Except I don't know what I am running from

I buy a sub-machine gun in the same way that Llewelyn Moss did in No Country For Old Men. Except I don't know what I am running from.

I don't remember much of what happened that night. I run out of bullets, I think, and am trying to come up with other ammo. Powder wrapped in paper didn't work. I don't even know what else to try, and when I open the thing up it has turned into a double barrel shotgun. Dirt or mud or dust or rusty resin creep out where the shot ought to have been thrust inward.

I have visitors at home in Austin. We're in my bedroom. They're younger. Maybe much younger. This is probably when I'm coming up with new ammo ideas. I talk to the father of one of them. He reminds me of Hank Hill and tells me all about guns and ammunition. I mention my powder-paper idea and remind him I know how they did it back during the Civil War and that my way was not at all how. He was neither impressed nor not so.

I am a rebel like Carlos. I kill all sorts of fascists with my sub-machine gun. Sometimes it is a straight up machine gun.