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  2. mine does the same thing, the hammer going forward trips the cartridge being released from the mag tube to the carrier.
  3. Norwegians are bad losers. Ask the British.
  4. Thanks a lot Pat, after spending a bundle on a Python (I did get a great deal though) now ya got me drooling over this!!
  5. Would you be willing to part with it? What would your asking price be? I'm a 6 7/8.......
  6. Small caliber red oak, some birch loadings blocks for sale, $15 + $8 shipping for as many as will fit can fit in small priority box, example, 1=$22, 2=$38, 6=$98. L-R sold, 5-6-7
  7. Congrats to both of you. Hope to shoot with you somewhere down the road.
  8. I know. It sunk on it's maiden voyage... only made it a few hundred yards. Hence... the Norwegian navy's motto. Remember The Battle of Copenhagen?
  9. That SUCKS! Best of luck for a speedy recovery. Grizz
  10. Good company. They don’t kill you on the shipping costs. I use them a lot.
  11. https://www.nbc4i.com/news/u-s-world/happy-244th-birthday-u-s-navy/
  12. The knifes with the replaceable blades don’t look as pretty, but are very nice. One blade will last thru skinning out and quartering an elk. Real good for folks that aren’t that good at sharping up a blade
  13. I shot the Eliminator 8s in a match yesterday and had 4 failures to fire. As I was shooting Josey Wales with 5 pistols using the same ammo - C45S loaded with BlackMZ -, all the other guns (two Uberti Cattleman and a Colt SAA) fired off every time so I'm going to rule out the ammo. I'll reexamine the action but I'll likely end up installing a heavier hammer spring.
  14. Nice job, I have learned so much from you over the years
  15. Howdy, You might be surprised what can get done with a real sharp 4 inch blade paring knife. Best CR Different tools for different jobs, of course.
  16. 77. "HE WASN'T THERE" It had been a bad one. It was Parson Belden's first response as the Fire Department's chaplain, and it was very nearly his last. The Parson's first day in Firelands saw him moving his few belongings into the Parsonage: Mrs. Parson would be along in a day or two, and with her, what little else they had; the Parson made the beds, set up the coffee maker, made sure the flusher flushed, and then -- with no particular destination in mind -- he set out on foot to look the town over. He naturally gravitated to the fire department. He opened the old wooden door beside the shiny-new, overhead bay doors, looked in, saw the blocky, solid, shining red Kenworth pumper, and grinned like a little boy, the same way he'd grinned when his department back home got a brand new Seagrave pumper (second hand, but refurbished) and he saw it for the first time. He stepped inside and called, "Hello?" -- half expecting his voice to echo like calling into a cavern. It didn't, of course: a broad-shouldered, red-headed, half-shaven man lurched around the corner, hooking his red suspenders over one shoulder, then the other: Parson Belden knew the man was half shaven, because half his face was covered with lather, the other had lather streaks, and he had a lather-dripping safety razor in his free hand. "Ye'll be th' new Parson," the big, red-headed man declared, switching the razor to the other hand before thrusting out a callused mitt that just plainly engulfed the Parson's paw: "Fitzgerald's th' name, I'm th' Chief, an' th' rest o' th' crew are gettin' breakfast on th' table, an' ye'll j'ine us." His grin was welcoming, his words were quite obviously not a question, and the Parson found himself seated at the firehouse table, and treated to fried eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh baked bread, coffee -- plenty of coffee -- as the Chief said with a knowing wink, "Th' Navy runs on coffee, an' so do I!" The Parson had to agree with the Chief: he'd sailed blue saltwater on big grey boats himself, and his own coffee pot was prominent in the spartan kitchen back in his own quarters. "So tell us about yersel'," the Chief boomed, seizing another two strips of bacon, and the Parson didn't miss how the rest of the crew pretended to pay no attention at all, while listening very closely. The Parson considered, then took a long breath, smiled a little. "You'll find out anyway, so I might as well tell you," he admitted. "I fought fire too." "Ye do declare! Whither away?" Fitzgerald grinned, seizing a slice of still-warm sourdough, accepting the butter dish as it was slid his way by an anonymous flick of equally anonymous fingers. "Wolf Plains, back East, just south of Sedalia. Little place." "Wha' engine had ye?" "Seagrave. I think she was FD Columbus before she was refurbed and sold to us." Sean's fist hit the table like a blacksmith's hammer hits hot iron, his grin broad and genuine. "See there, lads! Th' Lord has sent us a righteous man! Muldoon, do ye get his helmet!" "I, um, what?" Parson Belden almost stammered, and he caught his fork before it fell completely from suddenly-nerveless hands. "Y'see, Padre," Sean said seriously, "we've no respect f'r th' man who's no' been in th' fire wi' us. Our Chaplain died, rest his soul, an' we've no a good candidate until ye sat down wi' us here t'day." "A Chaplain has to know what we go through before we can trust him to look after our corroded souls," Muldoon