The Unsolvable Puzzle

I remember the first time I took a gun in my hands. I couldn't have been older than 5 years old when I picked it up, and even then it was heavy. My father handed it to me and told me that he wanted me to have a special gift, as he sat down on our wooden porch swing. He had always been like that, giving me all kinds of gifts for no reason at all. On my fifth birthday he gave me a car even though we only lived a few blocks from school, and later on he gave me a pair of pants when I complained about the hole at the bottom of my other ones. He was a mechanic by trade, but that didn't stop him from doing all sorts of things around the house and yard.

"What's this dad?"

I said, holding up the heavy gun with both hands. It was a Desert Eagle .50 cal handgun with gold plating inlaid along the barrel and grip.

"It's a gun son,"

He said, taking a swig of his beer while staring off into the horizon. It was twilight then and the sky burned bright orange while silhouetting all of the tall trees surrounding our little cabin.

"Is it for hunting?" I asked innocently, before grasping the handle tighter as if to shoot something far away. My father turned and looked at me with a smile on his face.

"No son,"

He said slowly "This is for protection."

"Protection from what?" I said, before holding it up to my eye like one would do with binoculars. Through the scope I could see an ant walking along the ground near our house, and I wondered why my dad needed protection from such an unimportant thing as an ant.

My father cleared his throat before answering: "From anything that comes your way," He took another drink of beer before continuing "I want you to have this gun because you'll need it one day."