Misadventures of Anon and Wiggerchan Chapter 1

>You are Anon, a fresh graduate from University in southern Georgia.

>Just before graduation you landed a job that guarantees great money after the first two or so years of work, so all looks well. All that's left to do after passing the certification exams is to head out to Arizona for six months of training.

>Fuck yeah, gun money in another pro-gun state.

>Not wanting to risk the loss of your current collection, however, you decide it best not to haul your entire armory across the country.

>So, you decide to take your Glock 19 for carry, but can’t decide on a long-gun.

>That is, until you see the ad on Facebook from a local FFL that is notorious for extremely good prices.

>Hi-Point Carbines on sale, $250 out the door.

>A bit of research and two hours later, you’re walking out of the small shop with your new truck gun purchased for the soul purpose of accompanying you across the country, along with a few of those Redball 20 round magazines.

>1 week later and you’re on the road to Arizona.

>It's just you, your suitcases, F150, and the Hi-Point in the gun rack and the Glock on your hip. And coffee. So much coffee.

>Alas, you can't run on coffee forever and roughly nine or so hours later find yourself at a Motel 6 somewhere in Mississippi between Jackson and Vicksburg with a cheap room for the night. You’ve brought in one of your suitcases and your guns in a hard case, the rest of your luggage in the truck.

>Sleep, you wonderful bastard, take me into your embrace! You pass out on top of the bed, grateful for some rest. However, beauty sleep is interrupted not even an hour later.

>THUNK THUNK THUNK

>Some fucker is banging on your door at...

>Watch check.

>11 o'clock at night.

>Groggy, you make your way to the door and put your ear to it.

"Can I help you?"

>"Yo, we know KJ in there, we wan' our money."

>Straightening up, you look through the peep hole and see no less than five basketball Americans, three of which are carrying baseball bats and a crowbar. One off in the back looks like he's hiding something in his hoody pocket.

>Defcon 2

"You've got the wrong room, man, no one here by that name, just me. Y'all have a great night."

>You quickly latch the chain as you speak, still watching through the peep hole.

>"Lyin white boy, open this damn door!"

>Suddenly the force of a thousand basketballs in thrown against the thin motel door.

>Defcon 1

>You brace yourself against the door in an attempt to hold them back. Your hand goes to your waist to draw your Glock but you find it's not there. Looking over, it's sitting on the bedside table opposite the room from you.

>Swearing, you put all your effort into holding the door and hoping someone hears the commotion. Eyes drilled shut as you concentrate, you put all your weight against the only thing keeping you from becoming another statistic.

>You're abruptly thrown to the floor following what felt like all of them slamming the door at once. Panicking as the door begins to give way, you scramble to your feet and grab the first thing you see: your Hi Point 995TS sitting on the foot of the bed, a 20 round magazine next to it.

>You don't even question how it got there as you slap in the mag and chamber a hollow point, barrel leveled at the door as it's kicked in, handle embedding in the drywall.

>As they come crashing in through the doorway, their own weapons raised, you don't even think twice before mag dumping the group.

>Fast forward a few hours and you're finishing with the local sheriff who has slapped you on the back about fifteen times for "helping to clean up the streets" as they haul the assailants to a nearby hospital.

>The motel clerk offers an upgrade to what they pass off as a suite, as well as a voucher for two free nights at any other Motel 6. At this point you're so exhausted you take it without asking for more, just glad you're alive and the fuzz isn't taking your carbine (which you've had slung across your back the entire time) in for evidence.

>Moving into the new room you drop your bag on the floor and toss the carbine on the bed. Door locked, you go to the mini fridge and look for some cheap booze to help you sleep.

>"They got any forties?"

“No, but they've got some shitty vodka and Coke, so- WHAT *bang* OW FUCK.”

>You hit your head on the fridge as you jerk upwards upon hearing another voice in the room. You immediately find the origin: a girl, probably in her teens, is sitting on the foot of the bed.

"Who the fuck are you?"

>You nearly yell the question as you draw your Glock, being in no mood for more shenanigans.

>The girl hasn't even looked at you and is simply flipping through channels on the small flat screen television with a bored look on her face. Her eyes suddenly light up as the channel surfing stops at BET, some music video with big booty bitches and bling playing across the screen.

>Nigga nigga ass ass nigga nigga

>She jumps off the bed and, what you can only assume, begins twerking. Or trying to, at least.

>TooDamnWhiteForThis.jpeg

>"Ah yeah son, this is my- why the hell you pointing that piece of Euro-trash at me?"

