My Killer Christmas Present: An Ex Marine Expert Marksman Who Happens on Trouble in a Local Shopping Center Kills Two Perps Who Are Mob Related and the Fun Begins.

By Richard Carson Harrison

I yelled once more give it up son, your body guards dead ,He turned using his same form, the stance and sideways pistol grip as before, the same as when he threatening the lady clerk. He fired sending a bullet into one of the display cases about six feet from me. I fired only once this time, I have no idea why, maybe it was his age, maybe I thought I was giving him a better chance of survival. Is that not ridiculous? One bullet that size at this range, would kill an enraged grisly, much less a skinny, not very well developed kid! He, the kid, was spun around and dropped instantly. I glanced at the two men and walked quickly down to assess the damage. Even though neither of them could possibly ever again be combative, I kicked both weapons across the floor against the wall, I lay my rifle on top of one of the displays knowing the police would be here quickly and might be excited if they saw me holding a weapon and all the carnage surrounding me, with broken glass everywhere. They should have been here when the door alarm and the water heater and electrical noises were present, if they think this is something! The sound effects were dramatic indeed, I can assure you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467869683

Richard Carson Harrison

Richard Harrison born Little Rock, Arkansas , Graduated High School and joined the Marine Corps 14 days after that, 3yrs later discharged as a Buck Sergeant, E-4 joined family business in Little Rock, helped build sizeable business as a Corporate Executive, moved to the Alabama Gulf Coast, and became fascinated by Salt Water Fishing, write fishing articles for a bi-weekly paper “Somethings Fishy About Richard”! Also wrote a blog for many years informative about Real Estate, Florida and Alabama Licensed, and area activities. www.richardscondos.blogspot.com .

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter 11

About the Author

About the Book

Chapter 1

CHRISTMAS BABIES GOT IT MADE

My name is Matthew Carson. It was my birthday, or it was it Christmas? Actually it was both. I was one of the blessed ones whose mother’s Christmas Day was interrupted by labor pains. Now some fifty years later, I realize I complained far too much and way too often. We Christmas babies were slighted by not having our birthdays celebrated separately every year, rather than just included with that much larger event, Christmas. Often getting only one present for the two occasions, I would hear, Honey, this is for your birthday and your Christmas! I complained to anyone who would listen. On that rare occasion when I met someone whose fate was the same, we shared great camaraderie. Misery does indeed love company! But I have to come clean. It really wasn’t that bad.

My wife Teresa was touched by my complaints, or she just gave in, and she did a special—I mean really special—thing for me. This was planned by my wonderful wife one July when we lived on the Alabama Gulf Coast, in a small island community on Ono Island. We moved there in 1986. The island was in Alabama, although it extended across the Florida and Alabama state line. The nearby Flora-Bama bar, a lively meeting place and home of the mullet toss, was like a historical marker. Mention it in Memphis or Minnesota and someone will know of it. If you fished on Ono’s shoreline, you were in Alabama waters, but if you fished across Old River and just enough east, you needed a Florida license. Look at a map if in doubt.

Ono Island was much like any nice subdivision, but with the distractions of waterfront living, it was inhabited and visited by an amalgam of retirees and people who wished to change their lifestyles by availing themselves of a laidback attitude, something they had not accomplished in Michigan, Tennessee, Texas, Virginia, or wherever. You name it, we were from everywhere, and that is what made the island so interesting. A narrow island about six miles long, Ono had houses of various ages, costing from several hundred thousand dollars on up to several million. It was slightly sheltered by a gulf barrier island, Perdido Key, which was separated from our island by Old River, a nice tidal waterway that ran from the inlet to the Gulf of Mexico, and it was bordered on its northern side by the intercoastal waterway. The island was populated by a friendly, gregarious group of folks who were sometimes thought to be stuffy and egocentric by those who didn’t know us or were envious. We were respectful of one another’s privacy, and although some of us jockeyed to be the big fish in the small pond, most of us just enjoyed our toddies and not working or raising families anymore. We had the military elite and the rank and file working man, but the real proof of the island’s character was that in times of sickness and death or bereavement, no one did it better. Support, that is. It was the best!

