They don't know what's so fun about shooting an empty can of beans with a rifle--is it the way the can jumps into the air on a successful hit, the soft plink of the bullet punching through the can? Or is it the knowledge that despite the naturally violent nature of the gun, they are doing no harm?
The two boys are miles away from Ashville, from any human contact, really. They'd driven out into the country by themselves, as they had countless times before; but this time is different. This is the first time they've been without their parents. Cameron's 21st birthday was only three days earlier. They've brought their rifles with them, Kev with his 17 HMR Savage and Cameron with his 30.06 Mossberg.
PLINK!
"Nice shot man," Cameron says as the can falls yet again. As Kevin works the bolt on his rifle, ejecting the still-smoking cartridge from the receiver, Cameron walks out into the field to retrieve the can and set it back up onto their favorite stump. It is chipped and riddled with old bullet holes from a time when they were kids, a time when they couldn't hit the can any time, every time.
Kevin stands up from his kneeling position, tentatively picking up the spent cartridge and dropping it into his pocket. They never litter the ground with their garbage, for they hold this land close to their hearts. It is part of their childhood, and therefore part of them.
Cameron walks back to Kevin and replaces him behind the line they had drawn in the dirt, with the same stick they'd used the past dozen or so times they'd been out there
The crack of the 30.06 is much louder, but no more gratifying, than the soft plink of the 17.
Kevin laughs. "Not getting old on me, are you man?" The can remains perched atop the stump, mocking Cameron after the glancing shot that took it in the side, nevertheless demolishing the majority of it.
"Must be," Cameron says without so much as a smile. Kevin is the jokester of this dynamic duo; Cameron merely enjoys it with a quiet contentment. He works the bolt on his rifle and effortlessly catches the shell out of the air as it flies from the rifle's receiver.
Kevin reaches into the canvas sack they bring with them each trip and withdraws a new can. "Care to try again?" he asks his brother.
Cameron smirks. "Set 'er up."
Kevin does so, gathering as many pieces of the previous can as he is able to find. He drops them all into the canvas sack and stands by as Cameron sets up to fire again.
Cameron's finger tightens on the trigger, his left eye squints shut as he looks down the barrel of the rifle, and he exhales audibly. The rifle cracks. The can explodes.
A man screams.
Kevin awoke with a start, the sound of the man’s scream still fresh in his memory. He sighed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he dropped his head into his hands. He let his toes grip the carpet, which was soft and inviting, like pillows for his feet.
“Fuck you too,” he said to the darkness. The memory was all to clear in his mind–he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. The glowing blue numbers on his clock taunted him, and he turned it around; they burnt his eyes. Besides, he didn’t want to know how long he had till work started.
He climbed to his feet, tentatively feeling his way to the door, trying to avoid the weights, clothes, and books that littered his floor. He stumbled only once, his foot catching on a particularly malicious magazine.
“And you too, Guns and Ammo. Fuck you.”
He staggered out of the bathroom, his legs still numb with sleep. Even in the middle of June, the kitchen floor was freezing. Pizza and Beer. Pizza. And. Beer. Kevin smiled at the thought. The fridge was bright, and he squinted into the sudden, blinding light. He found what he needed mostly by touch, his fingers unerringly finding the cold, inviting glass bottle of DosEquis. The pizza box was slightly more evasive, since nearly half the containers in the fridge were tupperware filled with leftovers from the last week. He tossed the pizza box on the kitchen table and then popped the top on the DosEquis as he had a thousand times before.
Taking a long swallow, he set the bottle down reluctantly and opened the pizza box. He considered the sausage and olive slices a moment, then placed them all into the toaster oven with great care. Kevin believed that toaster ovens were one of the best inventions in the history of mankind, right up there with indoor plumbing and women’s thongs. Toaster ovens combined the ease and convenience of a microwave with the practicality and home baked taste of an oven. Plus it cooks a mean slice of frozen pizza.
As he waited for the pizza to cook, Kevin plopped down into the couch he’d bought only a few days earlier. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, yet. It was comfy to be sure, with plush cushions that practically sank to the floor, a reclining back complete with footrest, and even a cup holder for his Dos. The problem, however, lay in the fact that this couch reminded him of Cameron. It resembled the couch he and his brother had spent countless hours playing video games on while they spilt crumbs on the cushions and soda on the carpet.
Kevin frowned, sighed, and took another swig of his Dos. He set the bottle in the cup holder, then leaned back into the couch, reclining comfortably. He closed his eyes and leaned heavily into the couch, waiting for the ding of the toaster’s timer.
”Jesus Kev, this is a lot of blood...this guy’s fucked up–“ Cameron is crouched beside the man, gently peeling the ratty, bloodstained jacket away from the man’s skin. Crimson rivers trickle from his nose, mouth, and chest as Kevin watches in horror from behind his brother, using Cameron as a shield. He watches as the man’s eyes focus on his shooter and savior, only partially conscious.
