He wasn’t sure why or how, but he’d always been able to throw knives with exact precision hitting marks within 2 millimeters of the bullseye. With his right hand, specifically. It never worked with his left palm. This was a point of pride for Gerald and a constant wonder to anyone he displayed the trick.

Tonight he balanced his black KA-BAR Korean War Commemorative Knife in his right palm. The black blade glistened in the fluorescent light.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and soaked his army green wife beater as he sat in his favorite plastic chair. His army fatigue pants also clung to his bony legs, wet from the heat of his garage.

Gerald didn’t mind, this was his temple, his retreat, his bunker. He had turned his garage into an ammo depot/command center and crammed it with everything he loved: army rifles, hand grenades, Special Forces knives, tools, armed forces magazines, a vintage army jeep, a CB radio, and an old refrigerator, which he stocked with beer and emptied once a week by himself.

He kept his CB radio on a card table, positioned to his left. It was turned on, spitting out the usual chatter from truckers and others like Gerald: dirty jokes and curses aimed at the damn liberals that ran their government. Directly in front of Gerald, ten paces from the front of his chair, on the dartboard tacked to his wall was a collage of pictures –pictures of the present liberal leadership cut out from newspapers and magazines. A trucker on the CB radio cussed them a blue streak. Every time one of the liberals was mentioned by name, Gerald extended his left middle finger, and flipped the collage the bird.

He reached over, opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped the can open and chugged it down. He belched and imaged himself, Gerald the Terrible, walking into the Capital, two M14’s under his arms, with all those damn congressmen plotting against his country, his guns shining in the light. He’d line the liberal jerk-offs (and some of those so-called conservatives) up in a row and then mow them down with his M14’s. As he imagined the carnage, he laughed and downed another beer.

He balanced the knife again, in his right palm. He watched the blade. Of course, he’d never do such a thing. That would be treason. That would be inhumane. That would go against everything he’d fought for in Korea and ‘Nam – namely the rights of every man, woman, and child in America. And that included those liberals.

In one swift movement, he tossed the knife up, grabbed the blade, and flung it at the dartboard. THUNK! It passed through the collage, the board and sunk into the wall. He stood, walked ten paces and grabbed the hilt of the knife.

No, he would never do such a thing. It was just his imagination, running wild.