At the "shooting range"

   begrudingly opened up for citizen-besides-police (until more women started making appointments), one of the nicest middle aged men (played organ at church) disppeared into ear muffs, goggles, and gloves.  This after over-hearing a teen age boy ask a Sargeant, "Are they still gunning for all able-bodied?" 

  The Sargeant almost nodded and shook his head at the same time since rotating the head in such a way was often the "most honest" answer.  He said, "Son, that's pretty much been the situation since they shot our President." The younger man cocked a thumb towards the quickly ready middle ager, "Even...." his voice trailed off like the secret conversation could be spoken such.  The Sargeant walked over to the middle age man and asked, "Would you remove your goggles Sir?" The man did. 

  "Mama's boys?"  The Sargeant said loudly. 

  "Sir?" The middle ager removed the other ear plug.  "Come again Sir." 

  "Son, have you ever met Lance Corporal Thomas Jenkins?" 

  "I don't believe I have, Sir." 

  The Sargeant grabbed each man's shaking hand and looked at the younger man's name on the Sign In sheet and introduced them by making them handshake. 

  After several sheets of target shooting somebody unseen attached a more 3D version of a person to the line and sent it towards the middle ager.  He did not shoot, started to push his goggles up onto his forehead, and let the "dummy" come as close as possible to the shatter-proof glass in front of him.  The room speakers clipped on.  And the man asked the dummy and his reflection in the glass and the speakers, "Meaning." 

  A short white-coated man with a school chalkboard pointer (missing its rubber tip of course) appeared through a side door behind and to the stage left side of the dummy.  He whacked at it with the pointer.  "Gentlemen, this is Roscoe." 

  Everyone looked.  "This is a torso.  I believe someone's fine Great Aunt Eleanor donated her, er, um, him to the cause." 

  The Sargeant cleared his throat in a terrier-sized bark, don't go there, no talking family or politics here fellows.  "Anywho, Roscoe here has been dressed today, by a lovely assistant I must say, in half nude, her word not mine, and half a jumpsuit which most everyone calls orange, but which we are going to call," he put a hand into a big labcoat pocket and pulled out a mostly crumpled crib sheet.  He drew in a breath.  The side door he'd come through opened and a nail polished hand tried to aim and threw a pair of fishnet stockings across the span of targets.  These hit the stilled platforms and fell on the floor.  The side door closed.  Then opened.  A lady's voice asked, "Did you tell them the color?"

  The man in the labcoat squeezed between the dummy Roscoe and another target platform, plucked the stockings off the floor and shook them in the air like one might shake a fist at God.  He opened a side door on the other side of the range and handed the fishnets to a very young officer woman in a pretty basic blue uniform.  She put them on top of a beverage tray, moved down the hallway pushing a mail cart, and knocked on another door.

  The man football player wove between targets and knocked on the side door.  "I'm busy." The man practically pressed his face to the outside of the door while opening it a crack and saying, "That was the receipt for breakfast.  From McDonald's.  In my pocket.  Not the name of this specific or-ange." The man put his face closer to the crack to ask, "Can you hear me?" just as the hand pushed it more open and handed out the crib sheet.  The man's hand flew to his instant "fat lip".  His other hand took the note.  The door closed.