"Frank's Gun Shop," proclaimed a modest, faded sign on a shabby door. The building itself was a small one-story brick box, drearily fitting into the gray and boring landscape of Queens Village. No emotion, no intrigue, no desire for a random passerby to enter.
The moment I pushed the heavy door and went inside, expectations nurtured by spy movies shattered against harsh, brutal reality. No shiny display cases and cool samples hung on walls. I was met by minimalist, perfectly organized Spartan interior. The air was thick and smelled of steel, gun oil, and gunpowder. Gray brick walls were bare. Just a couple wooden shelves holding several rifles and pistols. My new Master Watchmaker's eye instantly caught barely visible casting seams on the plastic and absence of micro-scratches from use. Props.
Behind the single massive oak counter, he silently regarded me. A tall, sinewy man about thirty, with black close-cropped hair, strong chin, and cold, assessing eyes. He wasn't wearing the signature white skull t-shirt, just a plain black tee, but I was 95% certain this was the Punisher. Future or possibly already current.
The silence stretched. The seller clearly wasn't going to break it. This place was "for insiders." A random customer, frightened by this atmosphere, would leave empty-handed. But I came with a specific purpose.
"Um... I'm from Eric," I finally said, and my voice sounded inappropriately loud in the silence.
"Name?" he asked shortly, emotionlessly. His gaze didn't change.
"John. John Thompson."
He silently watched me for several more seconds, as if cross-referencing some internal list. Probably Blade had warned him after all. Frank nodded briefly, and I noticed tension in his shoulders drop by one barely perceptible degree. If not for my skill noticing the smallest details, I wouldn't have caught it.
"What's your purpose for buying weapons?" his voice was even, but weight was felt in the question. This was a test.
"Self-defense. And further modification," I answered just as directly.
The word "self-defense" he seemed to let pass. But at the word "modification" his right eyebrow twitched slightly. I decided to develop the thought.
"I don't just need weapons. I need reliable and easily modifiable weapon platforms. So I can personally... perfect them without risking damage to the main mechanism." About Technological Modernization I tactfully stayed silent.
"Hmm... Interesting," something resembling interest flickered across his face for the first time. "Pretty rare request. Eric was right, you're an interesting guy. What specific platforms interest you?"
"For starters I'd like to get a pistol, two different assault rifles, and one sniper," I voiced my plan. "But I'm not a specialist, so I'll trust you in choosing specific models."
"Good. Wait."
With these words Frank silently disappeared into the back room. He returned three minutes later, carrying a whole arsenal. With surgical precision he laid out four weapons on the counter.
"Let's start simple," he indicated the pistol. "Glock-17. Austrian plastic brick. There's almost nothing in it to break. It'll shoot in dirt, underwater, after you drop it from a roof. It's simple as a hammer and just as reliable. But the main thing for you, it's a platform. More tuning parts exist for it than any other pistol in the world. Barrel, slide, grip, trigger, you can replace everything. Turn it into a sport pistol or silent weapon for quiet work. This is a blank slate."
This guy's capable of such long and penetrating speeches?! Shock. Though, it was about weapons, obviously the main passion in his life. And I agreed with him. Glock was a brand, was reliability. But, being in one room with one of the world's best weapons experts, I couldn't help but satisfy my curiosity.
"Frank, can I ask a couple questions? I'm a beginner, and almost all my knowledge is from movies and games, so it's probably wrong..."
He nodded slowly.
"So. Why Glock and not, say, Beretta 92FS? It's a classic, the US Army used it for decades."
"Key word, 'used,'" Frank answered without pause. "Beretta's not a bad pistol. But it's design and ergonomics from the seventies. It's heavier. It has complicated double-action trigger, first shot requires one effort, second, another. That's an extra variable when your hands are shaking. Open slide, magnet for dirt. It just works well. Glock works well every time. For a beginner, simplicity is life. Fewer parts means fewer chances something goes wrong."
I nodded, accepting his logic. Simplicity is life. But my curiosity, nurtured by pop culture, demanded answers.
"Got it. What about um..." I hesitated, understanding how stupid this would sound, but the desire to hear a professional's verdict was stronger than shame. "Desert Eagle? I know it's probably overrated, but stopping power..."
Frank froze for a moment, as if analyzing whether he'd misheard. Then he let out a short, dry laugh devoid of any mirth.
"'Stopping power'?" he indicated the AK with his chin. "A round from the Kalashnikov will go through your target, the guy behind him, and the brick wall behind them both. In the city this is called 'overpenetration' and is a direct road to killing innocents. That's a liability." After these words he went back to the storage room and returned with another pistol. "Now take this."
He handed me a massive, chrome-plated pistol, obviously that same Desert Eagle. It weighed like a small anchor.
"Its magazine holds seven rounds. In the Glock," he nodded at the counter, "seventeen. This weighs twice as much. After the first shot you'll be aiming at the ceiling. And it jams if you hold it wrong. This is movie props. Loud, shiny, and absolutely useless in real combat. You came for tools or props?"
I felt myself blushing and hastily put the Desert Eagle on the counter. Frank's logic was lethal.
"This is, I take it, an AK-47?" I hastened to change the subject, pointing at the legendary rifle.
