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My name is Chris Johnson. I’m a 31 years old lawyer currently working for the local social welfare office, trying to get together the last missing bucks I need to open up my own office. The day it happened I was supposed to go for an eagerly awaited vacation on Long Island. A foul stench and distant screams coming from the streets woke me early in the morning, long before I was supposed to get up and leave for my flight.
All of a sudden John, the neighborhood's milkman, burst screamingly through my front door next to my room, remaining gruntingly at the threshold of the door for a moment while still being covered by the darkness of the night. It was only at that moment that I realized that the stench and distant screams were more than the usual infantile mischief taking place in our district.
Once he had stepped forward I noticed his bloodstained and mutilated body and saw with horror that his head was half decapitated. His fearsome eyes were lifelessly gazing at me. I was paralyzed at first, wondering how something with less brain matter left than a stuffed animal was still able to wander around. But when I saw that in one hand he was holding a broken milk bottle, which had instead of white milk red blood smeared all over it, I could only think of one thing: to get the hell out of there.
Up to that day, I considered myself a pacifist, a person choosing diplomacy over a fight, despising every kind of violence and weapons, constantly trying to solve problems by law- and peaceful means…
Now, I knew I had to get guns in order to survive. Lots of guns. It was either them or me...
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