I woke up with a slight hang-over. Of course I did, it’s not even like I drank that much, But I had been spending all day walking around and not drinking enough water. It’s like they say, hydrate or die. I can’t exactly remember exactly why I hit the whiskey so hard last night. Oh yeah, the heist. Well, “heist.” Anyone would drink after pulling off something like that, if only to calm their nerves. It kind of feels like I’ve upgraded from petty curses to full-on criminal enterprise, albeit sanctioned by at least one government agency.

Honestly the way my boss has been acting I probably should be filing an IG complaint, but I have the creeping suspicion that if I attempted to do so the complaint would end up disappearing. It really feels like I’ve fallen into the area of federal employment where whistleblowers don’t get the protection they warrant under “official” law. Really I had just wanted to live the NEET life off of my medical retirement bucks. I must be cursed to end up in my current position, so it’s only fair that I spread a few curses of my own.

Bleary-eyed, I slowly drag myself out of bed. Maybe I’ll find some way to try and forget all the weird shit that happened this week. The weather is supposed to be nice today, and it’s been a while since I’ve gone to the range. I’ll go shooting today. I do have an obligation to make sure I don’t somehow regress in my marksmanship skills. No one likes an LEO who can’t shoot for shit. Like most LEO’s. Shit, I don’t even want to think of the implications of me being a cop now, on top of everything else.

Feeling a bit stressed faced with the reality of what my life, I decided to make a pot of coffee to help calm down. Walking through my living room on the way to the kitchen, I notice a cat curled up on my couch. Perfect, some fluffiness should help calm me down. But, as I reach down to pet it, memories of the other event that happened yesterday come rushing back to me.

Not only have I been forced into education, employment and even training, the fluffball I adopted turned out to be a half-fae classmate in search of a free meal. Why has God forsaken me? Oh yeah, the witchcraft. But most of this stuff started happening before I started using magic…

I catch my hand moving towards the soft belly of the cat curled up on the couch in front of me, but I stop it before I give the belly rubs I so desperately need to push all the negative thoughts out of my brain. I can’t. For one thing, she’s not just a cat, she’s a classmate. I really don’t even want to think of the implications of petting her. Still, my fuzzy source of comfort and grounding as been taken away, practically by fae magic. Maybe I really am reaping what I’ve sown. I’ll have to adopt another cat. Hopefully the next one won’t be a fae art student looking for free food.

That just brings up another troubling memory. That contract. The one she was quite literally waving in my face yesterday, while I tried to block out what was reality. Not the familiar contract we apparently made, but the other one. The one my boss forged my signature on to turn into reality. Giving my boss’s other actions, I have the strong impression that forging a marriage certificate and getting it accepted legally is minor for her.

Oddly enough, I’m not as stressed about this specific slight as you’d think. Conceptually, it’s pretty much a contract marriage like you’d see someone get in the military. Some boot-ass LCpl marrying a stripper he met at Driftwood for a mutually beneficial relationship of taking advantage of the DoD’s dependent benefits by committing small-scale marriage fraud.

He or she get a housing allowance as a married Marine, rather than having to live in the barracks. That extra money can be nice, and they even get to skip a lot of the annoying shit that single Marines have to deal with during barracks life, such as surprise inspections and Field Day cleaning every Thursday. And the young Marine’s new “spouse” get’s that tasty Tricare health insurance, which as an “independent contractor” at the strip club they dance at they don’t get. It sounds cynical , but it happens more often that the average civilian would think. There were even people joking about marrying their roommates when Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was initially repealed, so they could move out of the barracks and get some of the other benefits married Marines get.

My boss, from what I’ve heard, pretty much forced me and this girl into a similar relationship, all in the name of her trying to decrease how much she has to take out of her own budget to pay a new employee. By marrying her off to me, she now qualifies for a dependent’s Tricare insurance, which I rate as someone who’s medically retired. She even gave my GI Bill, which I had been planning on saving, to her to pay for her tuition.