“You shot me! You killed me, you sonofabitch! Bastards! Bastards both’a yeh,” the man mumbles with conviction, through bloodied teeth. Kevin wonders if it would be better to just leave the man to die. He is obviously a hobo, a vagabond, living on the road with no one to miss him but the squirrels on the side of the road.
“Cam...we can just go...we can leave him here and–“ Cameron turns to him, and the look on his face silences Kevin as efficiently as any punch would have.
“Fuck that, Kevin. We did this–suck it up and take responsibility. Do what has to be done. ‘Evil thrives in the inaction of principled men,’” Cameron says, quoting his philosophy class. He tears open the dying man’s shirt to get to the wound. He is an EMT in Ashville–even as a kid, Cameron had always shown a strong interest in helping those in need. Whenever they are in the same room, Kevin feels like an ant in Cameron’s shadow. He idolizes him and envies him. His movements are so assured, so confident and coolly competent.
“Get my phone, Kev. Call 911, and–now listen carefully–tell them we’re fifteen miles South, that’s SOUTH, of Ashville, on County Road 102. Tell them to send help ASAP. Answer their questions as best as you can. Do exactly what they say.”
Kevin scrambles to his feet, then runs toward Cameron’s dirt covered Bronco, at the side of the road.
He fumbles with the phone laying on the dash, then dials 911. The dispatcher picks up immediately.
“Please help–my brother shot somebody, he–the guy’s bleeding all over the place and–“
“Son, calm down–where are you?”
“We’re fifteen miles South of Ashville, on County Road 102, please hurry, the guy’s dying, my brother, he–“ Kevin realizes that the call has been terminated. He isn't sure how much of the call had gone through. He looks at the phone, dumbfounded. It's still on, there just isn’t any reception.
He hurries back to his brother.
“Did you get ahold of them?” Cameron asks.
“I–yeah, yeah they’re coming.”
For fifteen excruciating minutes the brothers wait, Cameron doing what he can for the injured man and Kevin merely sitting in the dirt, his arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the man’s chest, praying for some sign of breath. When help arrives, it is hardly what the brothers expect–three black and white police cars pull to the side of the road, two blocking Cameron’s Bronco in and one facing the two brothers. Six police officers climb out of the cars, guns drawn and raised toward the kids. They hide behind the bulletproof doors of their squad cars, and one raises a bullhorn to his lips.
A blast of feedback as the cop turns on the horn is enough to make Kevin cringe in discomfort. Cameron stares the police down with a grimace.
“Kick your weapons away from you and step away from the body!”
Kevin looks to Cameron; he may be the more outgoing of the duo, but Cameron was the leader, no contest.
“What do we do?” Kevin asks. Cameron grits his teeth together, his jaw muscles clenching behind his cheeks. He is flushed an angry red.
“We didn’t do anything wrong! Get an ambulance over here, this guy’s hurt bad!” Cameron yells to the cops, three of which have left the safety of their barriers to advance on the youths.
“Kick the fucking guns away!” The bullhorn yells, “and step away from the goddamn body!”
Kevin slowly takes a step away from the man on the ground, despite a look of betrayal on Cameron’s face.
“Fuck that man, we haven’t DONE anything! Call an ambulance, damn it! ‘The fuck is wrong with you pigs!”
With that, the world is thrown into chaos. Cameron drops to one knee to put pressure on the injured man’s wound, Kevin’s mouth opens in a scream of denial. The ranking cop yells something into the megaphone.
And one rookie cop gets overeager, his finger tightening on the trigger. The resulting explosion propels a bullet that takes Cameron in the right temple.
The metal slug, nearly half an inch in diameter, enters and exits Cameron’s skull in a fraction of a second. His blood sprays onto the ground, onto the hobo’s body, and onto Kevin, who still stand behind his brother, his arms high in the air in a futile attempt to disarm the situation.
Kevin didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep. Cameron was killed instantly. No pain. Except the pain it left Kevin with. He got up from the couch, picking up his beer as he went, and walked over to the toaster oven, which was ringing shrilly in his ears. If it was one thing he didn’t like about his toaster oven, it was the alarm on it.
After Cameron died, the cops had rushed forward and taken Kevin down; they handcuffed him, threw him in the back of the squad car, and took him to the station. He was fifteen years old.
He reached into the oven, ignored the searing pain in his fingertips, and plopped the pizza slices onto a plate.
According to Cameron, they say that evil thrives in the inaction of principled men. What they don’t tell you, Kevin concluded, is that the first thing principles did was get you killed. All the better to live without them.
Kevin took a bite of pizza--
That's life.
–and swallowed the last of the beer.
Life. Yeah, fuck THAT shit.
Thanks a lot! So... awesome and stuff. Emphasis on the stuff! 
However, I shall review as you have asked. ^^ Forgive me if anything is repeated. So many people before me have critted very well. 
You have every write to deny my suggestions above.
