Owner / Founder

The Beginning: The Only Sixth Grader Who Could Recommend a Handgun

  When I turned eleven, my father opened a gun shop in the part of town everyone
pretended didn’t exist, a place where even the GPS hesitated, as if to say, “You sure about
this?” I was too young to legally work the sales floor, but that didn’t stop my days from taking on a new rhythm. While other kids liked learning long division, I enjoyed compliance
paperwork and scrutinized it with the intensity of a tiny IRS auditor. Every serial number had to match, every form had to be perfect. I treated those documents like they were ancient scrolls that, if misread, might summon the ATF.

All of this overlapped with the beginning of middle school, which, as anyone who has
survived it knows, is basically a three-year psychological endurance test. The bullying was
relentless. If being an asshole were a sport, my classmates would’ve gone pro. Yet here’s the twist: despite spending my afternoons surrounded by enough firepower to qualify as a
modest armory, it never once crossed my mind to use any of it against the kids who made my school-life miserable.

It’s funny, in a darkly ironic way. People talk about playground scuffles as if they’re the
gateway to societal collapse, the thing that leads to school shootings and senseless killings,
but in my experience, the place where I learned to handle firearms with precision and respect was the least violent part of my life. Middle school? That was the real war zone.

Maybe that’s worth mentioning in today’s conversations. If an eleven-year-old armed with a label maker, a stack of compliance forms, and a moral compass that somehow survived
seventh grade didn’t turn into a menace, perhaps those stories are more complicated than
people think.

 

Character Building. Also Known as: Why I Deserve a Medal

  By the time I hit high school, the bullying had evolved from “kids being kids” to “kids
being tiny, unlicensed emotional support demons.” The creativity of their insults was almost
impressive, almost. And yet, I still didn’t shoot anyone. Not even a warning shot. Not even a
dramatic slow-motion movie moment where I rack a shotgun and say something cool.
Nothing.
Frankly, I think a thank-you card is in order. Maybe a fruit basket. At minimum, a polite nod of appreciation from the universe.

 

The Middle: My Brief, Ill-Fated Detour Into Healthcare

  After surviving high school without committing a felony...again, you’re welcome. I
decided to take a break from the firearms world and try something “respectable.” Something noble. Something that would make people say, “Wow, she really cares about humanity.”

So naturally, I went to nursing school.
I studied hard. I passed exams. I learned how to take blood pressure without cutting off
circulation. I even graduated, which is more than I can say for half the people who started
with me, and realized 3 days into my new job, that bodily fluids are not for me.

Within the first week, I discovered three things:
1.  Bedsores are a crime against the senses.
2.  Denture cleaning should qualify as a Fear Factor challenge.
3.  Poop... no matter how medically necessary, clinically relevant, or “part of the job” is still
poop.
It took me approximately 259,200 seconds to realize that Florence Nightingale and I were not cut from the same cloth. She had compassion. I had a gag reflex. She had a calling. I had a strong desire to run screaming back to the gun shop.

So I did. I hung up my scrubs, marched back into the world of serial numbers and safety
checks, and never looked back. The guns never pooped on me. That alone made them the
superior career choice.

 

Enter: Husband #1 (A Plot Twist No One Needed)

  Somewhere in the midst of my triumphant return to the firearms world, I met my first
husband. He was in the Army, charismatic enough to sell sand in a desert, and had the kind of charm that made you forget to ask important questions like, “Do you have emotional
stability?” or “Are you secretly a walking red flag wearing camouflage?”
Everyone adored him. My friends. My coworkers. Strangers. Probably the mailman. He had
the whole world fooled.

My dad, however, insists he wasn’t fooled. He claims he “knew something was off from the
beginning.” Which raises an important question: If he knew, WHY did he still agree to give me away like a door prize at a charity raffle?
But I digress.

We got married. There were vows. There were photos. There was cake. And then there were
nine years that can best be described as… character development. The kind authors give their protagonists right before the plot twist where everything catches on fire.
To summarize those nine years: they sucked. They sucked with enthusiasm. They sucked with commitment. They thoroughly sucked.

