Weapons Wednesday - Winchester's Perfect Repeater

The sound of someone racking a 12 gauge pump gun is enough to end a fight before it starts. And if it isn't, your first round in the tube should be birdshot. That way you only wound the bad guy. Oh, you shouldn't have any concerns about short stroking a pump gun under stress. They are 100% reliable. And it doesn't matter, as long as you touch off that one first round. Because you don't have to aim a shotgun.

Did I miss anything? Any other pearls of gun counter wisdom concerning the pump gun?

Yeah, a lot of bullshit gets thrown around about the pump action shotgun. There is quite a debate about whether or not the shotgun is dead for CQB. I will say that even if the shotgun is being eclipsed by the 11.5 inch Mk18 style carbine for CQB, it's still most handy for breaching. And also, it is most handy when JAG/ROE mandates a number of less lethal options. But that is all about the tactical application of the venerable pump action 12 gauge shotgun. I want to talk about the shotgun,as imagine by John Browning and T.C. Johnson.

So, after Uncle Gaylon's funeral, I stopped by the hometown pawn and gun. And there on the rack was a nearly mint condition Model 12, 1963 production. 12 gauge, modified choke. The bluing was good. The wood was good. I had to have it.

I've always wanted a Model 12. I've never been able to find one that wasn't bastardized by some shade tree gunsmith or wasn't either a Skeet or Heavy Duck in tip top shape with corresponding price tag. I nearly bought a beat to hell Model 25 before my Old Man talked me out of it.

The Model 12 was billed as the world's perfect repeater. And man, they weren't lying. You can throw that slide pretty damn quick.

As a kid, I read all the WEB Griffin books I could get my hands on. In "The Corps" series, an old Marine general mentions that he's always squared when he goes trap shooting. Because he shoots his Model 12 far better than the Fox A Grade his wife bought him.

After my intial try at five stand with said gun, I can see why. When my good friend Pudge gets back from the Sandbox, I can't wait to take it wing shooting in Kansas.

Blue steel and Walnut. Doesn't get any better.

I just can't get over how good the gun looks for being 55 years old. It looks really good haning on the wall, too.

Bluing is real good.

It's in a running with my old Ithaca 37 for favorite pump gun.

Don't see that roll mark anymore 

Cost was a major factor in the discontinuation of the gun in 1964. As an aside, 1964 ranks right up there with 1934 and 1986 as like the worst year for the American gun owner. A slew of poor imitations followed from New Haven. The 120 and the 1200. The 120 was utter garbage. The 1200 wasn't terrible; but, nowhere near as good. At all.

Tinkering Tuesday - Shooting the Snubby

So, my good friend Dennis is an ace handy man. He cured my basket case 642 in a matter of minutes. And only charged me a coffee can full of 6.8 SPC brass. It's good to have friends.

Gun leather and good reading 

So, with the previous sad new gun day being erased, it was off to the ranger, or rather the back chunk of Dennis's property. I opined on Facebook that shooting a J-Frame in front of people is most humbling.

The gun is a handful, even with powder puff cowboy action .38 loads. It's teeny sights are almost useless. And it is less than fun with 125 grn JHP +P loads.

That being said, shooting off a sandbag, the gun can ding steel at 50 feet. Which is pretty damn good for a belly gun. The trigger isn't bad at all. Better than my well used LCP. That's a benefit of buying a basket case 642-1. No internal lock. It's actually a dandy little gun.

Little being the key word; especially when compared to full size SA/DA guns

Fun was had. Ammo was shot. I, or rather, Dennis, found a load that the thus far under whelming Uzi Eagle likes. Probably gonna talk about that next week.

All that being, don't look for a 2000 round count on my little stubby. I think the 115 rounds we ran through it were probably the most it had scene since it left Massachusetts.

Tune in tomorrow for a special cruffler edition of Weapons Wednesday. Thanks for stopping buy.

Sunday Stories - Police Issue

Before we hit today's Sunday Story, actually posted on a Sunday, all my former and current and military readers may want go read this. I have made words else where on the Internet.

Now, today's Sunday story actually occurred yesterday. And it's a twofer.

So, being a pawn shop, we buy and sell guns. And buying guns is actually probably my favorite part of the job. Cool guns come in often enough to make it worth while. And once in awhile, you actually help somebody. Like the time we sent a sweet old widow to crazy old surplus dude on the square because her Air Corps marked -1911 was worth hella more there than in our shop.

And then you get the guy who just knows his Glock is super duper collectible and valuable and you should give him more than MAP for it.

An older gentleman came in with a blue label Glock box. Inside said box was a Gen 4 G23. In very much like new condition. Thus marking this gentleman as a specimen of the gun culture I like to call Boomer McFlipper. To your average Boomer McFlipper, whom is generally an older white guy, the business of buying and selling firearms is something one does to make some money on the side. Without an FFL. Gun Control Act of 1968? Oh you mean when they banned them no count Saturday Night Specials the blacks would buy?

Yeah, Boomer McFlipper is a fucktard.

But anywho, this fella was convinced that since he had a blue label box, it was police issue. And therefor collectible. He was incensed when one of my cohorts made him an offer way short of his $400 ask.

I displayed a rare case of good judgment and didn't show him one of the four Atlanta trade in Glock 22s marked at $399 in the used case.

People these days.

Oh, and speaking of people these days, there is another specimen of the gun culture I've run across. The older guy, who while not quite a baby boomer, seems to remember somehow the days of $35 dollar Winchester Model 94s at the hardware store.