added as he strode into the dining area, pulling a brand-shiny-new green helmet from its protective plastic. "Your bunker gear is hung up with the rest of ours, what size boots do you wear?" "I, um, elevens --" "Well try it on, lad, let's see how ye look in't!" Parson Belden leaned back, took the helmet, peered in: he nodded, set it down on his head, twisted it a little, pulled it free, adjusted the headband, tried again. "There," he said, satisfaction in his voice. "That's better." "Ye've got green t' mark ye th' Chaplain," Sean explained. "We'll no' ha'e a blue helmet among us. We've red an' we've white, an' ye're th' green." He frowned. "Though we'll ha'e t' ha'e yer name on yer coat!" "Why?" Parson Belden asked, trying his best to assume that Innocent Expression. "Everyone will know I'm the Chaplain, and the Chaplain is used to being called anything but late for supper!" The howler went off: men erupted from the table, abandoning breakfast and coffee and companionship, sprinting for the equipment bay: the Parson stood with them, old reflexes warming his belly, and he found himself shucking out of his suit coat and thrusting into new boots, jerking up brand-new, never-worn bunker pants -- his hands knew the work, he made fast without looking, hooked the suspenders over his shoulders, seized the brand-new yellow coat (with green reflective trim instead of the white reflective on everyone else's coats) and he pulled his helmet free, yanked the Nomex hood over his head, then clapped the helmet back into place, made fast the chin strap as he strode for the now-awake Kenworth, as the bay door chuckled open, as lights began their dizzying dance against the retreating aluminum portal. The Parson shoved himself into a rear-facing seat, seized the seat belt, thrust tongue into buckle like he intended to bust it, yanked the tag end, leaned back into the walkaway as the engine began to move under him, and his chest tightened a little, the way it always did, the way he remembered, every last time he started out of the bay on a big red noisy machine that flashed like a spotlighted stripper and screamed like a damned soul. Sheriff Willamina Keller set her booted feet grimly apart, flat on the floorboards of the department's Blazer: Barrents was driving, and of all her deputies, she trusted his driving more than anyone else's: he knew just how hard to push the long wheelbase Chevy on each individual curve, and he was running right up to the bare edge of control. The fire was at the far south end of their county and it was a bad one: a house fire with children trapped in the upstairs. Barrents knew the Sheriff was worried by the nature and duration of her conversation ... that is to say, she uttered not one single word, and that told the man she was more than just worried. Sean reached back over the doghouse, slapped the Parson on the shoulder: the man turned his head, leaned it back, and Sean shouted, "WE'RE BACKIN' UP TH' DEPARTMENT DOWN THERE!" Parson Belden nodded. "IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A BAD ONE. WE'LL NEED YE SURE AS YE'RE BORN!" The Parson nodded again, raised a Nomex-gloved hand, gave a thumbs-up: the chromed Federal Q screamed from the front bumper, making any return conversation impossible. The Parson closed his eyes, remembering other runs, other trucks, but always the same, the same: the smell of a house fire, that smoldering-wet-trash-fire smell always clung to his nostrils, overriding the odors of turnout coats and rubber tires, of Diesel exhaust and sweat, and he bowed his head and had a conversation with the Almighty, for he doubted not he would be working as a firefighter as well as their Chaplain. He flexed his hands inside the new Firecraft gloves and almost smiled. He'd never in his life worn so much brand new turnout gear. Parson Belden's hands were hard on the heavy wooden fire ladder: he was on the foot end, the leading end, he ran with the others, charging the fire structure, charging like Medieval sappers preparing to ram a secured gate with a steel-shod ram: they drove the ladder's foot hard against the ground, slammed the insides of their fireboots against the legs as strong arms thrust it up, up, until it slammed against the siding, under the smoke-pouring second-story window: the youngest of their number charged the ladder, driving his way up its rungs before it passed the vertical, running up the ladder as fast as most men can run on level ground: he dove into the window headfirst -- Parson Belden craned his head back, peering through the clean, new, unstained visor -- A scream, faint but unmistakable, the scream of a man still wearing his air mask -- The young firefighter at the window, something limp in his arms -- "CAP I FOUND ONE AND SHE'S ALIVE!" Another firefighter, most of the way up the ladder before he emerged, seized the child: kicking his boots off the rung, he slammed the inside of his dirty, scarred fireboots against the sides of the ladder (which was strictly against policy) and slid down, a fast toboggan that was done only in the direst emergency, he landed flat footed, screaming "DAAAWWWWWWKKKKKK!" T
  17. Short stroked, 3 clicks, new pic shows half cock and full cock
  18. Three Foot Johnson: Sent you a PM. Bulldog Brown
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