All Activity

Double cocking just makes me think too much on sweeps.

You mean, "man of substance?"

I agree. I've always thought of Chief Wiggum as a well-rounded man.

That's a great gun for a great price.

Yeah I've been trying to figure that one out. I think it is either Life is unfair because his big floppy boobies are out where everyone can see them while hers are covered up Or Life is unfair because a guy that looks like that has got a good looking girl Pretty sure it's one or the other Just thought of another one She's thinking life is unfair because his are bigger than hers

We do years end points as to how you placed overall after each match. Men's and Men's Sr Women's and Womens Sr Buckaroo Winner of each gets a nice Molly's custom buckle. If you win one year, then you are not eligible the next. You have to sit it out a year. Then we also have a nice clean match buckle. Every time you shoot a clean match. You have your name added to it. The more times you shoot clean. The more chances you have for a drawing for the buckle at the end of the year.

Some new information that contradicts at least some of what has been previously reported: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2024/mar/01/rust-movie-shooting-assistant-director-armorer As for Baldwin, I suspect that there will be no plea deal. If there was going to be a plea deal, it probably would have been offered by now. So either the prosecution feels they have a very good case or if a plea deal was offered Baldwin rejected it.

It was explained, and shown to me years ago. When you pull the hammer back with your thumb, and hold it, the cylinder slightly over rotates, thus potentially throwing the alignment off the firing pin and primer enough to get light/no hits on the primer. If I recall, it was explained/shown to me by some fast draw shooters at Winter Range on why their guns get setup such a way.

There's this movie. Made in America. This pilot gets recruited by the CIA to take pictures of suspected Russian sites in South America. While he's down there he gets recruited by the Colombians to smuggle cocaine into America. He is originally from Louisiana, but the CIA relocates him to some itty bitty town in Arkansas. And because of the drug smuggling he is making bunches and bunches of money. There are three banks in the town - there was originally only one but because of all the money he kept needing to store they built two more - and he's got $10 million dollars in One bank and 15 million in another bank and 13 million and a third bank, and he's got 20 million in a bank in Miami, and he was burying duffel bags full of money in the backyard. He had Samsonite suitcases full of money stuck in the hanger. And he kept doing it. He probably had 150 million in cash, and he kept running the drugs. You hear about these big drug dealers from Mexico and Colombia, and they're sending all these drugs up here to America and they're making all these millions of dollars. And their main problem is where to put the money. And I figure if I had 150 million, I would quit. If I can't find any place to hide my money, why would I keep making money? So if you were making vast quantities of money, could you quit? It would not have to be illegal either. I read one time where Eddie Murphy was paid $30 million dollars to make this one movie. 30 million dollars. I wouldn't make any more movies after that. I'm pretty sure I can live quite well on 30 million dollars for the rest of my life.

It took many entries of it to end up in my auto correct dictionary(?). One problem with Apple’s word library is misspelled words end up there as well and can be a real nuisance. Take the word “and”. Often I will type what I think is “and” but what I actually typed was “snd” and “snd” became an auto correct Go-To for my phone. It took a long time for that not to be the case.

Mostly shoot double duelist now. But shot GFer for many years. I would double cock coming out of the holsters. Then alternate for the rest of the string.

I thought “well rounded” was just a polite way of saying “portly”.

Baldwin will never go to trial!! His case will be plea-bargained and he will walk with less of a slap on the wrist than Hall received!! Reed is the scapegoat in all of this and she will bear the brunt of the charges!

And, don’t forget to remove and clean under the handy dandy new extractors! The carbon build up gets under it and, over time, lifts the extractor and it can’t engage the fired case. I have a handy dandy gadget for such. Glad you’re back in business. You remind me that I need to add one to my travel kit. Glad you came to SC. Hugs! Scarlett

Use LEDs!

