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They opened the range bags, each pulling out their rifles. Michelle’s AR was customized to match her car—a light pink Cerakote job, holo sight, and a sling with tiny Hello Kitty charms clipped to the strap. Bunni’s was matte black with rose-gold accents and a foregrip that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie.
“Alright, Bunni,” Michelle said, clicking her mag into place. “Let’s see if you can finally outshoot me.”
“Oh it’s on, Barbie sniper,” Bunni fired back, loading up her own mag.
They settled into position. The sharp crack-crack-crack of .223 echoed through the hills as they traded volleys, taking turns between short bursts and double taps. Shells danced in the air, clinking onto the concrete. Between drills, they teased each other, compared groupings, and shouted over the muffle of their ear pro.
After a couple of hours and more than a few empty mags, they finally took a break. Michelle leaned back against the bench, sipping a pink energy drink while Bunni checked her target through binoculars.
“Okay, okay,” Bunni admitted. “You win today. But only because I forgot to zero.”
Michelle beamed. “Victory tastes like strawberry and gunpowder.”
They both laughed, basking in the satisfaction that only a day at the range can bring. There was something empowering about the whole thing—two women, unapologetically themselves, slinging brass and breaking stereotypes.
As they packed up, Michelle tossed her gear into the Accord’s trunk and looked at Bunni. “Same time next week?”
“You bet,” Bunni said. “But next time, I’m bringing the suppressor.”
Michelle smirked. “Only if it’s pink.”
And with that, the Barbie-pink Accord roared to life, kicking up dust as the two friends drove off—stylish, skilled, and ready for anything.
