1986 SOF Convention Reproduction Tee

Description

Stumbling through the doors of the convention, I was hit with the unmistakable [and familiar] scent of gunpowder. The testosterone level of the whole place hit me like a ton of bricks. The air was thick with the musk of rough, grizzled men who all shared that overtone of black-ops veterans. Somehow, they all gathered here in this neon-lit Las Vegas casino to swap stories of exploits in far-flung war zones, and peruse the latest in technology advances in hardware.

The crowd was a mottled with heavily tattooed ex-soldiers, aging CIA spooks, and scarred up men of action, all dressed like they rampaged their way through the local surplus store, grabbing gear and whatever clothing items seemed like they might fit. Knives, guns, and the occasional grenade were the only event badges needed to get in. The scene was a cross between a gun show, a biker rally, and a veterans’ reunion, with a touch of Mad Max-style, dystopian apocalypse thrown in for good measure.

As I made my way through the crowded convention floor, dodging vendors hawking everything from body armor & weaponry, to autographed nudes of Marilyn Chambers. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of ease here, knowing that nearly anything goes…but at the same time, feeling like I needed to keep sharp to dodge any incoming troubles. These were not your average trade show convention-goers, after all. These were men [and a few women] who had seen the darkest corners of humanity and emerged with the scars to prove it. It was a collection of God’s most dangerous prototypes…and someone was giving booze to these goddamn animals!

But despite their rough exterior, there was an unmistakable camaraderie and brotherhood among them. They swapped war stories and shared a dark sense of humor that only those who have been in the thickest of things could truly understand.

As the night wore on, the convention took on a surreal, hallucinogenic quality. The clatter of gunfire from a rifle range mixed with a blaring Molly Hatchet song playing from a radio no place in sight.  The eerie red glow of the occasional parachute flare lit a sea of revelers that seemed to blur into a wave of jungle fatigues and gun leather.

In the end, I left the convention feeling simultaneously exhilarated and haunted. The soldiers of fortune may be a rough and dangerous bunch, but there was a sense of purpose and honor among them that was hard to ignore. They were warriors, through and through, and they had seen things that most of us could never imagine.

Of course, all of this is complete bullshit. I was nowhere near the 1986 SOF Convention in Las Vegas. Hell, I was literally only 6 years old when this particular event kicked off. But I’m certain this is how it would’ve felt being there. Drawing from my own recollection of experiences from the late 80’s gun show and machinegun shoot crowds…this seems like an oddly accurate depiction. Whatever that means.

Anyway…buy a shirt, eat a couple grams of mushrooms and fire off that gun show flare pistol you’ve been saving for a rainy day. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to a legit freedom-fest in today’s modern “civilized” world.