As I was cleaning my rifle tonight in front of my roaring fire, I was singing a sweet lullaby as I caressed each part with my oil soaked rag. I take a sip of whiskey, I close my eyes. It is an old rifle, for it saw action in Normandy, and was brought back by my grandfather. As I clean and rub the wood and aged steel, fingering every nick in the stock, I could for a moment feel the sadness but stern truth that this was the deliverer of darkness. Designed to end evil, and with every trigger squeeze, deliver a promise of a better tomorrow. It whispers to me, of days to come, it’s time is near. My rifle, it comforts me.