Well, you see Cletus, there is thing called inflation. So even if Winchester still existed as an actual gun making entity, you'd bitch about the cost of that Model 94. And further more, you want to know why the major American gun makers are struggling?

It's because idiots like you only bought lowest common denominator Remington 783, Savage Axis, or Howa import gun and the occassional AR-15 after some fuckhead decided he wanted to head the CNN score board.

So, that's why a new production Henry Big Boy hits the shelf at $869.95.

Work in the firearms industry they said. There would be free guns and hot chicks. And beer. Well, I certainly do drink a lot of beer.

Sunday Stories - Sporting Clays

Hi all. Sorry for the radio silence. Work is picking up which is good. Football season is picking up; which isn't good for my liver. Household Six has been out of town for work so I've been tempted to loaf on the sofa and watch Forgotten Weapons all the time.

But, this past Sunday I engaged in the gentlemanly pursuit of killing a little orange piece of recycled asphalt with an expensive shotguns.

A couple of my buddies from when I wore the Boy Scout khaki went. Fun was had. Money was turned into noise. Some clays were hit. Most were not.

Working on my pitcher taking

Mick isn't a shooter. But the whole ride home he talked about what gun he should buy. This is how we win the culture war. We make shooting fun. We make it a social outing. We stay away from fear.

He didn't even bitch about cleaning

Busting clays in like upscale redneck golf. But it is a most pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Sunday Stories - Minority Rights

Gander Mountain #309

It was late on Friday evening. About an hour or so before close. I was bored. And not day dreaming about hunting in Africa or slaughtering doves in Argentina bored, but the kind of bored only retail workers and military folks understand. The mind numbing, every make work task has been done twice, email and Facebook checked, oh dear, the clock hasn't moved in the last three hours kind of bored.

Might be a reason why the mountain of geese went out of business; but, that's neither here nor there.

An older gentleman walked in. Well dressed and highly agitated. A younger woman was with him. A faint family resemblance. The young woman was scared.

The kind of scared you recognize when you work with kids. The scared of someone who gets beat up on by someone bigger and stronger than them. the kind of scared where they measure their words before speaking so as not to get hit again.

And let me restate my point again, the older gentleman with her was mad. I mean livid.

He wanted his daughter to have a pistol yesterday. A good one, with a big mag, and good sights.

And he had an Alabama driver's license. So I got to feel with wraith a little bit, too.

Thankfully his daughter's NICS check was actually instant.

And she left with a then new Glock 19 Gen 4. A couple boxes of cheap ammo, her Father not caring about the terminal effect of hollow points despite my earnest pleads.

But that being said, she left somewhat armed, at least with the tools. I did my due diligence and tried to recommend a couple of local training classes. And this was after a solid twenty minute across the counter lecture on the bullet points of self defense. Front sight. Front sight. Front sight.

I was deeply unsettled by that transaction. I made a point to follow the news for the next couple of days.

Nothing ever popped up nor did she ever come back.

But in that instant, the old cliche of "God made man; Colonel Colt made them equal" played true. Well, Gaston in this case, but you get the point.

The smallest minority is the individual. And an individual that can protect themselves from a larger, stronger predator has a voice. And a vote.

My politics are all over the place. I'm a Libertarian Dixiecrat Nationalist. Who is hawkish on National Defense.

But the I am a 2nd Amendment absolutist. The right to own arms is the right to be free.

Tactical Tuesday - A Battle Remembered

25 years ago tomorrow, the United States military fought a battle that was small in scope, but vicious in it's intensity. The worst small unit infantry boots on the ground door kicking fight we had faced since Vietnam. And would be the worst we saw until the Marines went back into Fallujah in 2004.

A mission of relief had suffered  from mission creep and became another failed attempt at nation building.

The thing about it, while 18 American and one UN Trooper died, the mission was a tactical success. A nasty warlord lost several of his top lieutenants. We killed anywhere from 200 to 2,000 hostiles. Hostiles that were in a small part trained by Al-Queda.

Courage reigned supreme that day. Two Delta guys made the ultimate sacrifice to save a downed pilot. A feat of military arms that, in my belief, propelled a generation of kids to try and emulate once they donned the uniform.

Speaking of uniforms, there is a little 2.99 tab that you pick up at the PX. You wear it above most tabs and below a couple of others. In some ways it's required if you're an Infantry guy. In other ways, it's a holdover of the Army's frontier past. Rangers Lead the Way. Be it againt the Indians, going up some well defended cliffs, liberating a group of POWs, or going way deep into indian country to gather intel, they all wore the same tab. Well, for the most part. It was a diamond in WWII.

In my foot locker, under some field gear and dirty ACUs that no longer fit, there is a dirty, ragged, dog eared pamphlet. A small hand book that talks of things such as how to set up a patrol base and battle drills. But the first couple of pages are the most important. One is a simple creed to live by. And the other is almost a warning to all whom would dear follow in the steps of Rogers, Darby, Lomell, Puckett, Othic, and Tillman:
"Not for the week or faint hearted"

Tomorrow, I'll probably drink a beer (or eight) and watch "Black Hawk Down".

A group of America's best went up against some of the world's worst and did so only to help feed the hungry.

And in the process held a fucking city with a a short rifle company and light air cover for a day and half against overwhelming odds until the objective was completed and all casualties that could be recovered were.

And Clinton turned chicken not long after. Because of course he did.

And a while later, that bastard warlord was murdered in his apartment. MG Garrison retired the next day.

Sua Sponte.