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original photo by Doug WinsorMy pop always told me it's best to try even when you're sure it ain't gonna work out. That's how I got the gig working the delivery circuit; I just kept bugging Link, the fella in the blue pants. I reckoned he was a real professional. I've seen plenty of hobby hunters in my day and he didn't strike me as one of them. See, weekend pleasure killers are more often than not just frustrated folk waking up before the crack just to stroke their woodies for armaments. They clean their rifles three times before Sunday and won't shut up about balance and range and stupid stuff like that. My cousin Jimmy, he's a groundskeeper at some golf course in North Carolina, shoots gophers with some piece of shit .22 when the club starts complaining. He couldn't give a dog's pecker about the make of his weapon, just that it does the job. And Link, he treated that rifle of his the same way. It was beat to hell and hadn't seen love or a display case since the background check went through. It put the quarries to sleep and that's all that mattered.
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