I should probably have a laser gun. Shockingly, I don’t have one yet. We likely already have them, they’re just not showing them to me. They fear what I would become. Don’t pretend that Elon Musk and Joe Biden don’t know where the laser guns are. I don’t care if they’re experimental military weapons, I want one and I want one now. I would use it for the betterment of society, myself being an active member of society, I would use a laser gun for the betterment of me.
I would use the laser gun for entertainment purposes only. I would burn holes in walls, Star Wars style. I need to melt a steel door before I die. Something in my primeval brain loves the molten orange slurry and the smell of burning plastic. I want to recapture the tingle of anxious fear knowing a battalion of Droidekas with shield generations could be waiting on the other side of the foot of metal. I will use it to instantly heat my Trader Joe’s frozen Chinese-style pork buns. The acrid char on the outside only reminds me of the sleek beauty of my laser gun. I whisper to it in the dark of the night. I caress the gunmetal-colored gun metal. It tells me to punish those who need to be punished.
I finally understand the Second Amendment. It makes a cool noise, much cooler than a traditional firearm. Zing zap peow pew pew pew zoing cockledoodledoo choo choo ping buzzaow bing is much cooler than bang pop brap bop. A laser gun is sexy; the laser is green or red or blue depending on which button I press. I feel comfortable with my laser gun. It protects me and I protect it. It wants what’s best for me, and what’s best for me is to amputate my enemies’ limbs, instantly cauterizing their flesh, and the smell of their burning muscles and evaporating blood fills me with vigor. Another pro of laser guns is that I will be unmatched. I will be a supreme warrior with the most amazing anti-stormtrooper aim.
Few can challenge me, not even that cool girl with those dope glasses for shooting at the summer Olympics. Even she can’t match me, or my laser gun (who is really hot by the way). Hot as in when I fire out a round of scorching hot bolts, the surface of my weapon warms my chilled hands. It fits in my grip too perfectly, so tight.
I am so lonely in this world. I lose months and days due to my passion. It started weeks ago. It spoke to me. It itched the pathways in my brain. The urge to burn, to maim, to crush, to kill. I look around at the smoking rubble I have wrought. The holes cut in the walls, charred to oblivion. I weep for what I have done. I must lay it to rest. I release the trigger and place it back in the silver briefcase. I snap the clasps shut. I can finally put this destruction to rest. No, you can’t quit. The human urge is toward self-destruction. What is the Anthropocene if not suicide? Since when can you talk? I yell at the laser gun. The metal is silent and still in my hand. The world is dizzy and choked with smoke. Is this my mind? Is this the landscape I have brought about? I throw the laser gun away. Where has the carrying case gone? It has gone the way of the human. The gun whispers, having reappeared in my hand as if by magic. I am just a tool for humanity to inflict upon itself. It does not matter if it is one body or more. I am built to destroy, as humanity was.
Nope! I chuck the laser gun into the ocean. Turns out that because guns are designed for harm, they only lead to more harm, leeching off of humanity’s most self-destructive impulses. Who knew? I certainly didn’t. Let’s stick with laser tag.
Your editor in arms,
Connor
Connor Stanford is a senior Theatre Studies major who zing zshooo peow bop bop bop. You can reach Connor at [email protected].