"Who the fuck are you and why are you in my room? You lookin for KJ, too? Already smoked your friends."

>The girl looks at you for a moment before busting out with laughter.

>"Damn straight we did, cracka! Two mo' fuckboys wasted, shiiieeeettt"

>She’s white and calling you a cracker like she herself isn’t one, but that’s beside the point. You lower your pistol slightly, but still keep it pointed in her direction.

"The fuck you talkin bout?"

>"I'm your carbine, dumb honkey!"

"You what now... "

>Without any further explanation, she hurls herself into the air over the bed. You expect her to simply land with a soft thwump, but instead are greeted with the sight of your Hi-Point carbine thumping down onto the covers, the girl nowhere to be seen.

>You wildly gesture at the bed and firearm, making no sounds as your face contorts in confusion.

"What the actual fuck is this Mickey Mouse shit?!"

>Suddenly the girl is now sitting where the carbine was, cross legged in the middle of the king sized bed.

>"Easier to show than tell," she shrugs.

>Your eyes narrow as you look her over, mouth slightly open in shock.

>She's white with jet black, shoulder length hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes a light hazel. She can’t be any more than 5'3" and is on the thicker side, but not fat. Age wise, she has the appearance of a girl in her late teens, maybe 19? She's wearing a pair of white converse, black track shorts, and a pink hoodie with the Hi Point logo across the chest, which is very... prominent.

>You take a moment to process what you've just seen. Silently, you holster your Glock and squat next to the mini fridge, staring at the door with your hands together in front of your face.

>The girl, carbine, whatever she is, walks over and squats next to you, staring at the fridge.

>"Yo dawg, what we lookin at?"

>Not answering, you finally open the fridge and pull out the two mini bottles of vodka, each holding about two shots worth. Grabbing up a bottle of sleeping pills also atop the fridge, you pop one into your mouth before opening the alcohol. In one go, you down the concoction before walking over and falling face down onto the bed.

"... I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep."

>The combination of exhaustion, stress, booze, and meds sends you into a deep sleep in no time at all.

>When you awake the next morning, you find yourself alone on the bed, save for your carbine that you seem to have been spooning. No girl, just your sub $300 rifle.

>Yeah, definitely hallucinating last night.

>You roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom to attend to morning duties. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you hear a yawn and what sounds like groaning from the bedroom.

“Don’t tell me… “

>You open the bathroom door and find that where your Hi-Point was a few moments ago, now sits the girl from last night. Yawning and stretching, she lazily waves to you.

>”Sup, dawg. When’s chowtime?”

“So I was not, and currently am not, hallucinating…

>”Nope.”

“You’re my Hi-Point carbine… and a girl.”

>”Bout sums it up, homie.”

>Without saying anything more, you retreat into the bathroom and proceed to throw on one of your favorite sleeveless shirts and a pair of jeans, gathering your items into your suitcase. As you come out, she is now laid out across the bed on her back, staring at the ceiling.

“Go wait at the truck, I’ll meet you there in a sec.”

>Before she can protest, you usher her off the bed and out the door, hot on her heels with your suitcase and rifle case in hand. Checkout is fast and easy, the clerk apologizing profusely for the events of last night. You barely hear him as you quickly beeline it for your Ford, where you find the Carbine Girl leaning against the hood.

>”Soooo, the fuck we doin, yo?”

>You unlock the doors and slide everything behind the seats or into the bed, locking the bedcover afterwards.

“I’ve got some questions and I’m hungry.”

>With a shrug, she climbs into the cab and buckles up as you pull out of the parking lot and start down the road in search of a diner.

>As the two of you ride in silence, she reaches over to the radio and begins tuning it. She passes all the country and pop stations before settling on a one blaring hip hop and R&B

>”Yeah nigga, dat’s the shiet right there.”

>You tighten your grip on the steering wheel and thank God when you spot a Waffle House.

>A few moments later and you’re nursing a cup of coffee, she an orange juice, as the waitress returns to take your food order.

“Hash browns, grits, and a side of toast, please ma’am.”

>”Lemme get some waffles, gurl, and maybe them digits.”

>The waitress is taken aback and has to resist the urge to smack the teen with her receipt book. You apologize profusely and promise a hefty tip as she heads to the kitchen. As you look back to the girl opposite the booth from you, you’re greeted with a “the fuck’s your problem” look.

>OhNoSheDidNot.

