Raider GL Side Story #1: Armstrong’s November Morning

@6:28 PM EST

Description

#NÜÜBCo #NÜÜB #Nüübco #Nüüb #nüübco #nüüb #NUUBCo #NUUB #NuubCo #Nuub #nuubco #nuub #RaiderGL #sidestory #RaiderGLsidestory #superhero #superheroes

Raider GL Side Story #1: Armstrong’s November Morning

Raider GL Volume 1: https://www.nuubco.com/product/raider-gl-volume-1/

Donations

• PayPal: [email protected]

Transcript

Raider G L Side Story #1: Armstrong’s November Morning

The cold hit Armstrong first—sharp and clean like a knife freshly honed. He stepped out of his pickup into the pre-dawn hush of Locust Shade Park, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, bare-branched and still, waiting for the sun to stir them awake.
He slung his Remington Model 700 over his shoulder, the matte black barrel still cold from the night. Chambered in .308 Winchester, it was a rifle he trusted—dependable, no frills, and just right for whitetail. Armstrong didn’t go in for gadgets or gimmicks. He lived just a few miles south in Triangle, Virginia, and learned early that stillness and patience were what mattered most in the woods.
An hour later, he was kneeling beneath a cluster of oaks, half-camouflaged by a downed log. He’d spotted the buck—six-point, healthy build—through a break in the branches. A clean 110-yard shot. No rush. No noise. The Remington barked once, then silence returned just as swiftly.
Armstrong sat for a moment afterward, as he always did. Not out of hesitation or remorse, but respect. He believed in using every part of the animal, and he believed in earning it.
By mid-morning, the work had begun. He field-dressed the deer in a shallow draw just off the trail and quartered it efficiently. He packed the meat onto a sled he’d pulled in behind him and started the slow, steady walk back to the lot. It was heavy work, but not unfamiliar.
Back at the truck, a couple of weekend joggers glanced over, surprised but not alarmed—this was Virginia, after all. Armstrong nodded politely, loaded up the cooler, and covered everything with a tarp.
As he drove down Route 1 back toward Triangle, he passed the old convenience store and the familiar brick houses of his neighborhood. The day would end with a long cleanup, then butchering in the garage, maybe with some country music on low and a cold beer nearby.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a trophy story.
But for Armstrong, it was a good day.
And good days were all a man really needed.