Guns in the workplace! :cmbirthday:

Back in 2004 when I ran a different printing company, we were in a pretty small building that had several businesses. One was a hair salon, the other was a real estate office, the other was a cell phone store and then there was us. The owner of the cell phone store is one of the coolest motherfuckers I've ever met. He's Iranian and over time we became very good friends; still are to this day. Both him and his brother were partners in the business and had concealed weapons permits because they regularly carried around obscene amounts of cash and had been robbed in the parking lot before.

When his brother moved away to start college at Fresno State, he had no one to go to the shooting range with and for about 5 months he pestered me to get a gun so I could go with him. In the end, I caved. I went with him to check out a few shops and I ended up with a GLOCK 26 9mm subcompact. Good gun, nothing outlandish and it was small enough so that I could get a concealed weapons permit if I wanted to. I applied for my HRC and after a week, I finally scrounged up the $450 that the gun cost me, picked it up and soon we were off to go pop off a few rounds at the shooting range.

One Friday night, after we were finished at the shooting range, we came back to the building pretty late and I was tired as hell. We each went to our respective businesses, picked up the week's invoices that would surely have to be put into Quickbooks the next day, went to a bar around the corner, had a couple of drinks and then I went home. The next day, I was awakened at about 10 am by a very angry phone call.

Apparently my then-business-parter had scheduled a weekend client appointment and walked into the main office with the client, only to find my Glock sitting nice and pretty on the reception desk in its holster where I had taken it off when I went to grab my invoices and forgot all about it.

Needless to say, the client never actually used us for any of his printing needs and I made it a point never to keep my gun on my person when I get back into my car after getting out of the range; instead, I put it in the trunk. I still ride out to the shooting range with my friend Ahmad to bust a cap on paper targets with pictures of George W. Bush taped where the head is supposed to be.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Probably high-fiving his marine buddies for chucking puppies off a cliff.

How ya doing, buddy?