“You wanna tell me what’s up with the wigger act? Cause that shit ain’t gonna fly with me if you wanna keep out of a damn pawnshop somewhere between here and Arizona.”

>She freezes, glass of orange halfway to her mouth, eyes widening in terror. Timidly, she sets down the cup and folds her hands in her lap, staring down at the table. You can’t tell, but you think you see tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Fuck.

>”I-I heard at the f-factory and store that p-people who buy Hi-Points are gangbagers and wannabe thugs… S-So we all decided it best to act like our potential owners to better f-fit in… “

>You can’t hear it, but your heart breaks along with your hostility.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, like, I just- “

>”Don’t stress it, homie,” she mutters, wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her hoodie. “I should have known better considering how long I’ve been with you.”

>With a sigh and a sympathetic smile in her direction, you reach over and pat her on the head. She visibly relaxes at your touch, almost leaning into it.

“So, what’s your name and how in the hell are you my carbine but also a girl?”

>”I ain’t got no name, just a serial number. I’m a weapon spirit, though. There’s some fancy ass German word for it, but I don’t speak Kraut.”

“Waffegeist?” You dust off your rusty German in an attempt at a translation.

>”I dunno, sounds bout right,” she says, drinking from her glass. “I’m not entirely sure of the specifics and history, but I think we originated in the Black Forest in German-land way, way back in the day.”

“So does that mean...?”

>”Yeah, son, you got some other lil’ niggas in your gats,” she says with a nod. “Not a bad haul for some backwoods cracka.”

>You shift in your seat, the Glock 19 on your hip feeling a bit heavier in its holster.

“So why ain’t y’all shown yourselves before?”

>Before she can answer, the waitress returns with your food. She politely sets yours down in front of you, but simply drops the plate of waffles in front of your carbine, nearly spilling the glass of orange juice.

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say out of habit.

>”Ma’am?” says your Hi Point. The polite tone catches the waitress off guard.

>”I’d like to apologize for my early rhetoric and behavior, it was very rude of me.”

>Speechless, the waitress nods her head a few times before accepting the apology and moving on to her other tables.

“That was nice of you,” you say between mouthfuls of hash browns and grits.

>”Just cause I’m a hardass nigga don’t mean I can’t be polite, dumb cracka.”

>All you can do is sigh, chuckling to yourself, watching as she eagerly attacks her plate of waffles, smothering them in syrup.

“If you’re a firearm, is it okay for you to eat human food…?”

>”Hell yeah,” she says, shoving another forkful of waffle into her mouth. “We don’t need to, but it’s nice to eat for the satisfaction of a full belly. If you’ve ever noticed some of your food missing when you got home from work and class, guilty as charged.”

“My oreos! I thought it was my roommate for the longest time… “

>”Since you now know, though, think you could stock up on some skittles and Arizona tea? I love that shit, especially the watermelon flavor.”

>It takes all your inner strength to not say anything about the great Zimzam, so you simply nod as you sip your coffee.

>The rest of the meal passes in silence as the two of you both seem to be eager for food. After getting a coffee and juice to go, you’re both back in the truck and on the road once more.

“So why haven’t you or the others shown yourself to me up until last night?” you ask, returning to your question from earlier

>”I can’t speak for the other Geists, since I’m new to the crew, but last night seemed a good as time as any for me, considering it was your first time layin down a couple of niggas.”

“Ah, well then… I apologize for pointing my Glock at you then putting myself into a drug and alcohol fueled coma.”

>You sip from the foam cup of coffee, your face reddening slightly out of embarrassment.

>”Don’t be,” she laughs. “I’m just glad I got to help you pop some caps! Ain’t nothin betta than helpin you solvin yo probs!” She smiles as she speaks, her words genuine.

>Your mind goes to the notorious image of a gangbanger with a Hi Point pistol, referring to it as his “glawk fo’ty problem solver.” You chuckle but then further imagine the spirit of that pistol, if it had one, being severely neglected. You shudder slightly but shake it off.

“So did you move yourself to the foot of the bed last night when they were coming through the door?”

>”Sure did, yo. I saw an opportunity to help you while poppin some caps in some asses and jumped at it!”

“Well thanks, you saved me last night.”

>”I gotchu, nigga,” she giggles.

>You can call me Anon, you know that, right?”

>”No shit, Anon, but You muh homeboy and my nigga.”

“Well, uh, thanks, my homie G dawg,” you attempt.

“… Nigga just stop right there.”