Nothing really says to your friends “Hey Man, great to see you today” quite like an airsoft round blasted into the groin at 380 FPS (feet per second). I’m not sure if the FPS listed on the boxes of airsoft guns is really the speed that the contraption fires the little plastic pellets of pain, or if it instead refers to the speed your friends will move in an attempt to kill you after taking a few said pellets to the dick.
I know. I took an airsoft round to the cock and it fucking sucked balls.
During my first year at the Houston Grand Prix, airsoft guns would become a routine part of daily work life. This was at a time period where the track was not very busy at all, doing only a fifth of what they do today. It was also a time where we were basically unsupervised due to the owner settling up a private matter with the state for a year.
What started out as a couple of us shooting some soda cans to take the edge off of a boring night quickly turned into that same couple of us shooting the other employees to take the edge off of a boring night. These employees decided that getting blasted was lame as hell so they bought some guns of their own.
Quickly the track became more like a plastic facsimile of the wild west. Airsoft battles could break out at any moment so all of us always had one or two locked and loaded and on our person at all times. It made for some interesting moments, much to the surprise and probable annoyance of the customers.
Employee: “O.K. So buckle up and we will be off…OUCH…SWEET BABY JESUS…”(ducking behind the edge of the go-kart to return fire) “When the red light comes on…OUCH…just pull back into the pit.”
It got ridiculous. We took a pretty much useless skill and maxed it out. I remember getting to the point where, after repeatedly asking a couple customers to take their lit cigarettes off of the pool tables, I would just shoot them (the cigarettes not the customers). There was one time I shot a pellet down the center of a coat hanger cardboard tube into a balloon from 30 feet away on my second attempt. It was cool. Pointless. But cool.
You could not have just one, because eventually it would run out of bullets and then you would be fucked. I think at the height of the airsoft shenanigans I was carrying two pistols and an uzi. Austin had an airsoft shotgun and “The Fist” had an M16. It was a turbulent work environment to say the least.
Amidst some of the daytime boredom, I was able to craft a decent airsoft grenade from some fireworks, airheads taffy candy, airsoft pellets, and scotch tape. I can’t really put into words how great these were, and they were quite painful. I think they might have put out more FPS than the guns. Thankfully, their creation and execution have been captured on video and you can see them on YouTube here:
Airsoft Grenade Creation:
Airsoft Grenade Implementation:
It was decided that one night, after closing the track down the public, that a proper war was in order. We each got two of the above mentioned grenades and whatever airsoft guns we owned and went at it. After a very satisfying moment where I introduced The Salad to the finer workings of the airsoft grenades by rolling one under the curtain of the shop bathroom while he was using it, I decided that I needed to take things up a notch.
So I built a tank.
Do you think the picture there is a bunch of cardboard attached to a go-kart? It is.
That was probably the highlight of our great battle, the outcome of which I can’t recall. I doubt that it matters really anyway. It was not a battle fought for victory but for the sake of testosterone fueled kicks.
The Airsoft War of Houston Grand Prix was probably the high water mark of the gun slinging madness at the track. It fizzled out a bit after that, and once Bob was back and were subject to adult supervision again there was no way that kind of business would fly anymore.
When the track flooded a few months later we ended up sweeping out close of half a million little green plastic pellets. It was both awe inspiring and sad at the same time.
I still have a couple airsoft guns laying around the house but I don’t really touch them anymore. The temptation to unload one into Thurber Mingus might prove too much to resist. Though, I tried to convince my wife that the cat would not mind.
“He likes to be petted. Why not pet him with plastic?”
She presented a frank, yet profound argument for not blasting any of our cats with the airsoft gun and how my life would be healthier and longer by not doing so.
And so they sit and wait patiently for the day when they will be needed again…