But hey, look at all the resilience I built.

 

The Suck, The Move, The Lawyer, and Still No Felonies 

  Military life is often described as “an adventure,” which is a very polite way of saying,
“Pack your stuff, we’re leaving again, and no, you don’t get a vote.” One minute I was in
upstate New York, where winter lasts nine months and the other three are mud, and the next I was in Boise, Idaho, which, fun fact, is not close to anything I love.
Meanwhile, my entire safety net, family, friends, emotional support humans, lived in Florida,
thousands of miles away, sipping sweet tea and enjoying the luxury of staying in one place for more than five minutes. Must be nice.
As the moves piled up, the suck got… well, suckier. There’s no elegant way to say it. True
colors started showing, and let’s just say they were not the soothing pastels one hopes for in a spouse. More like the alarming neon shades used on warning labels. It was terrifying, and not in the “haunted house in October” way, more in the “this might become a Netflix
documentary” way.

Then came the incident. The one that snapped the last thread holding the whole mess
together. I won’t go into detail, but it was dark, it was final, and it was the moment I realized, “Oh, absolutely not.” I packed up our daughter, grabbed what I could, and fled to safety in Florida like a woman who had finally remembered she deserved better. Because I did.

And then… the lawyers.
This is the part where I tell you how much I despise the divorce and custody process. If Dante had known about family court, he would’ve added a bonus circle of hell just for it. My lawyer was so useless I’m still not entirely sure what I paid for. Emotional support? A warm body in a suit? Someone to nod sympathetically while accomplishing nothing? If so, five stars, nailed it, bud.

Again, through all of this, moves, fear, chaos, betrayal, legal fees that made me question the value of currency, I still didn’t shoot anyone. Not a single person. Honestly, I think I deserve a plaque. Or a parade. Or a coupon for free tacos.

 

The Middle, Take 2: The Ammo Shelf of Destiny

  Starting over is supposed to feel empowering, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. In my
case, it felt more like a slightly singed pigeon limping back to familiar territory. After the chaos of my previous life chapter, I found myself once again job hunting… and wouldn’t you know it?
I ended up right back where I started: in a gun shop.

Not my dad’s gun shop, though. Oh no. That would’ve been too easy. He was fully staffed,
allegedly. Personally, I could think of a few employees who could’ve used a gentle nudge
toward the exit, but apparently “you can’t fire people just because they annoy you” is a thing.
Whatever. So I took a job at a shop just down the road.

My father, in a display of dramatic flair I didn’t know he possessed, immediately dubbed me
Benedict Arnold. For weeks. Every time I walked into his shop, he’d greet me with, “Ah, the
traitor returns.” Eventually he got over it, but only after I reminded him that betrayal requires intent, and all I intended to do was to pay my bills.

 

Enter: Mr. 10

  The day I interviewed at the new shop, I walked in trying to look confident and
professional. Instead, I immediately locked eyes with a man who was, objectively, a solid 10.
Not a “maybe if the lighting is right” 10. A “did someone order this from a catalog?” 10. And there he was, casually stocking the ammo shelf like he wasn’t single-handedly raising the shop’s attractiveness rating.
He asked if I needed help. I told him I was there to interview. And then, be still my heart... he spoke to ME, the girl everyone bullied. ME!

“Eagles fly off the shelf.”

I blinked. He nodded toward the Federal American Eagle ammo boxes. Apparently the owners had a very specific organizational system, and the eagles needed to face outward. I didn’t know whether to thank him or propose on the spot. Not only was he gorgeous, he was helpful.

A rare combination.

 

New Job, New Besties

  I got the job. (Obviously. I had insider intel on eagle orientation.) And Mr. 10? He became
my new best friend. We bonded instantly, like two veterans comparing scars, except our war stories involved divorce court, custody battles, and the kind of emotional damage that
should come with a punch card for free therapy.
We laughed. We vented. We stocked shelves. We... well, you get the point.