Shindig

I was in Norfolk, Virginia a year or two ago eating lunch after touring the USS Wisconsin. My Daddy served on her. Anyway, get a text from FedEx that 120# of smokeless powder had been delivered and signed for by E. Tipton (me). I live smack in the middle of the city less than a block from the Courthouse and I’m several hours away - there’s two huge packages labeled EXPLOSIVE/HAZARDOUS on my stoop. I was furious. Called ShootersWorld, they RAISED all kinds of hell with FedEx. Powder was there when I got home. During Covid, drivers were allowed to sign. If it says signature required, it better be MY signature. If driver has permission to sign and something happens to package? No recourse. FWIW, I get to know my drivers, thank them, compliment them to their supervisors, and tip them generously at Christmas. Hugs! Scarlett

I do the exact same thing as @Badlands Bob #61228 Exactly. Though he does it quicker than I and probably more efficiently. My brain can NOT alternate. I “generally” shoot odd shots Left and even shots Right but double cocking works with my brain and allows me to change leads without crossing over or really thinking about it. I agree with Bob, too, on split pistols with a gun in between. Without, I move with the guns - why? Because I’m a GUNFIGHTER! Frontier Cartridge Gunfighter! Big hugs! Scarlett

THE MOTHER’S WISH The human body is an amazing machine. It can do incredibly fine work, unbelievably precise work: in motion, dance can enchant the eye; in seduction, it can enchant and beguile the hardest of hearts; at labor, fantastic edifices can be constructed, swift races run, watery depths plumbed. The running of a race, however, can be negatively impacted by a hard-swung wine-bottle, delivered precisely across the bridge of the nose, and when the impact of a wine-bottle serves to redirect the runner into a door-frame, one might consider the race to be both lost, and over, especially when the runner’s fore-head bounces off the steel door-frame briskly enough to cause the front of the store to vibrate, and the runner to fall to the tile floor, unconscious. A father knelt between two parked cars, held his shivering son. “You’re safe now,” the father whispered, his arms strong, reassuring: the boy nodded, swallowed. “There are cameras inside. We’ll get the recordings.” The eleven-year-old boy nodded. “Where’s your sister?” “She’s with Mama.” A pale eyed man raised his phone tapped the screen, spoke. “Shelly? Heads up. Someone just tried to snatch Michael.” Lean young men in Confederate grey consulted scanners, spoke quietly into their comm-links. “I’ve got three vehicles at idle.” Pause. “All three tagged with trackers. One is a cargo van, suspicious.” “Seize it.” Outside, a windowless green van disappeared. “Sir?” “Yes, Michael?” “I don’t want Mama to dress me anymore.” “She does like to do that, doesn’t she?” “Yes, sir.” Michael paused, chewed on his bottom lip. “Sir, honor my father and mother, but if she wants me to wear shorts and sneakers again, I’m going to tell her no, but I’ll need your help.” “I’ll speak to her.” “Thank you, sir.” The jurisdictional law enforcement accompanied the bleeding, bell-rung, would-be kidnapper to the hospital, and just before the ambulance carrying said soul arrived, a dozen lean young men in black suits filed in through the ambulance doors and quietly informed the charge nurse that a wanted felon was being brought in, and that security would be maintained. It was clearly not a request. When the ambulance cot was brought in, young men in black suits fell in behind, followed it to the treatment room, and quietly informed both physician, nurses and hospital security, that the hospital’s authority was now overridden. The appearance of short, black, businesslike shotguns – and a quiet word to the patient, whose screaming protestations earned him a hard-driven gun butt to the belly – confirmed his suspicions that he’d made a very, absolutely, extremely poor, victim selection. “Sir,” Michael said, “when I was grabbed, I responded as I have been trained.” Linn nodded. “He grabbed me from behind.” “Go on.” “He got his hand around my mouth and neck.” Linn nodded again. “I bit him, hard, I stomped the arch of his foot and I pulled two knives.” Michael saw the gleam of approval in his father’s pale eyes. “Icepick grip right, I stabbed his leg behind me. Upright blade left, up into his gut. I hit his leg again and second stab went into his arm. He let go and I ran.” “There is honor in running,” Linn said seriously. “Running saved his life.” “I ran to the front of the store, sir. I knew you were outside and about to come