Thursday, January 15, 2004
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Machine gun Kiraly

Can a suburban wimp achieve manhood through machine guns?

By Andrew Kiraly

Americans love guns--but mostly in the abstract. We thrill to slo-mo Matrix shootouts, we swooned over the heavy artillery that pried open Iraq like a can of fruit cocktail, and we wouldn't be caught dead without our trusty plasma rifle in a bloody match of Unreal Tournament. But when it comes to hefting the cold steel of a real gun, your would-be GI Jane can easily turn into Squeamish Sally.

Yeah, that's me: the suburban wuss who'll happily mow down alien scum in Halo but would never--never!--consider squeezing off a few clips with a real killing machine. So, as a personal challenge of sorts, I ventured to American Shooters Supply and asked to blast one of their nastiest mofos--in this case, an HK UMP 45 machine gun. HK is the initials of some German guys; UMP is, presumably, the sound the butt of the gun will make--ump! ump! ump!--as it recoils against my underdeveloped, vaguely concave chest while I live out a Rambo fantasy. Forty-five is gun talk for "big-ass bullet."

Indeed, for about $30, you, too, can squeeze off a few clips at American Shooters Supply. It's a cheap, quasi-illicit thrill--considering that the 1986 Firearms Owners' Protection Act made it illegal for civilians to own a newly manufactured machine gun. (Today, in 33 states, including Nevada, it's okay to own one manufactured before the law went into effect). Between the law and the ensuing price hike in the machine gun market, you can't exactly visit your corner convenience store and pick up an M-16. But you can kill some time--and a paper target--with one at stores such as American Shooters Supply.

"The law is arranged such that we can legally get post-1986 dealer samples," says Ray Witham, an instructor at the store. That's a big draw for the shop. "I'd say about 25 percent of our business at the range is tourists. Despite popular belief, [pre-1986] machine guns are legal in 33 states, but most people don't want to go through all the trouble of getting one--ATF forms, background checks, all that. So, since we're so close to the Strip, a lot of tourists come down just to fire machine guns."

As though anticipating the query, Witham offers his sound bite on gun control legislation: "The gun laws are a joke," he says. "They're made by politicians who are out of touch with normal society, and the laws affect gun owners who are going to follow the law anyway."

The range is littered with shells. Next to us, a grandma is happily blasting away with a Glock. To our right, a guy from Vancouver, Dave, is plugging into a target with an M-15 rifle.

"This would be impossible to do in Canada," says Dave, 27. What accounts for his love of guns? "I always wanted to get into law enforcement, so I guess that's where my interest in guns came from. But I've never done it before."

Now for firing my HK UMP 45. Witham advises: Stand in a slight crouch, leaning forward, "like you're getting ready to catch a ball," he says. That way, the recoil doesn't send me reeling back, spraying gunfire into the ceiling in a bad imitation of the governor of California.

Kang! Kang! After I've gotten the hang of the gun set on single and semiautomatic fire, I'm ready for the full commando experience. I eject the magazine, insert a fresh one, and click the firing mode latch to fully automatic.

"All you have to do is hold the trigger down," Witham says, "and it'll just keep firing until the clip is empty."

Ready. Aim. Fi--.

Kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh! A stream of slugs pours from my barrel: Kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!

The pulse of my heart quickly falls into sync with the rattling pulse of the HK, and I experience that rare, bizarre simpatico that comes from achieving a certain magnetism with a machine. Kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!-kuh!

Besides that, I want to yell out in slow motion like Rambo does in the movies--machine gun blaring, pecs clenching and unclenching like pistons--but pride disallows.

The hominid outline of the paper target has what looks like a very painful case of totally machine gun-shredded thoracic cavity.

"There you go," Witham says. "You wanna do it again?"

I need a second to catch my breath. I'm trembling. God yes.