Lemme tell you 'bout my hairdresser.

His name is Richard. He has three fetishes; power tools, BDSM, and hair. The latter is what makes him so damn good at his job. I could come in looking like a shit sandwich, and he could make me look good. He's bi, heavy into the S&M scene, currently dating some vegan freak from Olympia, and throws some damn good parties.

Last Saturday, someone tried to kill him.

It was a man that he had helped out in the past. Room and board, get back on their feet, that sort of thing. They hadn't seen each other in a few years, and they met accidentally in passing on Saturday. So, they have coffee. They're sipping lattes when this guy freaks out. Not a little "OhmywhatamIdoinghere" kind of freak out, but "GeeithinkI'llwhipoutmyknifeandkillyou" kind of freak out. Richard suddenly found himself facing a seriously demented asswipe off his pills and waving a pocket knife around. He sustained lacerations to the front of his neck (narrowly missing his jugular), the back of his neck, his ear, and his hands. By the grace of god, it was all superficial. Nothing major damaged, no horrible disfiguring wounds, but the attack itself was traumatic as all hell.

I bring this up for one reason - this entire attack could have been stopped with one well placed bullet. As soon as Richard's hand heals, I'm going to try to convince him to go to the range with me. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY should have to go through what he went through. His attacker is in jail, and if he's smart, he'll stay there. Richard has quite a few friends, many of whom are built like a brick shithouse and have knife fetishes. These friends are now in a "I think this guy looks quite good with his testicals cut off and shoved down his throat" sort of mood.

Guns are like fire extinguishers. You hope to god that you never have to use them. But if you need them, and you don't have them....

You might as well whistle Dixie for all the good it'll do.