No bakers or candlestick makers, but lawyers, engineers, salespeople, doctors, you name it. Our area was also called the Red Neck Riviera. On Ono, it was possible to take your boat from the dock behind your house and be out in the Gulf in ten minutes. Within four hours or less, you could be catching tuna at an offshore oil rig eighty miles out. It was the red snapper capital of the world, king mackerel abounded, trigger fish—my favorite—and grouper were touted to be the best.

Anyway, Teresa had invited some friends over for drinks and heavy hors d’oeuvres, or was it heavy drinks and snacks? Who knows? One of my friends asked if he could see my new boat. I was a little puzzled, since my boat, a twenty-three foot Grady-White, was not new and most of the guys had been on it. The boat was a joy and could challenge rough seas like no other hull I had ever seen. With a Grady, you would never, find yourself at a lack for words to describe its ability to conquer the elements. The whole boat-showing idea was designed to get me out of the way, which was apparent upon our return to the house. Christmas lights were hung all over the porch and living room. They came on when I entered and everyone yelled Happy Birthday! I almost was embarrassed, or would have been if I hadn’t been drinking. I was handed another drink and everyone began singing Happy Birthday to me. I was so happy, I wished I could cry.

Teresa threw the party in July, so thanks to her, I now had had a separate birthday. In ways, it surpasses anything that could be done on my actual birthday. I haven’t really been slighted over the years. My mom had four sisters, and none of them neglected little Matt. Almost every year I had my special cake, banana with buttercream icing, my favorite.

Chapter 2

THE EAGLE, GLOBE, AND ANCHOR

This chapter gives a little background of who I am and how I acquired some of the skills I use when shooting a rifle and surviving in a tenuous and dangerous situation. The eagle, globe, and anchor form the emblem of the Marine Corps. The globe is the world; the others parts need no explanation. Teresa and I have two sons, Richard and Steve, and they were both in officers candidate school at Quantico, Virginia, where they produce the Marine Corps’ finest. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I had been an enlisted man myself, joining fourteen days after graduating high school. I left Little Rock, Arkansas, for the Marines Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California. What a shocker when we recruits arrived, tired, sleepy, hungry, in our civvies, the clothes we wore from home. Mine were probably nicer than need be; Mom wanted me to look nice. Much later I wished I had been in blue jeans and a T-shirt. We had a very long sixteen weeks ahead of us. It took my platoon that long to go through the system, because for the first four weeks we were tied up with kitchen duties and base chores. It wasn’t that we were slow learners or slow witted, although I am not sure I could speak for all of us when I say that. The system delayed us. There were only so many slots for platoons to train on base, as you had to fit in the rifle range, swimming training, and several demonstration events. When we were ready to train, though, the Marine Corps needed a bunch of grunts to do KP. That’s Kitchen Police. No, not cops, just picking up, shining up. You know, the work no one else wanted to do.

In the corps I earned the rank of buck sergeant, three stripes in three years. That was a fairly remarkable accomplishment back then. Meritorious promotions, it was called, and that reminds me of a funny—no, I’ll tell you later.

My first duty station was a weapons company. That was serious stuff. Mortars of two sizes—81 mm and the four deuce, which was 4.2 inches in diameter. That was a big projectile, like a heavy artillery shell, but much more portable. Not really hand carried, although it was possible, since the base plate of the weapon weighed over one hundred pounds. We also had a machine gun platoon. In my day that meant .30 caliber water-cooled automatic weapons for that platoon. We also had flame throwers and a couple of .50 caliber machine guns. You know, weapons!

One day we had a formation, and the sergeant asked, Can any of you type? No one held up his hand or stepped forward. Any one? he asked again.

I said, I’m not really a typist, sir, but I can make do.

He said, Come here, son. Today you may be it, since I got some slim pickin’s to choose from. He sent me to battalion, saying, Go to personnel, S-1, report to a warrant officer, Gunner Sheridan. It became my future billet—Headquarters Company, First Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, Okinawa, Japan.

