Once again I am forced to bring to everyone's attention that the Karachi police have combined rollerblades with automatic weapons to create the absolute worst of law enforcement ideas. I cannot stress enough that there's a reason nobody else has tried this. https://t.co/KvKhksUDzhpic.twitter.com/l8a58wFJpi
U.S.â€”An American firearms manufacturer is making waves after unveiling a brand new AR-15 that glows blue whenever libs are nearby. Constructed with ancient elven technology from the forgotten land of Gondolin, this semi-automatic rifle will pulse with an ethereal blue light whenever it detects a democrat within a 100-yard radius.
Vanderleun links a little story from Raconteur Report set in the dystopian future about the very possible fate awaiting the rioting urban leftist mobs… some fine tomorrow.
The earpiece crackled in Jakeâ€™s ear from one of the handheld radios they were each tuned to. Theyâ€™d picked up a couple of dozen surplused Motorola LE-only encrypted radios on eBay, and after a lot of work, Gene had programmed them all to use a normally unused simplex channel reserved for the authorities for tonight. All anyone else would hear was a brief bit of static with the factory encryption, but they still stuck to brevity codes.
Jake calmed himself. He knew the signs of buck fever, and he took a few moments to stretch his whole body, starting with his toes, and ending with his fingers. It wouldnâ€™t be long now, and he didnâ€™t want to be fighting adrenaline when the moment came.
The van he was in was non-descript. It was the twin of one belonging to a local business the next city over, and the plates on it would be back in the morning, with any luck at all. Inside was dark and quiet, but he could already hear the noise of the protesters as they moved down the main street, closing at the speed of a 6000-footed caterpillar, fueled by youthful exuberance, and a healthy amount of stupidity. Well, they were about to get a lot more education than what theyâ€™d gotten at U Cal, and he was happy to be a teaching assistant tonight.
He focused on the intersection, and checked over his gear one last time inside the darkened vehicle, as the sounds of yet another leftist temper tantrum grew louder by the moment.
Jim, hunkered down behind a load of cardboard boxes in a van much like Jakeâ€™s, sat at right angles to the intersection.
His weapon too was identical to Jakeâ€™s: the ubiquitous Ruger 10/22, modified for tonight.
It had a frame optimized for grown-ups, with one of those evil pistol grips that gave the state legislature hissy fits, going back to the late 1980s. Also a high-cap magazine, which torqued them out even worse. In this case, picked up out of state on a visit to relatives, and driven back across state lines into what Jim referred generally to as â€œOccupied Territoryâ€. He had several more loaded and waiting next to the stock. Also present was a heavy barrel, making the thing a tack-driver out to the limits of the relatively weak cartridge. And under the heading of â€œin for a penny, in for a poundâ€, both rifles had custom home-made suppressors screwed on at the business end. They wouldnâ€™t be truly silent, but inside a can, inside a van, a couple of hundred yards away from a herd of screaming protesters, would be as near as. Just to be on the safe side, Jim screwed an earplug into the other ear, the one without the earbud.
Jim hadnâ€™t been in the military, and he wasnâ€™t the shooter Jake, whoâ€™d been a designated marksman when he served, was. But a lot of patient practice and range time had made him plenty good enough. And using the little pop-guns tonight wouldnâ€™t tax anyoneâ€™s abilities at all. He checked the bipod legs to make sure they were securely locked. If they had failed, he had a beanbag rest for backup.
And when they returned, the barrels used tonight would come off, replaced by factory barrels again, and the heavys would go on a fishing trip, after being reamed out with a hardened bit. No evidence, no traces.
T Harry shooting driven birds at Sandringham in better times.
The Sun is happy to poke fun at Harry for giving up his guns to please his boss Meghan, but “Royal Correspondent” Matt Wilkinson, and whoever-is-his-editor, were themselves obviously neutered so long ago that they never owned any to give up.
Since it was a pair of Purdeys that were sold, they were obviously shotguns, not “handmade hunting rifles.”
The Star simply stole the same story from The Sun, and they refer to Harry selling his “handmade shooting rifle collection.”
Prince Harry has flogged his handmade hunting rifles after giving up bloodsports to please wife Meghan.
A fellow hunter bought the pair of prized Purdey firearms, thought to be worth at least Â£50,000, in a private deal.
Harry learnt to shoot as a child and once killed a one-ton buffalo.
But Meghan is opposed to hunting and pals hinted the Duke of Sussex would give up to appease her.
