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Cylindrical solutions and the ageless gap

In my late teens I narrowly avoided an assault while out on a solo hike. Being armed on that quiet sun lit day, changed those circumstances .



Shooting Illustrated how-a-black-powder-revolver-saved-my-life
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The Fifty dollar Colt

I'd never realized how thick the curtain was that separated the cockpit from the passenger area on the Dassault Falcon. When the pilot pulled it back to go use the head, the early morning sun seared my eyes till light was the only thing you could see. Had Jesus suddenly appeared inside the airplane I wouldn't have been surprised. So bright the light of the morning sun. The curtain closed and the darkness once more enveloped us.
Trying to settle back to sleep was no use, the raw sunlight had proved to be the ultimate alarm clock, albeit after being awake since Friday and, it now Sunday morning, it was the most unwelcome of all alarm clocks. Checking my chronograph, it was in the 7:30s. Trying to calculate when we had left Las Vegas I had us somewhere over Colorado, or possibly Kansas.
I looked around the darkened interior of the private jet and could make the outline of my Principal on one couch, his executive assistant on the other. I fished around for my Surefire 6P flashlig…

PAIN!

Our conversation had started with me asking “So who shot you in the throat?”, a basic conclusion on my part, because on one side of his throat he had a very small round scar, on the other side, a jagged dime sized scar, accompanied by a damaged voice. It had the hall marks of a twenty-two caliber wound and this had peaked my interest. He was an ex-convict and career criminal, who had spent part of that career as a car jacker in the late 1980s and 1990s. He had a rather successful run (according to him) until he went from car-jacker to attempted to car-jacker. As we sat and talked in his now paroled and work released based probation he explained the scenario that led to his down fall.
"I'm 6'2", and I had a big old revolver that took .44s. You look down that barrel and you think, 'take what you want, please don't kill me with that thing. But not this one guy. I stuck the gun in his face yelling for him to get out of the car, and as he is sliding out I hear the …

Mexican Confessions

We were waiting for the kidnappers to call.
They called everyday at 3pm, on the dot and it was day four into it for me. The old man was a vaquero, the real deal, who owned several rancheros down in Mexico. Most of them small plots of land, ten to fifty acres with one or two going up to a couple of hundred. For all intents and purposes, a middle class man leading a middle class life. I hated that we had met under such bad circumstances.
His son had been kidnapped by Mexican gang bangers not exactly the cartel types but, no less violent, no less dangerous. They had kidnapped him while he was visiting family for the Christmas holiday but, instead of his son coming home from the trip he received a ransom note demanding of $200,000. He had paid them $5,000 here, ten thousand there but, it was nowhere what they had wanted. