and I snubbed the butt out and returned to my room/office/milsurp pile to see a petite black haired girl with dark red hair sitting on my couch-bed, drinking my coffee, and surfing /ck/ with my laptop.
I walked into the room and stared at her for a half second. I turned around and walked out and then came back in. There she still sat, sipping coffee and smiling at me, her bright blue eyes glimmering in the yellow-orange light from the closet. I dropped the tablet onto the carpet and jumped across the room like Max Paine, my hands going to the backpack to find an empty paddle holster, a spare phone charger, and a Dean Koontz book. I grabbed her arms and pinned her against the back of the couch, our noses nearly touching. 
"Who are you and where is my gun?"
"Haha, wow Chucks, you're just getting right to it then. Lucky for you I'm into that," she quipped. I pushed her wrists back a little harder, straining her shoulders and pressing her ample chest against my stomach. 
"I'm not going to ask again. You can keep the gun or you can keep your kneecaps."
She chuckled and leaned forwards, biting me on the bottom lip and pulling. The sharp pain of it caused my grip to weaken and she slipped out of my grasp and grabbed my wrists, pulling me to her and whispering in my ear. 
"If you really want your gun back so bad, I propose a trade." 
Her left hand let go of my wrist and clamped down on my semi-erect cock, the cargo shorts not doing much to protect me.
"GETCHAHANDSOFFAMAHJOHSON!" I yelled, later realizing that I was directly quoting the Holy Dugan. I grabbed her left wrist and pulled her back. Thick thighs and large breasts aside, she probably weighed all of 110 pounds, soaking wet and wearing boots. She couldn't have been taller than five feet. I flung her around onto the floor and landed on top of her, holding her beneath my legs. Her black tank top lifted up to expose her smooth, flat stomach, a tattoo of the Metro Arms symbol just to the 11'O clock of her belly button. My jaw dropped and I loosened my grip, pulling away from her. 
"You're a fucking 'geist."

Just then I heard my mother's voice from the living room. "Chucks!" she shouted. "What the hell are you doing?" The sounds of the recliner closing and a fat border collie rolling onto the floor and walking away reached my ears soon after. I looked down at the 'geist beneath me and pulled her to her feet. 
"You have to hide," I mouthed hurriedly, stuffing her into the closet and covering her with milsurp. I threw an East German paratrooper's coat and my ALICE gear over her and pulled the sliding closet door as closed as I could get it before I heard the knob on my door start to turn. I sat back down and grabbed the laptop off, both to make my explanation more passable and hide the Indian tee-pee that had somehow grown sentient and pitched itself in my shorts. "Chucks, what is wrong with you? Your brother is sleeping and you're in here yelling."
"Sorry, the mic on my laptop is going out and I was in a Skype call. My friend Canadian MP friend is getting sent to Oklahoma for joint training and he wanted to see about meeting up sometime, so I..." 
"I don't care. Keep it down until we're all out of the house and wearing earplugs or something, Jesus," she said before closing the door. I sighed and leaned my head back against the couch, before rising to check on my 1911.The coat and webgear were now laying flat on the carpet. I moved them aside and there sat my 1911, appearing as if it - she - whatever, always had. I hefted it and sat it on the arm of the couch, retrieving my tablet from the floor and sitting down. I heard my mom's keys jingle after a few minutes, and her yelling for us to remember to take care of her dogs. I rolled my eyes and rubbed my temples, thinking to myself that by twenty years old I should have something going for me besides odd jobs and occasionally helping on a friend's goat farm. I checked Gmail to see a message from the local Navy recruiter. "Chucks, I'm sorry to inform you that due to your arrest record I can't recruit you. I think you're a good kid but even without a conviction, my boss will not let me take you. If something changes I'll notify you." I thanked him for his time and closed the tab, a lump rising in my throat. There went one option. I glanced at my 1911 and at once it seemed to exist both as the pretty young girl from before and as a .45 caliber Colt Commander clone from the Philippines. Then there she sat.
"So, do you wanna rough me up a little more, honey ko," she said with a wink. "Or do you want to ask me questions about finally appearing to you in human form after owning me for seven months?"
I sighed and looked at her for a few seconds. I sized her up and caught myself focusing below the neck for a little longer than I meant to. She giggled. 
"It doesn't hurt to look, Chucks."
"Well, I am curious as to why you have waited so long. Would have been nice to have some company when I was staying on the farm last month." 
"I don't really know. I was waiting for the right moment, and lately you've seemed kind of, well, depressed. I wasn't worried about you hurting yourself..." she shuddered at the thought. I knew from what I'd read about Waffengeists that they were usually emotionally wrecked after hurting their owners. I wasn't suicidal, but I could admit that my current situation had left me in a rut.
"Well, I'm glad you did. It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides a bipolar middle aged school teacher and a 17 year old kid that thinks he's Ryan Gosling ever since he got a pretty little Mustang. On my birthday. While I was in jail."
"Oh, hush. Your mom loves you and your brother is literally your best friend. Besides, the real reason you're so happy I showed up is that dry spell you've been going through."
As she said that I felt my face turn beet red. Her's did too, as much as her pale-olive skin would let it.
"So, I was wondering. I've been staying in that old bag of yours for days now, and it feels like it's been ages since you've cleaned me. What /k/ommando doesn't meticulously clean his guns three times a day? Poor form, trooper." 
She said the last three words in a feigned British accent. How did she manage to know about DTR? And what's more, weren't Pistolegeists technically considered loli?
"Because you fingerfuck me and pretend you're killing Communists everytime you right, you jackass. And no, I may be a girl, but I'm still a gun. Technically, it's virtually perfectly legal for you to do...oh, well...anything." As she said this she stretched, her tank top coming dangerously close to spilling her tits. As the thought crossed my mind she adjusted her tank top from right to left, briefly exposing her erect right nipple. The blood rush from my head nearly knocked me out."C...could you please stop reading my...my mind...I'm not a shy Finnish reservist. Do you, uh, have a name?"
"You haven't named me yet. But I'm sure you'll come up with something. But please don't use that name generator you do for your stories, I don't fancy being called Ivana Kowalski Johnson or some shit."
I pondered this for a moment, flexing my right arm to kill my erection. The dick cheat code had saved me before, but I wasn't sure if it would work under the current circumstances. I eyed her up again and gently slide her tank top up just below her breasts. There sat the rollmark tattooed at the apex of her ribcage. American Classic. 
"Erica. How does that sound?"
"Chucks! I love it!" she yipped, wrapping me in a hug that I thought was going to fracture a rib. I patted her head and stood up. 
"I'm a man that likes to keep a routine. Come on, you." 
I blinked and in my lap she sat in gun form. I grabbed the cleaning kit I put together out of Hoppes and Q-tips that I kept wrapped in a dishrag on my shelf and carried her to the kitchen table.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and turned some music on. I sat down at the table and turned the TV off, not willing to give CNN anymore of my time than necessary. I laid the cloth out on the table and set my bottles of cleaning solvent, the Q-tips, and non-abrasive bits of cut up shop towels aside. I ejected the mag full of 185 grain hollowpoints and racked the round in the chamber out, setting it next to the magazine. I racked the slide again a few more times out of habit and, partially, to tease Erica. I heard a muffled gasp and then short, light giggles. I pressed the recoil spring plug in and slowly rotated the barrel bushing off, Erica emitting a stifled moan.Next came the recoil spring, which caused an...interesting reaction when I pulled it from the bottom of the slide. The slide now under no pressure, it easily slide back to the disassemble notch. I pressed the slide stop through and slid the slide off of the frame, Erica letting out a low groan. I removed the recoil spring guide and set it aside the slide stop and plug. I wet a Q-tip and began cleaning the slide rails and feed ramp, trying to get every touch of accumulated powder residue and dust out. I then turned to her slide, sliding the barrel out setting it aside for later. I wiped down the rear of the slide and the breech face, as well as the notches for the barrel. She sounded as if she was going to hyperventilate, so I took a sip of coffee and switched between songs for a few seconds. I then took her barrel and my bore brush and slid the tip in. She inhaled sharply and seemed to be attempting to stifle another long, deep moan, to not much avail. My brother walked by with his headphones in, blaring some gangster rap shit about moving crack rocks and slinging dope. He worked at Chipotle and was signed up for the Navy and wouldn't know a crack rock if you fed it to him. I glanced down at Erica. "Not a word, young lady," I said in a stern, low voice.I began to push the brush the rest of the way in when he turned around and pulled an earphone out. "Hey nigga, when you gonna let me pop a couple off with that thing?"
"I don't know, you baka ass motherfucker. When you gonna let me borrow the Mustang so me and my friends can use it as the mobile ops center for snorting coke out of Thai hookers' assholes?"
"Bitch, what friends?"
"Aight then, young nigga, come see me when you need somebody to take pictures of you pretending to work on your bike for Instagram."
"Fuck you, dude."
"It will have to wait until I'm done here."
He laughed and turned around to head to his room. To the outside observer it seemed like we hated each other, but these conversations were a daily thing and usually ended with those hearing them pissing themselves laughing. I turned back to the task at hand. I tried to make myself look nonchalant. This was a task I had performed a hundred times before, but now that I was aware that my 1911 was also a living, breathing, human female. I eased the cleaning rod in and heard her whisper in hushed Tagalog. 
"Hinti...hinti, po..."
I raised an eyebrow and eased the brush back. "Hmm?"
"Fuck...fucking..."
I slowly pulled the brush back out, causing yet another stream of slurred Tagalog. I let the end of the rod hit her feed ramp and then grabbed the base of the handle and rammed it all the way through the barrel. She let out what almost amounted to a scream, and then what sounded like her clamping her hand over her mouth. I pulled the brush back out and sent it through again, working up a steady but deep rhythm. She managed to barely keep herself quiet before I pulled out. I had never before heard a gun orgasm, but I know for some reason the hammer dropped on the frame, startling me. "Sorry, chucks. I got a little carried away." I laughed, reassuring her that it was alright. Switching over to the rod and patch, I did this slowly, not to tease her but to be sure I got any residual oil and residue out of her barrel. I checked her bore to make sure it was bright and shiny, then looking around to make sure no one was there to witness me, planted a light kiss on her feed ramp. She giggled and purred, attempting to form words but unable to decide upon Tagalog or English or gibberish. I began reassembling her and once I had gotten her back together I took her out to the garage, set her on a table, and lit a cigarette. She reappeared in human form, her dark red hair tangled and messy, her tank top pulled down below her tits, her denim shorts unbuttoned.
"You could give a girl a chance to breathe, you know."
I took a drag without looking at her and then glanced in her direction with a smirk.
"Why would I go and do a thing like that?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes, reaching over to take one of my cigarettes. I slapped her on the wrist and jokingly wagged a finger at her. 
"Nice little girls shouldn't smoke."
"Who said I'm a nice little girl?" she asked, taking one of the Marlboros and lighting it. I half expected her to choke, but something about her looked older than she was.

In a moment there was a flash and the smell of hot metal. Distant voices spoke in Tagalog. A tin metal warehouse. The warm glow of a kiln. The sounds of a wheel grinder. Then, somehow, before that. Jungle. The smell of blood, decay, and filth. Machine gun and cannon fire. Mud and harsh, bearing sunlight. I shook my head and felt nauseous, my hands going to my stomach. Suddenly the lights cleared and my head gradually stopped swimming. 
"Chucks, are you alright?"
"I just...I...What was that?" I asked, panting. 