The TV That Changed Everything
One day after work, he asked if I could help him carry a large TV up to his apartment. A normal request. Innocent. Practical.

Reader, that was it.
That was the moment the universe leaned in and whispered, “Pay attention.”
Helping him haul that TV up the stairs was the beginning of the story I never saw coming, the one where the ammo-shelf Adonis eventually became my husband.

 

I Was Just Trying to Get a Job, Not a Husband 

  Turns out the good looks were a bonus feature, not the whole package, his entire life was
gun centric. This man had been shooting since he was barely tall enough to see over a bench rest. He collected firearms the way some people collect Funko Pops. He even had a degree in gunsmithing.

I mean, come on. How was I supposed to resist that? He had me beat in every category except paperwork organization, handwriting and anything regarding drywall.

 

Dad Level: Expert

  The real clincher wasn’t the guns. It was the dad thing. He was a really good dad. Like,
annoyingly good. When we met, his daughter was two and mine was seven. We waited a while before introducing them, because blending families is delicate, like defusing a bomb or assembling IKEA furniture without arguing.

Watching him with his daughter made me fall even harder. He was patient, gentle, funny, and completely wrapped around her tiny finger. I kept thinking, What can’t this man do?
Well. As it turns out… drywall. He cannot hang anything on drywall. Not a picture frame, not a shelf, not a towel hook. The man can hit steel at a thousand yards but cannot, for the life of him, find a stud. It’s his one fatal flaw, and honestly, I find it comforting. Proof he’s human.

 

Nashville or Bust

  Fast forward from 2015 to 2018. My daughter and I packed up and moved in with him in
Nashville, Tennessee, a change we desperately needed. He’d relocated for work, and I was
ready for a fresh start in a city where hot chicken is a personality trait.
Finding work, however, was… an adventure.

I dropped my resume off at every gun shop in the greater Nashville area. And every single one of them looked at me like I’d just handed them a forged document written in crayon. I don’t know if it was my age, my gender, or the fact that I wasn’t wearing a Realtree hoodie, but nobody believed a word of it.

One guy actually laughed. Another threw my resume in the trash right in front of me... which, by the way, is illegal because they’re supposed to retain applications for six months. (Yes, I know the rules and I could have reported him. But, I didn’t. Unlike him, I'm not a dick.) I kept hearing, “There’s no way this is real.” Well, gentlemen… it was real. I had been in a gun shop since 1993. I could run circles around half the dudes behind those counters, and alphabetize their ammo shelves while doing it.

 

Compliance Clowns

  After what felt like a thousand job applications and a small emotional pilgrimage, I finally
landed a job… unfortunately with the douche bags of the century. And I don’t mean casual,
everyday garden variety jerks. No. These guys were next level, elite tier, alpha male wannabe soldiers. The kind who strutted around like they were starring in a low budget action movie no one asked for.

Their priorities were simple:
Beards? Mandatory.
Tattoos? Preferably visible from space.
Hooking up with anything that had fake boobs and an OnlyFans account? Absolutely
essential.
Compliance with federal firearms regulations? Not even on the list.

It became abundantly clear on day one that their Federal Firearms License was treated with
the same seriousness most people reserve for expired coupons. I pointed out the glaring
issues, missing paperwork, sloppy logs, things that would make an ATF auditor break out in
hives, and they responded with the confidence of men who had never been right about
anything in their lives. They acted like I was the one who didn’t know what I was talking about... Sure, boys. Tell me more.

That job was short lived because I had no intention of going down with their non compliant
ship. I bailed before they hit the iceberg. And wouldn’t you know it? They eventually lost their FFL. Shocking. Absolutely shocking. Who could have predicted such a thing? (Literally everyone.)

 

A Real Job, Finally

  Then came the job that restored my faith in humanity: a training academy hired me as
admin support and an assistant firearms instructor. Actual professionals. Actual adults.
People who cared about safety, education, and not ending up on a federal watch list.
It was glorious.

