First let me introduce myself, I am Johnnie Goldfish and the audience thinks, that is some weird name. Thank you and mea culpa. When I began my 7 year writing career, I wrote a column for the Mountain Times of Killington, Vermont called 100 North and the Hinterlands Beyond. Which meant I reported on church suppers and what not in the towns of Pittsfield, Stockbridge, Rochester, Hancock and Granville.

Due to my employment with the anal USPS my superiors complained that I couldn’t use my real name as it might throw a bad light on the Postal Service. These are the same people who have their own employees come in and shoot the bosses or other employees, these are the same people who put your Bozeman mail in a mailbox in Tulsa, Oklahoma and who basic motto for all employees, you learn this on day one, First- It wasn’t me, and second- I don’t know. That brings clarity why I couldn’t use my own name.

Ani DiFranco, singer, songwriter wrote the Plastic Castle and one line of it Goldfish got no memory, their lives are just like mine, and when I pass the Plastic Castle, it is new every time, or something like that. So I picked Johnnie Goldfish and my Editor/Owner said, why not.

Now I got the urge to buy a new rifle and I have always been a Ruger fan and I decided without any need or basis that I wanted a Ruger #1. The caliber is where I somehow got married to the idea that a 6.5 PRC-Precision Rifle Cartridge would be a good idea. One of the founders said, bad idea, get the 6.5 Creedmoor, the ballistics were explained to me. The founder wrestled me to the ground, knelt on my shoulders and and with a radium filled stare, said don’t be a dope, the PRC will break your shoulder, it will knock you on your keister, those bullets are expensive.

Oh look a Plastic Castle, I bought the Ruger #1 6.5 PRC with highly grained walnut and stainless steel barrel and headed out Rocky Mountain Road. I dragged myself over the barb wire fence with hardly any blood letting, set up my target, adjusted my tripod, took my time, breathing deeply, holding just so, I squeezed the trigger. Ouch, my skinny 75 year old shoulder cried. I spoke in French.

More Plastic Castle, my Goldfish brain said, you only need to hold it firmly against your shoulder, you can handle this. I breath, I sight, I check, I steady, I relax, squeeze. Parlez vous Merde which means excrement sort of. I walk to my truck, I wipe the tears away, I take the bandaid off of my knee and place it on my shoulder breathing deeply of the dust cloud from the farmer zooming by.

I think I may have seen this Castle before. I reload, I get down on my knees, I pray to all of the Gods, Goddesses, Angels, Sinners and Saints for guidance, a pickup truck goes by I hear Tom Petty, I won’t Back Down. Fortified I reload my one shot, I hear the pickup stop, then reverse and come back up the road, the driver watches me, I repeat my routine, pulling, squeezing ever so gently, I dislocate my shoulder, but I hit the target three times. The pickup passes again and I hear Smokey Robinson crooning Tears of a Clown.

Well that’s my story and I’m stuck with it.

Johnnie Goldfish, used gun seller