"That's the one. Kalashnikov rifle," Frank ran his hand along the wooden handguard with obvious respect. "It'll shoot even if you use it as a paddle. It doesn't care about dirt, sand, and lack of maintenance. The 7.62 round penetrates light cover that'll stop the next specimen. It's not as accurate, kicks harder. But when it comes to surviving in complete shit, it won't let you down. This isn't a scalpel. This is an axe. You need both tools."
Here Frank picked up a black, more modern-looking rifle.
"AR-15. Lego constructor for adults. Light, accurate, ergonomic. Modular system lets you change everything on it: from stock to caliber. Today it's a close-combat carbine. Tomorrow, medium-range sniper rifle. It's more finicky than the Kalashnikov, requires cleanliness and care, like a thoroughbred horse. But pays for it with accuracy and convenience."
"Hmm, why not the classic M16? It's like the progenitor of all this?" I waved my hand vaguely.
"Because the progenitor was raw," Frank answered without pause. "The first M16s sent to Vietnam jammed from humidity. They perfected them for decades. What lies before you, result of fifty years of working on mistakes. AR-15 in carbine configuration is shorter, lighter, and more reliable than that long musket. You wouldn't use the first version of a program if there's a final release with all patches?"
"Logical. What about the sniper rifle?" I indicated the last weapon. It looked surprisingly simple.
"Remington 700. For distance work. This rifle's bolt assembly, gold standard for half a century already. Incredibly accurate and reliable. And, like everything else here, it's a platform. You can eventually build a completely new unit around this bolt. This weapon isn't for fuss. This is for one precise, calculated shot that decides everything."
"But... it looks kind of too simple. I've seen Barrett rifles, for example. They look way more impressive. Aren't they better? I'm ready to pay."
Frank looked at me, and in his gaze was no contempt, rather the weariness of a teacher explaining obvious things.
"The question isn't whether the rifle is better. The question is whether you are better. A twenty-thousand-dollar rifle can shoot a half-inch group at 500 meters. This Remington will shoot a three-quarter inch group. You'll only feel the difference when your own skill exceeds this weapon's capabilities. Years and thousands of rounds will pass before that moment." He pointed at the rifle, then at the whole set. "You'll spend five thousand on all this. And the other fifteen you'd throw away on a fancy brand, better spend on ammo and training. That's what'll make you better, not a nameplate on the receiver."
"Thanks for the lesson," I thanked him sincerely. He really opened my eyes. Frank nodded and summed up.
"This set covers all your needs. Reliable pistol. Accurate carbine. Indestructible assault rifle. And a tool to solve problems at distance. Master using this, and you'll be more dangerous than 99 percent of armed people on this planet."
"About 'master'..." I decided to risk it. "Maybe recommend someone? Good instructor."
I expected him to give me a business card or phone number. But he just looked at me.
"Myself," Frank answered without hesitation, surprising me considerably. Seeing the silent question on my face, he clarified. "This shop is for insiders. Outsiders don't come here. And my markup is small. So in parallel I teach basics to beginners. Like you."
"And how long will mastering basics take? Considering I want to do this as fast as possible."
Frank thought for a moment, assessing me.
"Pistol, one hour. AK and AR, three. Remington, another three. But that's just the very basics," he named the price without slightest haggling. "Three hundred dollars an hour. In four hours you'll leave here capable of protecting your life in back-alley shootouts, not just punching paper."
"Not that I need to shoot it out in back alleys," I muttered, "but I'll gladly pay for your instructor services."
"Then let's go," he said, heading for the exit.
"Right now?"
Frank stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.
"Time is a resource. I don't have much of it. I need to be home by six."
I also needed to be, actually.
"Means we'll only have time for pistol and rifles," I quickly calculated. "We'll deal with the Remington another time."
We didn't drag it out. I got in my Honda and followed him. Frank's car turned out to be a black Chevrolet Chevelle SS from 1970. Old, perfectly restored muscle car whose low, guttural roar seemed to make the asphalt tremble. He drove through unremarkable Queens streets, and soon we turned into a deserted industrial alley, stopping at an inconspicuous metal door in a warehouse wall.
The range was a huge basement space. The smell of gunpowder and gun oil here was orders of magnitude thicker than in the shop. Cold gray concrete, walls covered with sound-absorbing panels, and dim light just enough to see targets. The atmosphere was oppressive, functional, and absolutely devoid of any frills.
"My task isn't to teach you to enjoy shooting," Frank said, noticing my assessing look. "But to hammer into your muscle memory skills that'll let you survive."
"Actually I even like it here. Atmospheric," I shrugged.
Frank ignored my bravado. He silently laid out two copies each of the Glock, AK-47, and AR-15 on a wooden stand.
"First, four fundamental rules. This isn't empty words. This is your new religion. Memorize. Rule number one: ALWAYS TREAT A WEAPON AS IF IT'S LOADED."
He picked up the Glock, with one smooth motion extracted the magazine, then pulled the slide back, visually and tactilely checking the chamber.
"There's no such thing as 'unloaded.' There's 'loaded' and 'unchecked.' Every time you pick up a gun, first thing you do, check the chamber. No exceptions. 'I thought it wasn't loaded', that's what's written on idiots' tombstones. Got it?"