Harry, 35, was also absent from the recent shoots at Balmoral and Sandringham. He sold his two British-made guns five months ago â€” before he and Meghan, 38, quit the UK for a new life in North America.
A friend of the anonymous buyer said: â€œHe bought them because he wanted them, not because they belonged to Harry, but he was quite chuffed when he found out. They are beautiful examples and heâ€™s very pleased with them but heâ€™s not the sort of yperson who wants to boast about the royal connection.â€
Last week conservationist Dr Jane Goodall said she expected Harry to turn his back on bloodsports.
I was reading the latest American Rifleman and came upon, forsooth! an entire article on the advanced and technical subject of putting your pistol back in its holster safely.
Representative of the earlier America that I am, my chin dropped, my eyes blinked, my mind boggled. I thought back to the Field & Stream magazines of my youth, and exercise my imagination as I might, I simply could not imagine H.G. Tapply, Ted Trueblood, or gun editor Warren Page feeling it useful or appropriate to undertake to instruct readers on just how to insert a gun into a holster.
But, as I sat there, reflecting mournfully on der Untergang des Abendlandes, it occurred to me that there actually is a justification for such an article, and that justification is The Glock.
Glock Leg is an actual well-known term that has made dictionaries of slang and popular phrase.
My own opinion is that there are a lot of idiots these days publishing opinions on guns and self defense who have accepted the highly dubious proposition that a semiautomatic pistol with a long trigger pull is really the same thing as a revolver and does not need a safety. These dingbats also commonly assert there is this profound hazard that, in the heat of the moment, in a situation where the shooter is under pressure, he is liable to forget to flick off the safety with his thumb when the need arises to fire.
I’d say they are nuts. Are any of these guys hunters? I’ve hunted grouse and other small game since I was in the last years of elementary school, and I have never in my life had any problem moving the shotgun safety with my thumb before pulling the trigger. And I will contend happily that when Old Ruff explodes unexpectedly from under your feet or from directly behind you, you are often startled, surprised, and trying to cope with the situation with all possible haste. An encounter with human adversaries is far more likely to take place over an interval of time providing plenty of opportunity to plan ahead, make ready, and even to contemplate one’s options.
It’s not easy to explain exactly why, but I do think revolvers and semiautomatic pistols are fundamentally different. I have no yearning for a safety on my revolver, like some of the strange continental European handguns sometimes had. But the very idea of carrying around an automatic pistol with no safety and round in the chamber just gives me the heebie jeebies. It strikes me as equivalent to climbing over a fence while hunting, carrying a loaded shotgun with the safety off.
If it were up to me, gun makers trying to sell Glocks and all the other safety-less polymer guns (and, yes, in my book, a trigger safety is the same as no safety) would be going out of business due to a lack of sales.
I once fired a Glock, when I had to take a Gun Safety Course (despite being a gun owner and hunter for decades and decades) in order to get a CT gun permit. I found the Glock easy to shoot accurately. They are good at soaking up recoil. But… Glocks are ugly. And a key reason they are so popular is that they are cheap. Gaston Glock was obviously clever in a number of ways, but he was also clearly coming from somewhere very far from the traditions, ergonomics, and habits of use of American gunners.
If there were no Glocks, nobody would need articles advising them on how not to shoot themselves on the leg putting their gun back in the holster.
As I get older, I find the list of fashionable things connected with guns that I detest gets longer and longer. One of these days, I intend to share my detestation of the Picatinny Rail.
RIA will be offering some pretty serious historic collectable firearms at its Premier Auction, May 22-24, 2020: Pretty Boy Floyd’s 1911 Government Model .45 ACP Colt, Al Capone’s Model 1908 Colt .380 Automatic Pocket Pistol, and (!) a Colt Thompson Model 1921 Submachine Gun with provenance from the Dayton, Ohio Police Department describing it as “confiscated from a bank robber,” with some possible connection to John Dillinger.
But it strikes a chord. When I was a little kid, pre-school, I was allowed to adopt as a toy a huge old Damascus 10 gauge double-barreled shotgun. Only one hammer worked. My parents knew perfectly well that I had no way of getting any 10 gauge ammunition, and the gun was a junker that would probably have blown up if anybody actually tried firing it. My neighborhood gang and I treated it in our games as a cannon and we’d wheel it around on a flexible flyer wagon. We eventually played that old junker into pieces.