You see, I was just moseying on down to Lexington, KY, looking to find me some quality cerakote work for my roscoe, and lo and behold, I stumble upon the haven that is Bad Moon Armory. Now, I don't know if y'all have heard of this place but let me tell you - it's like finding a four-leaf clover in a field of regular ol' three-leafers.
So, I walk into this fine establishment, and the first thing that hits me is the smell of honest, hard work. You know the type - the smell that takes you back to when you were a youngin', back before all the chicken got McNuggeted, helping your grandpappy work on his truck. Grandpa used to accidentally slam the hood on my hand, and I would try to make it a joke. He’d say, “You gonna spend yer whole life gigglin’ like some kind of idiot?” I said, “They say laughter is the best medicine, Papaw.” “Them peoples never had gonorrhea neither.” Anyway, it's that same kind of American-made goodness that's running through the veins of Bad Moon Armory. The place is clean, well-organized, and filled with some of the finest firearms and cerakote jobs I've ever laid my eyes upon.
The folks there were friendlier than your long-lost, hot cousin at a family reunion, and they treated me like I was part of their own kin. The owner, Jon Duty, shook my hand and looked me straight in the eye when he greeted me. His eyes were incredible. They were fierce like an eagle but soft…. like a water-bed. I had a laptop in my hand, Jon pointed at it and asked, “Is that one of them smut machines you use to look at girls smeared in marshmallow fluff and covered in bubble wrap?” He had a stern face and I saw his mustache, with hair like one of them Alaska dogs with the kegs tied around their necks, twitch. Sheepishly, I said yes. “Them girls nowadays got themselves done up all fancy, with fuzzy lightning bolts on their panty hamsters,” he said. He shook his head with disgust, “You soft-penised debutantes couldn’t handle the old scouring pads of my day.”
Anyway, they took the time to answer all my questions, even the dumb ones, and guided me through the whole cerakote process like they were painting a picture just for me. Their knowledge and passion for firearms and cerakote were as clear as the sky on a sunny chemtrail-free Kentucky day. I asked Jon if he would teach me his wizard ways of applying cerakote, and he told me no. He said, “There’s nothing in the Lexington City Charter that says people have the right to learn stuff. I have read it! Online though. I can’t touch books. I’m deathly afraid of papercuts. They may as well make them books outta knives.”
Now, I know what you're thinking - "But Tommy, how'd the cerakote job turn out?" Well, let me tell you, it was the greatest of cerakote jobs. It was a powerful work of art. It was like having the Mona Lisa headbutt you in the face. My ol' roscoe came out looking so shiny and new, I reckon I might've teared up a bit. They took something that was looking rougher than Whoopie Goldberg’s undercarriage and turned it into a trophy. I held my gun and thought, “I should start wearing a top and a sash. I should be judging beauty contests.”
I told Jon how much I appreciated what he had done for me then he put his hand up, shook his head at me in disappointment again and said, “Quit talking about all your feelings, boy. It’s weak. Remember, real men keep their emotions bottled up until they explode, then they punch something that has nothing to do with what they’re mad at. That’s the American way.” His mustache twitched again. He said, “You know what the problem with clowns is? When it rains they ain’t funny no more.” Then he said, “Hey Alexa, play me some Wu-Tang Clan,” then shut the door to his office, never to be seen again. - Tommy Crenshaw, Brick City