That role grew into something even better. The owners decided they wanted to open a retail gun shop, and they basically handed me the keys to build it with them from the ground up. A salon was transformed into a female friendly gun shop dream. Goodbye hair dryers, hello holsters. I loved my crew. Still do. They were the kind of people who made the long days worth it, smart, honorable, funny, and fully capable of running a shop without violating federal law every five minutes.
Because here’s the thing about the firearms industry: It’s 95% good people with integrity,
honor, and a genuine desire to do things right… and 5% absolute, irredeemable douche bag.
And I had already worked for the 5%, so I knew the difference.

 

Moves Were Made

  Leaving the dream shop felt a little like cheating on a soulmate, but the offer I got was
simply too good to refuse. I jumped into the technology side of the firearms industry, yes,
technology, the very thing that historically treated me like a hostile foreign entity. I took a job with a compliance and point of sale firm, and honestly? I’m glad I did.

For the first time in 30 plus years, I got to see the industry from the inside out. I traveled to
trade shows, met brilliant people, and built a network of experts I can call on anytime I need something explained in small words. It was like unlocking a secret bonus level in a video game I’d been playing my whole life.

Magneto Enters the Chat

The move shocked everyone, but no one more than my mother. She knows me better than
anyone and lovingly nicknamed me Magneto years ago, not because I bend metal with my
mind, but because technology bends me with its spite. Computers crash. Phones glitch.
Printers burst into flames just by sensing my aura. Malware? It finds me like I’m its biological mother.
So when I told her I was taking a job in tech, she blinked slowly, like she was waiting for the
punchline. Spoiler: there wasn’t one. I owned my roles for a year and a half.

 

Magneto Leaves The Chat

  And then… it happened. Something that had never happened in the history of me: I got
fired.

Let me be clear, I am the kind of employee bosses cry over when I leave. I am dependable,
hardworking, and annoyingly good at my job. So being canned was a plot twist I did not see coming.

The accusations were laughable. First: that I used a company rental car for a personal out of
state trip. Which was easily disproved because returning a rental car is basically driving
through a TSA checkpoint with wheels. Cameras. Lights. Date stamps. If I had sneezed in that car, they’d have the footage.
When that didn’t stick, they pivoted to: “Your sales numbers aren’t good enough.”
Which was adorable, considering I was doing the job of two salespeople with zero training and still kept pace with the people I replaced. But sure. Blame the numbers.

Enter: The New “Me”

Roughly a whole week later, at a trade show, a man approached me with the confidence of
someone who has never been humbled by life.

“Hi! I’m the new Brandy!”
Oh FFS... Sir. No. Absolutely not. There is only one Brandy, and she does not come in a starter pack.

He didn't last very long...

 

Honestly...

  Here’s the thing: I like honesty. I respect honesty. And I would’ve had so much more
respect for that company if they had just told the truth.
The owner’s wife hated me. Period.
That’s it. That’s the whole story. She tried to make my work life miserable, probably hoping I’d quit and save them the trouble. But once I realized that was the game, I dug in harder. I’m funny, I’m honest, I’m real… and I am stubborn on a molecular level.
I just hope she has the life she deserves.

And as for me? I walked away with my integrity in tact.

 

The Now: Apparently I Meant It

  If patience is a virtue, then apparently, I’ve been a saint for the last twenty years, because
that’s how long it took me to finally apply for my own FFL. But here we are. I applied for it, just like that. No dramatic music, no confetti cannons, just me, a desktop, and the sudden
realization that I was actually doing the thing everyone had been bugging me about since the Clinton administration.

Honestly, if I had a dollar for every time someone asked, “Why don’t you have your own shop yet?” I’d have… well, a lot of dollars. Enough dollars to maybe fund the shop they were asking about. But as they say, “It takes money to make money,” and if you recall, I hemorrhaged approximately the budget of a major Hollywood blockbuster, in family court. Hard to build an empire when your wallet is a crime scene.