I’d been called a Hollywood Marine because I graduated boot camp at the MCRD in San Diego. The Hollywood designation came from the East coast jarheads, and a goodly percentage of them were Yankees. Yes, the Civil War is alive and well in my heart. Not really, but it’s kinda fun pretending, y’all! Actually, I think the Mississippi River was the dividing line, so don’t insult my Tennessee, South Carolina, and Georgia boys. Forget the Parris Island clowns and their fantasies that running around in swamps makes you a better Marine. We all know it doesn’t, but that’s all part of the esprit de corps. I saw some nonsensical behavior on the part of my superiors in training. Some of us were slapped around some in training, not badly, just enough to get our attention.

Carson, you shithead, a sergeant would yell at me while two inches from my face. Do you like me, Private?

The only reply to that was, Sir, yes sir, sir.

You, like me, do you, Private? What are you, queer, Private?

It was impossible to answer that correctly.

A lot of guys dropped out. One member of our platoon was found in the showers, where he’d hung himself. To surmise the training discussion, we thought we had it twice as tough at MCRD, and therefore we were twice as tough! We ran everywhere, to chow, to each class. We started running as soon as we got out of bed, we went through the day running, and we went to bed running. Singing while running makes sense, right? My view would be that the Marine Corps method of dehumanizing all of us and then molding us back into disciplined fighting machines made a lot of sense. We all fit into a cohesive force, with discipline and pride. You knew instinctively that you could depend on those around you to watch your six. That means to watch your back, but not only your back, both sides and your front also. One, two, three, four, I love the Marine Corps!

Yes, we cussed it, and called it the crotch to emphasize our disgust, but believe me when I say that there is not a prouder group. When you are marching in review to the beat of the marine band and pounding those highly polished boots or shoes on the pavement in perfect cadence, it is the real deal. Heels, heels, heels! the drill instructor would shout in training. We spent hours on a large patch of asphalt pavement called the Grinder, the drill instructors calling cadence in their strong, from-the-stomach voices, which they had learned how to do in their own DI school. I discovered much later when I learned to call ducks that it was the same trick—not from the throat, but the gut! The DIs called out a kind of sing song of, Er’ one, er’ two, er’ three, er’ ta left, lef, right, left, repeating this for as long as it took! Eventually, our marching skills were superb, and when we passed in front of the review stand, it was a real stand up feeling, with the entire unit in complete harmony, all movements exact, all heads, rifles, and legs perfectly aligned. When you sight down the row of marines, all of the rifles should be aligned, with the barrels at the same angle; and all of the covers—that is, hats or caps—should be so straight, you could run a string down them.

We weren’t from the Washington, D.C., barracks, which was the address of the National Marine Corps Elite drill team and the Marine staff for the White House, but all of us were as precise as could be. I am not sure why, but at one time I wanted to be part of that elite drill team, the president’s guard, the ceremonial dress blues guys. But, man, I felt sorry for them when they had to honor someone who was lying in state, the honor guard not moving for hours. I was fascinated by the rifle drill of those guys pitching rifles around with bayonets attached, but the longer I was in the corps, the more I realized you couldn’t get more spit polished than those guys, and every day was parade day whether there was a parade or not. Wow! Semper Fi!

I also considered asking to go to sea school, where you could be assigned to an aircraft carrier or some other big ship as part of a captain’s or admirals staff, or to man some of the guns or run the brig maybe. Another thing I saw and thought humorous was when we escorted prisoners bound for Leavenworth, the federal prison where service members are incarcerated. The funny thing was that the guards were issued Thompson submachine guns, which I always thought were a classic weapon you might see in a gangster movie, with their short stock and barrel and the round drum magazine,what I didn’t think was this was a weapon that should be used to guard prisoners on a steel ship, you talk about richochets

I liked shipboard life, because you could only do so much with your appearance if you’re essentially living out of a sea bag or