This weekend in Baltimore 15 people were shot, three dead. Among the wounded is a 2-year-old baby boy who was shot execution style chyle strapped into a car seat during a road rage incident. It seems that attrition among Harm City Hoodrat players is threatening to bring Harm City marksmanship levels down to Chicongo Windage levels of “missin dat ass.”

Keeping in mind the Chuck Norris Rule currently in place in urban centers, by which a police officer or other evil ghost being may not return fire against an ebon warrior until after said ebon warrior has discharged his weapon at his foe, I am wondering about the export of urban violence to rural zones. It is obvious that America’s greatest internal export [Oxy what? Stay in yo lane, Ham Slice!] has been successfully imported to rural America. So, what might deteriorating urban marksmanship mean in the subsidized goboment ghettos in the High Country of the future?

Fortunately, I have already done the experimental groundwork.

I am a hoodrat of forethought, and wisely challenged a 14-year-old highlander to an airsoft gun battle in the shadow of the Uinta Mountains. I’m quite a hoodrat, actually…in technical terms that is. I have actually had a handful of firearm handling lessons…eh, and I still suck.

We began with the local highlander armed with his bolt-action long arm and I with two handguns. I soon discovered why Bugs Bunny was so happy that Elmore Fud was blind as I was taken down with head shots while running.

The young fella soon grew bored with hoodrat eradication marksmanship and gave me the superior long gun and took but one pistol for himself.

Round 1: The little shit gut-shot me from what should have been beyond his weapon’s effective range while I was trying to work the bolt.

Round 2: While I was hunting the little sucker through the shrubs his grandfather took out my right heart and lung from behind—didn’t see that shit coming at all. Really, he’s only six-two 250, how was I to see him hiding behind that aspen trunk.

Round 3: I was looking for the foe when he shot me in the head of the penis. I quit.

Round 4: I found the boy in my sights and shot, and missed, and missed and missed… I had him dead to rights and steadied my aim and he shot my left hand. As I tried to fire the long gun like a pistol, he shot me in the heart as he snickered and ate a chocolate cupcake with his off-hand.

Round 5: Sick of all of this exposure, I picked up a cardboard box that was 2-feet wide and 4-feet high and marched boldly towards the enemy, ensconced as he was behind a trampoline, held the box up with my left hand as I leveled the barrel over its top—my foot! My big toe got shot. So I kneeled as the box fell and raised the rifle and took a kidney shot, then the liver and one in the collar bone.

Round 6: I kept trying to snipe him from the open field as he skulked behind the lilac bush but the leaves deflected my orange plastic bee bees. I had to get close enough to hit his little pale hand when he reached out for his shots, which kept getting closer. So I trotted up forward and stopped before the trampoline, took careful aim waiting for—eh, I wasn’t figuring on that hand coming out so fast, or a bullet with it, as he ducked and rolled and hit me in the throat from 50 feet with a shitty, spring-loaded plastic bee bee gun.

So, if my experience is any guide, I’m thinking we need a chuck Norris Rule which states that rural riflemen are not permitted to load their weapon until the hoodrat ammo has all been expended.