I guess that by now pretty much everyone has bought into Wayne Lapierre’s argument that the only effective counter to a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. Even CNN’s Piers Morgan seems about to give in to the Texas ladies with the towering hair and the Barettas between their breasts.

Shoot.

I was going to wash the car, but now I have to dash out to arm myself for the day my government turns against me or the neighbours threaten my Bulldog, Axl being British and all. What should I buy? And where? I like the look of a 9mm Glock, but I’m told I need an AR-15. I’m not sure that I could actually shoot someone, even Wayne Lapierre, at short range so I worry that a shotgun just won’t do the job. Anyway, I’m told by people who rely on guns for a living that accuracy is out of the question. A first-time shooter has less chance of hitting his target than a drunk at a urinal. Adrenaline and shaky hands, apparently.

Some assumptions have to be made.

I have to decide who I’ll be defending myself against. A horde of hacks I’ve fired over the years suddenly descending upon me in a bar? A Sushi chef gone mad and invading my Tatami room? This range of uncertainties leads me to the conclusion that I will need several small guns hidden throughout the house. The AR-15 can go in a trap under the floor in the Gazebo. This way, I will never be far from a firearm, at least in my home. Out in the real world, and for travel, I’m inclined to bring my hobbyist skills to the fore and fashion a cool ceramic number like the one John Malkovich used in ‘Line of Fire.’

Bet you hadn’t figured on this, sucker! No way this Dreamliner is taking out Disneyland.

A byproduct of the post-Sandy Hook gun argument is that everyone is learning about guns. About what does what and when to duck. The field is getting levelled. Knowing that the element of surprise offers a major advantage in any encounter of the worst kind, I’ve been trying to find a weapon to add real ‘wow’ factor to my private arsenal. I’ve landed on the M2-2: a flamethrower with a forty-yard range that is the right of every private citizen in the United States to own. The only limit to entry is the $12,000 price tag.

Finally, I’m ready for the Apocalypse. My only fear now is that it may not happen. I cross that thought from my mind. Right now, I imagine myself running from room to room killing and wounding my attackers until the last four or five think they have trapped me in the garage.

I take the M2-2 from its cradle above the toolbox and hit the garage door opener.

Feel the burn, bastards!