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Atta boy, Marine. Semper fi.

HARD KNUCKLES AND HOT LEAD Marnie's arm swung outward as her Daddy's black gelding turned a little sideways, the way he always did when she cast a lariat. Sheriff Linn Keller's eyes were hard and unforgiving, his pace determined, one hand on his holstered sidearm, the other hand up, as if to grab, or to support his gun hand, or to swat aside a pesky fly if need be. The object of their attention was buzzed up on something -- just what, they didn't know, and didn't particularly care -- they'd gotten the call and they'd converged, and they'd distracted a druggie from whatever it was he intended to do to a snatched child in the parking lot. Linn started to lean forward, the way he did just before launching himself into someone. Jacob ran up, shotgun in a two-hand grip, brought the pump gun back, his body twisted, ready to uncoil like a living spring. Marnie's loop hesitated, then dropped, snapped shut: braided leather snapped taut, two turns around the saddlehorn guaranteeing her mount's quick-stepping retreat would bring the wide-eyed, knife-swinging druggie off his feet. It appeared to the onlookers as if they'd practiced this move many times -- they had to, didn't they? -- it looked so rehearsed, so perfect: the Sheriff kept the druggie's attention, one pale eyed deputy whipped a lasso around him and yanked him off his feet, the other unwound a shotgun butt into the screaming, thrashing felon's belly, knocking all the wind and most of the fight out of him. It was common knowledge that when that long tall Sheriff grabbed someone, they weren't getting away: a set of irons snarled around the felon's wrists, the felon was freed of la reata and stuffed in the waiting cruiser, and a pale eyed deputy slung his shotgun casually over his off shoulder, muzzle down as was his habit, as his pale eyed sister casually coiled her lariat and hung it off her saddlehorn. Several there had their phones out, capturing the takedown: lucky enough, those same folk also caught video of this individual stabbing car doors, throwing shopping carts and seizing a child and threatening to cut her throat if he wasn't given a million dollars and a helicopter: the arrival of a hard, uncompromising Sheriff, the Sheriff opening the back door of his cruiser, then turning, pointing to the criminal and advancing at a determined pace, was enough to penetrate the drug's influence, enough to hold the criminal's attention. Someone later asked the mounted deputy why they didn't just shoot the guy with the knife: she had a rifle in her scabbard, and was known to be an expert shot; the Sheriff carried a carbine in his cruiser, and could have used it to good effect -- a deer slug fed into Jacob's shotgun could have had the same surgically precise effect, as close as he was. Marnie dismounted, opened her saddlebag, pulled out the weekly newspaper. It showed her brother at an accident scene, doing CPR on a bloodied victim. "He didn't make it," she said, "and Jacob knew he probably would not make it, but he tried anyway. Do you know why?" The bystander shook his head, puzzled. "Jacob knows what it is to have an empty chair at Thanksgiving," she said. "He knew if he did nothing, that guy was dead. If he did his best, he'd be giving him the only chance he'd have. That's what we did here." She gestured to where the takedown had just occurred. "That is someone's son, someone's brother, someone's uncle or maybe a lost husband. We just gave him the only chance he'll have to straighten out." The questioner looked away, frowned a little, looked back, nodded. "We gave him a chance. Sometimes we don't have that choice, but today we did." In years past, when men who rode the Owlhoot Trail changed their names like they changed coats, a pale eyed old lawman with an iron grey mustache brought someone in rather than kill him out of hand. Questions were asked, among those riders of the Owlhoot, whether Old Pale Eyes was gettin' soft. The general consensus that he wasn't softenin' up any a'tall, he was still the same hard man he'd always been, but maybe there was more to the man than just hard knuckles and hot lead. Somehow that quote made it into the local newspaper. Better than a century later, the editor of the local paper remembered that ancient quote, and actually found it, and it featured into the weekly's front page article on the dramatic takedown, when a local child was seized by a drug-crazed, knife-wielding stranger, when a lariat and a shotgun were used, when the local law was a-horseback: the question might be asked, Bruce Jones wrote, as to whether their pale eyed enforcers of the Law were gone soft: surely there was justification enough for deadly force, none would have objected at the use of hot lead to prevent the criminal use, the threatened use, of cold steel. Editor, reporter, photographer and chief broom pusher Bruce Jones ended his article with the answer to his own question, an answer spoken by an outlaw, long and long ago: "Maybe there's more to them than hard knuckles and hot lead."

I have no idea who the people in the top image are.

I never made the connection till just now. Leon is the reason Princess Leia was such a damn good shot. It was heredity.

Excellent movie. Natalie Portman was awesome at a very early age. https://m.imdb.com/title/tt0110413/?ref_=nm_flmg_t_69_act

I have always liked this bit of humor. It’s definitely worth putting here. It’s not exactly like the first time I heard but it’s definitely good enough.

....... yes

Dearest Uncle Alpo, Allison is the name of many/multiple speed gearboxs' (transmissions) used to propel many brands of very large trucks along the tarmac. It's kind of important that it functions properly.

If only.