Kalah Allen

Recently, I was comfortably seated, waiting to leave on a flight to Paris, when my fellow passengers and I were informed of a potential security breach. Apparently, a bullet was found on a walkway and authorities were very concerned. They asked if anyone was carrying bullets, and after checking us seemingly thousands of times, all flights on the concourse were postponed until the next morning so they could search through our bags.

The following day, after a restful night of sleep at our airplane-provided hotel room, I put my hand in one of my partially opened jacket pockets, and, much to my dismay, found three spare bullets from my rifle. Scared shitless, I dumped them in the trash container at the hotel and returned to the airport without a word. I happened to meet the person who discovered my bullet and innocently asked him what kind it was--the description matched my silver-hollow point Federal bullets exactly. I've told no one about this until now.

I feel so bad for the thousands of people fucked up by my stupid bullet. But to the French guy who gave me that anti-American bullshit attitude on the plane, I hope your sorry ass was screwed the most by this fiasco.