I still remember interviewing for the training academy back in 2020. The owner hit me with
the classic, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” question. And without hesitation, I
said, “Owning my own FFL.” Fast-forward to 2025 and, surprise! I guess I actually meant it.
Manifestation works, folks. Or maybe I’m just stubborn. Probably both.
But let’s be real: a lil’ old FFL isn’t going to pay the bills. Not unless the bills suddenly decide to lower themselves out of respect for my ambition, which they have not. So I started contract work as a consultant, diving into retail strategies and compliance. The thrilling world of paperwork, regulations, and making sure no one accidentally commits a felony before lunch.
And because I seem to enjoy chaos, I also work contractually for a couple of local gun shops.

Yep. You read that right. I work with my competition. Wild, right?
But honestly, it’s not crazy at all. I support the people I believe in. If someone’s doing good
work, I want to help them do more of it. Competition doesn’t scare me. Besides, competition is only scary if you’re insecure.
So here I am, gun shop, consultant, collaborator, chaos coordinator. It’s not the path I
imagined twenty years ago, but it’s definitely the one I was built for. And if the universe is taking requests, I’d like the next chapter to include a nap. Or a vacation. Or both. 

 

Caliber of Character... And Mine’s D.O.P.E 

  So here I am, standing proudly in front of my very own FFL, which I have named D.O.P.E.
Ordnance, LLC. Why? Because I enjoy humor, wordplay, and watching people try to figure out whether I’m being clever or unhinged.

For the uninitiated, D.O.P.E. stands for Data On Previous Engagements, and after three
decades in this industry, trust me, I’ve got enough “previous engagements” to fill a library.
Some were educational, some were chaotic, and some were the kind of stories you only tell
after two drinks and a signed NDA. But all of them gave me data… and now I get to use that for my consulting work and my shop.

I wear a “got dope?” shirt to the gym. Yes, people look confused. And yes, their confusion
brings me joy.

If they’re confused, good. If they’re concerned, even better. If they ask questions, fantastic,
because nothing spices up a treadmill session like explaining ballistic terminology to
someone who just wanted to stretch their hamstrings.

 

It's HIPP to be DOPE

  I met Joe with HIPP Customs in 2020, and it didn’t take long to realize that he was a gunsmith in the actual sense of the word. Not the “swap a few parts and call yourself a gunsmith” kind. 

Fast-forward to my less-than-voluntary departure from the compliance and point-of-sale company, otherwise known as the moment I decided that my self-worth was more than they could afford. Instead of sitting around wondering what I was going to do next, I started building my own business—and began working with HIPP.

Somewhere along the way, we discovered that we work ridiculously well together. I have absolutely no problem calling him out, and, to his credit, he takes it like a champ. This is probably because he knows I’m usually right. (Joe may dispute that last sentence.)

What started as a professional relationship quickly became a partnership built on mutual respect, sarcasm, and the occasional “Are you seriously doing this?” conversation.

Now, we're working together to grow HIPP Customs into a true retail destination, with a heavy emphasis on what makes HIPP different: the machine shop, custom work, and the ability to actually create rather than simply click Lego pieces together.

Stay tuned, this one is currently in the works!

 

Unsupervised and Unapologetic

  There you have it, just the surface-level tour of my wonderfully chaotic existence. Trust
me, there’s a whole vault of incredible moments and questionable decisions still untold. Like the time I almost became the subject of a true crime podcast.

But through all the madness, plot twists, and “how is this my life?” moments, I always come
back to my little family and our slice of peace in the Tennessee countryside. We’ve built a
home I adore, surrounded by trees, quiet nights, and a few Dobermans who think they’re
comedians. They make us smile every single day, even when they’re acting like they own the place, which, to be fair, they probably do.

Just so we’re on the same page, I’m not offering apologies. If you felt called out, that’s
because you were. Think of your mention as a commemorative plaque, except it stings more and you definitely didn’t want it.

Now, despite all that, I genuinely love meeting new people and building connections. If I
sound like someone you’d want to partner with, collaborate with, or simply say hello...
(because my charm has worked its magic on you) please reach out. I don’t bite... and I still have not committed a felony.

 

Brandy