in.” “I knew something was wrong, Michael. I saw that Jack Doe running after you, and I beerbottled him across the face.” Linn smiled, just a little. “Well, winebottled.” “Yes, sir.” “He hit the doorframe and cold cocked himself. Remind me to get my cuffs back from the jurisdictional.” “Yes, sir.” Linn consulted his phone. “Your mother and sister are picked up, they’re safe.” “Thank you, sir.” “Your thoughts.” “Sir, I don’t like wearing sneakers, the heel is too soft. If I’d been wearing my boots I might have broken his arch when I stomped him.” Linn nodded. “I agree, Michael. I will see to it.” Linn came into the firehouse through the back door. If he came in the front door, he strode boldly in, called cheerfully to whoever was in sight, happily profaned the Chief and shook hands all around. If he was here for a quiet word with his wife, he came in the back door. The Sheriff came in the back door. He and Shelly withdrew to the far side of the squad, sat on a waxed, polished, slick-varnished bench under a row of cupboards marked SQUAD SUPPLIES. “The Jack Doe that tried to snatch Michael.” Shelly shifted uncomfortably. “He’s dead.” She blinked, surprised. “He tried to escape his hospital room. He grabbed a nurse as a hostage, snatched the pen from her hand, put it to the nurse’s neck and was shot for his troubles.” “I see.” “Michael’s testimony will not be required.” Shelly nodded. “It seems that a suspicious van was found. It contained items and materials that are associated with kidnap and human trafficking.” Shelly paled a few degrees. “The testimony of the van’s occupants was also damning. The Jurisdictional passed all this along to the Federal boys.” “And Michael?” “He’s using this as a training aid.” Shelly hung her head, a defeated look on her face. “All I wanted was a normal family,” she whispered. Linn put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, hugged her into him. “Here’s a Marine Corps white paper for you, darlin’,” he murmured. “Nobody has a normal family.” He smiled gently. “Nobody. Every family is screwed up, every family is dysfunctional, every family is a hot mess, and there are no exceptions to the rule.” He kissed the corner of her forehead. “All we can do is the best we can. You’re doing that.” “Am I?” Linn slid a little away from her, took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him, his face serious. “Mrs. Keller,” he said, and his voice was the one he used when he brooked no disagreement, “our daughters are Ladies, because of what they see in you. Marnie gave me hell because I set the bar so damned high for what to look for in a husband, because of the way I treat, you. Do you know why you wanted Michael to wear shorts and sneakers the day he was grabbed?” Shelly looked at him with vulnerable eyes: her wlls were shattered, he shields destroyed, and Linn knew that he had to choose his words carefully, for a woman’s heart is easily bruised. “Darlin’, you wanted him to be a Normal Little Boy. You wanted him to feel safe and you wanted him to be comfortable.” Linn’s voice was lower now: he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “You, did, nothing, wrong!” He drew his wife into him, held her, sighed. “Darlin’, do you know he’s alive because of you?” Shelly shook her head, leaned into her husband, laid her head over on his shoulder. “Shelly, he’s watched you bust your ever-lovin’ butt on a squad run. He’s seen you run a code, he’s seen you attack a wrecked car like a personal enemy so you could wiggle in like Sneaky Snake to get to the wounded. He’s seen you don’t have any give-up a’tall, and that’s what he called on when he needed that strength.” Shelly lifted her head, looked at her husband with big, luminous eyes as he caressed her cheek with a bent forefinger. “Mrs. Keller,” he whispered, “you are a fine and shining example of what a wife and mother should be.” He felt his wife flinch as the howler went off. “Firelands Emergency Squad, car-bicycle accident, main and fourth, time out one-twenty-one.” Shelly snatched up her short-tailed helmet, dunked it on her head and pulled the chin strap tight. “Showtime!” Linn stood back, stayed the hell out of the way as the squad was unplugged, as his wife and her father jumped in, as the door chuckled up, as Firelands Squad One rolled on an accident call. Fitz came strolling over as the bay door came shivering down, walking with the rolling gait of a salt water sailor. “Now there,” he said softly, looking at the closing door, “is a wife to be proud of.” Linn rested his hand on his old friend’s shoulder, nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, she is.”