By Wes Parish
"I presented my new vision for the company's future today."
I raised my head from the mug I was disconsolately staring into. Melinda had left me again — again! And I needed to stop feeling so morose. Of course, people would say that staring into the bottom of a bottomless mug of stout wasn't going to help me, but I needed to ... I looked up at the man who had spoken, quite loudly, to his drinking buddies.
It was Rudolph Rotnase, the new CEO of Love Thy Neighbor Guns Ltd, and he was surrounded by a group of other young management types. I shuddered. I'd been his schoolmate, and that was hard enough. No wonder I...
"Scuttlebutt has it you're going to refocus Love Thy Neighbors," one of them interjected, when the silence had begun to drag. "I hear you're planning to add an extra dimension?"
I perked up immediately. My last two neighbors had been victims of a neighbourhood feud, and I had only just come out of the suburb-wide lockdown relating to it. Something like kids' toys, please? LTNG was all too evident when you dropped by a neighbor's to say hi.
"Oh yes, the refocusing. That's why I was chosen to replace the last CEO. I took notice of the National Rifle Association's diversifying and retitling themselves the National Rifle and Bomb Association and added hand-grenades to the line-up."
There was a collective gasp. Diversifying was a risky undertaking, and — so my economist friend in high school had told me one day — risked diluting the brand.
The mug of stout wasn't quite as interesting, I stopped trying to drink and forget Melinda, looked up and — forgot Melinda. This might come in handy. Would they be interested in hiring me?
"I decided on it when I heard the NRBA's new slogan — ‘The only way to
stop a bad guy with a bomb is with a good guy with a bomb.’ It made sense to me, and so I decided to change direction."
"Did anyone on the Board approach you about it?"
"Heaps. They all agreed. And thanks to them I added an extra dimension. I'll show you later..."
He opened a briefcase and rifled through it. I looked away, and took another gulp of stout. Maybe just another presentation.
"Ah, here it is, the scenario. A terrorist sets up a bomb, you notice it, and chuck your hand-grenade at him. He doesn't set up his bomb, he dies, you win. Right. I got to thinking about suicide bombers. If ‘The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun,’ and likewise a bomb, what about suicide bombers wearing suicide vests?"
I looked up. He spread his arms out wide, as if to embrace his audience, the whole pub in fact.
"Isn't it obvious!?! ‘The only way to stop a bad guy with a suicide vest is with a good guy with a suicide vest.’ It's just so obvious. If one terrorist wearing a suicide vest is surrounded by twenty good guys wearing suicide vests, you'll deter him from acting. So we're also starting manufacturing suicide vests come Monday morning."
They all gasped. I craned my neck and saw he was proudly displaying a stylish vest, and holding — rather carelessly I thought — a small box with a red button.
I drank the rest of my stout as quickly as I could manage and got up and got to the door as quickly as I could.
The one thing about being discharged from the mental care facility of the Hullu Mental Health Foundation, is that I am certified sane. I can't say that about the rest of my fellow citizens, though...
About the Author
Wes Parish
Wesley Parish is an SF fan from early childhood. Born in PNG, he enjoys reading about humans in strange cultures and circumstances.
His favourite SF authors include Ursula Le Guin, Fritz Lieber, Phillip K. Dick, J.G. Ballard and Frank Herbert.
Wes lives in Christchurch, NZ, is an unemployed Java and C programmer, and has recently decided to become a mad ukuleleist, flautist and trombonist, and would love to revert to being the mad fiddler and pedal steel guitarist.. "Where oh where has my little pedal steel got to ... ?"