If anything I should be pitying this girl for being forced into the role of a dependapotimas, a stay-at home wife who lives off her enlisted husband’s rank and paycheck (called a dependapotamus by lower enlisted because they tend to be overweight in a way that resembles an adult hippo, and just as ornery), but really I’m more pissed at my boss for forcing me into a shotgun marriage and giving away my GI Bill. Plus I don’t have a pet cat anymore.

Finally managing to suppress the urges to pet the defenseless sleeping cat on my couch, I make my way to the kitchen and start the water for coffee. I grab a few slices of bacon and some eggs and start to cook, when I remember just why I didn’t pet the curled-up black ball of fluff. Then I double the bacon and eggs. She said she’s getting paid, so she can help cover the cost of groceries. Though as my familiar I probably have some sort of magical obligation to feed her anyways, so it’s whatever. Considering what I usually spend my surplus cash on, a bit extra to my food budget really isn’t a bit deal.

As the scent of bacon begins to waft through the house, Dahlia walks through the door into the kitchen, looking as bleary-eyed as I felt earlier this morning. She grabbed a coffee mug from the cupboard, poured a cup, and plopped herself down at the kitchen table, in a series of actions that seemed like second nature to her. I knew I was going through more beans than I should have been. But given everything that’s happened, it’s likely best not to make a scene. I still cringe at the fact that she knows how I act with cats.

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“Morning.”

“Good morning, wife.” She says, a sarcastic tinge to her voice.

I chose to ignore it. I’m not actually sure of our relationship. From what she’s said, she’s my familiar as a witch, but the full extent of witch’s familiars and their relationship with a witch, at least in pop culture, has all sorts of troubling connotations. She’s also a classmate, which just adds another layer of weirdness to everything. Not that I really talked with her much before now. And apparently she’s a coworker too, from what she’s said about meeting my boss. I’ll just leave out that other connection we now have with each other. But since we seem to be stuck with each other regardless, we might as well at least become friends.

“Bacon and eggs should be done in a couple minutes.” I reply. Food is always a great way to win people over. Didn’t she say that’s why she first became my familiar?

“Don’t you have class today? Aren’t you gonna be late, spending all this time cooking?”

“It’s bacon and eggs, it takes like 5 minutes to make. Have you never cooked? Oh…”

“I can make cereal.” She said. Considering she said she’s been living as a feral cat for a while, I really should have suspected as much. Actually, she was eating the cat food I had left out before I learned the truth about her. Hmmm. No, I shouldn’t think too hard on this.

“Anyways, I figure I deserve to skip class today. After yesterday, deserve a break.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll go to the range. Wanna come with?”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

We took our time eating. It’s not like I was in any rush or anything. Yes, I had said I’d take her shooting, but the range is like, a fifteen minute drive away at most. I feel kind of guilty, but part of the reason I bought this house was because of how close it was to the gun club I had been going to since a young age. Hey, everyone has hobbies, and I’ve heard of less reasonable ones than punching holes in paper or plinking at steel. And hell, some level of competency with guns has been required for both of my most recent “real” jobs I’ve had.

Considering I’ve been shooting from a young age, I’ve never actually been too concerned about meeting the “minimum” requirements. It’s pretty much gotten to the point of being second nature, at least for myself. But now that I’ll be teaching someone else how to shoot, I must confess I’m a bit nervous. Like, what are the basics again? What do I start her off with? Do I spoon-feed her on every tiny detail, or just give her a set of safety rules and just point her at the target to figure the details our for herself? I’ve never actually willingly delt much with other people before, so this is absolute uncharted territory for me.

Opening the room to my vault, I look over the walls trying to decide what to actually bring with me to the range. Not to brag, but I’ve gotten a pretty respectable collection. I’ve always been a bit of a history buff and collecting neat and interesting historical examples is pure bliss for me. A lot of people are all over buying and upgrading the newest and greatest release from whatever meme company is big that year at SHOT show, and don’t get me wrong I can appreciate new technology. But historical arms just seem to have more soul, more heart. Hm, actually, that black mist over that Arisaka in the corner is implying that might be more than a figure of speech. Maybe if I ignore it it’ll go away. Or I could pick up some sage to purify it. Oh well, back to what to bring.

