Ar-7 beetus heals

I was found in a pawn shop in Northeastern Arizona.
The owner did not know what I was, and lacking a magazine and buttplate, I was offered cheaply..

I was already broken, previous owners had treated me as a toy, an amusement. Thus had my parts been lost.
One day, a pair walked in, an older man balding, and a younger man, with a moustache, narrowed eyes and broad shoulders.
He was wearing an odd broad brimmed hat, which he removed immediately upon entering.

"Good day sir, my friend here *he gestures to his companion* tells me you have an AR-7 you'd like to sell".

I hear words that still hurt- "Oh this piece of shit?" as he slams me on the counter. "Twernty five bucks, no less".

The man gently picks me up, and looks me over. I'm expecting him to set me back down.. Instead...

"I'll give you twenty if you have a magazine". he says.

I weep.

"Okay, goddamit, not like any sane person wants those goddamn things."

I see him pull out a $20.00 bill, and hand it to the pawnbroker. He fills out the 4473, then breaks me down and gently carries me to a strange, bugeyed old green truck.
I hear him comment. "Nice lead Bill, this is a 1960 Armalite. She'll do fine! " He then hands his friend a crisp $100.00 bill.

Now, I am really worried.

Weeks pass. I am cleaned. Thouroughly. I find my hammer and trigger/ sear being filed, then stoned, and heat-treated.
My bent ejector is replaced, my extractor replaced with one hand-made of an absurdly expensive tool steel. My firing pin is replaced with similar, made of something called "A8".
He even finds an original buttcap.

Later, I am taken to a machine shop. There are hundereds of "others" who greet me, many of them are true warriors, some of high lineage.At least two Maxims, and three Vickers who have seen more war than any human, plus a huge, but gentle Browning .50" that has seen four wars, and expects to see many more. Many Thompsons, Mp40's, some russian guns I have no knowledges of, and to add to the humiliation, a Mp44.. Who is oddly sweet, and welcoming.

I for the most part stay silent. I'm.. "desired" when he had access to this?

The man who bought me gently clamps my receiver in a vise, atop a block of granite. I am measured.
He talks to me, though I cannot answer- "Oh, you are going to love this. Look what I have for you.. * he almost dances* "This is a Hammerli blank, hammer forged, 26 inches.".

He takes the barrel blank to a long, brilliantly white finished machine. a "lathe" I later learn. It is a "Monarch", made long before I existed.

After a few hours, he checks for fit. The newly turned barrel slides into my receiver with just a touch of effort. I can feel the love and care put into the work.

"Just a bit more hun, gonna have you cutting ragged groups. ", he chatters to himself.. I hear an odd bit of music over the sound of his shop..
Something about "Through the gates of hell".. He wis whistling along..


After near 12 hours of work, I am fitted wih a heavy, 24" stainless, hammer forged Hammerli barrel. An odd scope, a "Bushnell Phantom" is mounted about halfway up the length. It keys up perfectly with my rear iron sight.

The man takes me out of the shop to a short berm nearby. I can see the range is well beyond me. It's at least 125 yards to the nearest target.. Still, he inserts a magazine, and draws back my bolt.

"Oh! New springs! New guiderods! The chamber is perfectly made, and the bolt faces plumb and plain to it's face. I am clean,refinished, almost floating but then..Reality
Still, I am only a .22, and this is only.22 ammo and "SNAP"...

Bullseye..

What.. I-
"SNAP"
the bullet almost goes through the same hole.
SNAP Again..
SNAP.
I've never felt this before.. The trigger is gently squeezed. The hold is relaxed, but firm.. The handmade barrel..The ammo..
I glance to the bench " ELEY MATCH ".. and " ELEY TENEX " a stack of magazines. Dozens of them..

I gasp, and fail to feed.. Oh...

He stops.. "Oh, well, must have been my fault, sorry hun, let's try another mag"..

"HE'S BLAMING HIMSELF FOR MY STOPPAGES!?".
The next mag is a string of stoppages and hangfires, as I try to compose myself. He remains patient..And continues to make each shot go into the black of the bull..
After 200 rounds of both, he stops, and lays me down on the solidly made bench nearby.. "Not a bad bit of work. What a superb little action, well done hun" as he gently caresses the side of my receiver.
At this, I lose composure, and expose myself..
I see him jump back, shocked, his right hand going for a well worn CZ-75, that I can tell ALSO has a very loved Geist, but he holds short..
"Hello?" he says... "AR-7..Geist?"


I try and relax.. "Yyyes, I am. and.. Well.. Thank you bbut.. I'mm.. Not ".. And then he hugged me.
A warm, gentle embrace. "Welcome to the family. ". A few seconds later I felt the arms of another, as his CZ-75 also embraces me.

Not sure what to think, I ask "why?"..

"because". he answered.. Then gathering the ammo and mags, he walked me to his odd old truck.. (Who, not shocking by now, also greets me, a 1954 "M37B1" named "Dolly".) .

I feel may have found a home.