"The whole mind reading thing...it sometimes bleeds over from my end, too. I'm a machine, just as much as I'm a human. I was created on the same tooling the old Colts were for the second World War. It just happens sometimes. I'm sorry."
"No...it's fine. Just caught me off guard."
"Well, to be fair, there's a lot of ugly stuff floating around in your head either. I never did like Mexicans."
I was quiet for a second. I thought back to a cold morning in south Texas. 
"I'm sorry, that's not proper of me," she said quickly.
"Eh, helps to talk about sometimes. That girl should have never been at that party. If I was seven months pregnant I'd be nowhere near that shit, especially in that part of town."
"Yeah. And no, I can't. Lucky you," she said. 
"What...?"
"You can't impregnate me. So no need for you to keep carrying around that three year old condom. That things been in there since before the last time you got laid!"
We both laughed at this and I finished my cigarette. She went back to being a gun and I tucked her into my waistband and walked back to my room. Once I shut the door she was in her human form again, this time directly on my lap. I didn't mind. 
"Chucks, is that fire hydrant in your pocket, or...?"
"Er, whoops."
I shifted her to be a little more comfortable and opened up Gmail again.An email marked "Pier pressure" was new. Charlie was a funny guy, for a 60 year old alcoholic longshoreman. "Chucks, get your ass down here. Boss just told me he can bump you up to twenty bucks an hour. If I've got to come get you myself I don't mind, you can pay me back in beer and those funny dog lady pictures your friend sends you. 
Come on fucker!
Love you, 
Charlie."
So getting paid to sink beams for piers in Aransas. Hell of a gig. Problem now was getting there with no car and no money for a bus ticket. I rubbed the stubble I had been growing out for the past few days and thought this over. 
"Charlie,
When can you be up here? I can be ready tonight. How's your leg?
Eat a cawwwwk
Chucks."
"Erica, how would you hold up to salt water?"
"Well, you might have to clean me a lot more..." she said, leaning in and kissing my neck. My left hand slid into her panties as I continued thinking the prospect of travelling across the state to work with a guy I had only met once. Still, he'd given me no reason not to trust him, and sitting here rotting away in this small town suburb was killing me. I began contemplatively rubbing my left middle finger against her, writing out the phrase "Interior Crocodile Alligator," over and over again. 
"You're...mmf...quite the multitasker...I...I had a little input on...on this, if you wanted to hear it."
"Go ahead," I replied, rubbing her clit with a little more intensity, leaning in to kiss her. I pushed her onto her back and slid her shorts off, revealing a bright red thong. 
"Well...I don't have ID, but I could work. Machines know machines. I'm apt as a mechanic and I have some fabricating skills...hff..." she moaned as I moved her panties to the side and pressed my face into her. 
"If you could figure something out about identification, I'm sure I could get a job to help you pay the bills. I'd hate to be away from you for so long..."I mulled this over while continuing to write out the lyrics to Chip the Ripper's freestyle on her clit with my tongue. I hummed against her and she yipped. I rested my chin just above her mons pubis and looked at her. 
"I don't see why you'd have to be away from me at all. I'm getting paid under the table and if I tell Charlie I've found someone else that could do some mechanic work he'd probably piss himself."
"Write him back and tell him. Afterwards," she said.
I continued licking her, gently sucking her lips and running my tongue around her clit in a circle. I pushed my right index and middle finger into her and pressed against her G-spot. I applied pressure in rhythm with my tongue. I had seen the way pinays move when they orgasm, even experienced it once or twice, but I thought she was going to break my jaw. I kissed my way up her body once she was done convulsing and slid my lips around one of her grey-pink nipples, the head of my dick resting against her vulva. I rolled her nipple between my teeth and lightly tugged on it, running my tongue over the bud. I let go and leaned up to kiss her chin. 
"We'd be leaving soon and you don't have much to wear."
