It’s 9.30PM in Eastern Oklahoma and night has closed in along a ridge overlooking a small, treeless valley. In the shadows are nearly one hundred heavily armed people, wielding weapons ranging from WW1 Maxim Guns to AK47s, poised, some standing, some crouching but all with fingers inching towards triggers, all waiting for a signal.
A flare shoots through the sky. There’s a momentary pause, as if all present have taken a sharp intake of breath, and then in this small corner of the American bible belt all hell is unleashed, the air filled with smoke, streaking bright lights of tracer fire and bullets. The Machine Gun festival has begun.