Well, a .22 is a must bring for a beginner. Low recoil and cheap ammo is pretty helpful. I probably should grab one with iron sights on it rather than an optic. Some people like putting optics on anything and everything, but back in the Old Corps we learned how to shoot with iron sights and loop slings, with no shooting mat. Okay, baby-boomer moment over, I grab a Ruger 22/45 from the wall and place it in a case. For being a massive Elmer Fudd type Bill Ruger put out some decent pistols and the company’s line of semi-auto .22’s are a mainstay for plinking. Based on the Type 14 Nambu action of all things, they’re comfy to learn how to shoot on, and this specific one has a threaded barrel, perfect for the can I picked up the other day.

While firearm suppressors, colloquially called “cans,” don’t get guns to movie levels of quiet, they do reduce noise a bit, making the noise level from firearms a bit safer. It’s really a travesty they’re included as one of the more highly regulated firearms thingies included in the National Firearms Act. I mean the NFA as a whole is a disgusting piece of legislation in my opinion, and the whole of its legal authority is based on the flimsy excuse of the government being allowed to tax interstate commerce.

But I make enough money now where I can afford to pay the $200 tax on a can, get fingerprinted, and wait 5-12 months for the cocksuckers at the ATF to allow me the privilege to exercise what’s codified as an inalienable, innate right of every free man and women. Really, I’ve done this country a disservice of removing that document that was causing those curses. Though actually, aren’t I a LEO now? Maybe I can get some post ’86 machine guns now. Fuck you William Hughes, I’m getting a machine gun. Once I have the time to go through the yellow tape. I’d never break any laws, of course.

Sorry about getting sidetracked. So, Ruger goes in the case. Thinking for a bit, I grab my next choice, an M9a3. Beretta products have really grown on me despite my initial bad impression of the M9 from the military. But apparently, if you don’t have a gun that’s been beat to shit being used my members of a branch of service primarily known for breaking things and eating crayons, it’s downright decent. 9mm is a bit of a step up from .22 LR, but it’s really not that hard to manage, especially in a full-sized metal framed handgun. Plus if Dahlia is going to be living here, it’d be helpful to get her used to using it. You know, just in case someone breaks in. Unless she can use some weird fae magic for self-defense? Still, can’t hurt. God made man, but Sam Colt made man equal, as they say.

Speaking of Sam Colt, I should grab one of my Single Action Army’s. A few companies make clones of what’s one of Colts most well-known revolvers, but I’m partial to the Uberti clones. They just feel like they’re the most faithful to the originals, unlike the Ruger clones. Though the Ruger versions can handle much hotter handloads than an Uberti, I prefer going for historical accuracy over seeing how much powder I can shove in a case before breaking the gun. Although, I’ve taken to going for historical black powder loads, which involves filling the cartridge case up to the top with powder before cramming a bullet on top. Even then, it’s pretty mild shooting, decently accurate, and makes a big cloud of smoke, so it’s super fun. In .45 long colt, of course

I guess I may like guns a bit much. I mean, I even have a vault for them all. I guess lastly I can grab a couple more pistols, It’s probably a bit early to have her shoot any cap-and ball revolver, Civil-war era technology, but my French mle. 1892 should be fun. It shoots a pretty light 8mm French Ordinance load and has a decent double-action trigger pull for a gun that’s pushing 112 years old. And continuing with the theme, I grab a mle 1935a. I picked it up cheap since for the longest time 7.65 longue, a cartridge originally developed for the Springfield Peterson device, was obsolete and virtually unavailable except from a few small boutique reloaders. But since Starline has started producing modern brass, quite frankly it’s become a favorite plinker for me.

Guns packed, multiple sets of eye and ear protection packed, and a fresh stack of targets ready to go. I probably should grab some .45 ACP too for my 1911. It might be too snappy for a new shooter, but I should get some practice in too since it’s my carry piece.

“Hey ‘Lia, are you ready?” I shout.

“Did you just give me a nickname?”

“It seems easier than saying ‘Dahlia’ all the time. Or would you prefer I call you by the other name I’ve been using?”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Okay then, let’s go.”

And so our first …date?... begins.