"We'll just raid your mom's closet. I guess I can figure something out with granny clothes and she hasn't worn most of that in five years. You'll buy me a new wardrobe soon anyway, right?"
"Haha, depends on how well you behave yourself."
I slid into her. She inhaled and grabbed the back of my neck, wrapping her legs around me. She was extremely tight. If she wasn't close to dripping wet it would have been extremely painful. 
"F...for you.." I heard her say. I held back laughter and then put on a straight face and put my hand around her neck, pressing tightly on both sides. I began thrusting into her as I bit and sucked her nipples, her legs over my shoulders. I let her right tit pop out of my mouth and pressed my lips to hers. She pushed her tongue against mine and ran her fingers through my hair. I was being considerably rougher with her than I had been and didn't realize it. I made eye contact with her and she nodded and smiled, assuring me that she had absolutely no problem with it. I slapped her ass and she managed to choke out a yelp. I felt her tighten around me as her legs shook against my shoulders. I went light headed and felt myself cumming inside of her. I rolled over onto the floor, panting. I let the spots in my vision go away and felt a hand grab mine. I look over and she is holding my hand and smiling at me with tears in her eyes. 
"Something the matter?"
"Not at all, Chucks."
"Why are you crying?"
"It's just raining."
"We're inside, baby."
"Shut up, Chucks."
"Erica?"
"Yes, po?"
"Did you banepost in my head while I was fucking you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"My master plan, chucks."
We lay like that for a moment before she spoke up again.
"This is microsuede and I, uh...I mean you...It's not exactly easy to get bodily fluids out of this stuff."
"Shit!" I exclaimed, running to the door and peeking out to see if anyone was there. I turned back to see my brother standing in the hallway, a shit eating grin on his face as he started the slow clap.
"My fam, good fucking shit."
"Not a word to anyone about this. No one knows she's here."
"You good, dog, just don't tell her I fucked the cheer captain in the living room."
"You mean the one that shit herself at the homecoming game last year?"
His eyes lit up maniacally and he nodded. "Nigga she shit on my balls too, fuck you mean."
"Nice man, send me the video when you get a second."
"It's on my Christian Mingle account. Later nigga."
"Wait bro, throw me a towel. Preferably a white one."
"Psh, I ain'tcho bitch!"
"THERE IS NUT EVERYWHERE."
"Aight bro damn." 
He threw me a towel and I gently wiped her off. She sighed and handed me the now wet and sticky towel, which I disposed of in a trash bag. I sat slipped my shorts back on and sat in my computer chair, watching her lay there half awake. Her stomach had weird discolorations, old scars. 
"It doesn't hurt," she said. 
"Hmm?"
"The scars. They're holster and field wear. They sting a little at first, but I'm a tool first and a girl second. That's why I'm here. To be used. I know how bad you felt the first time you noticed wear on me, but we all get old sooner or later, right?"
"If you live long enough I suppose."
"I don't really have that problem as long as you don't turn me into a gun buyback."
The thought sickened me. I looked at her long, blood red hair, the same red mahogany as her grips after I refinished them. I looked at her breasts, heaving with her every breath. Her flat, pale-olive stomach, marked with tattoos indicating her serial number, rollmark, and the American Classic logo. I could recite the number my memory. I stepped over to her and ran my fingers across her stomach, prompting a shiver and a reluctant, sheepish smile. I helped her up and handed her the denim skirt, her balled up and saliva soaked panties resting next to her on the arm of the couch. She went to grab them and I snatched them out of her hands. 
"You'll get these back when you earn them, sweetheart," I said, patting her on the rear. She feigned anger that turned into a smile and flicked me on the forehead. 
"Ah,ah, I can smack a lot harder than that."
"Prove it."
"In time. I need a tortilla and a cigarette."
"Ooh! Let me cook for you. I'll see if you have stuff for Adobo."
"What is Adobo, exactly?"
"So uncultured, tsk tsk. Be glad I'm not making Balut, asshole."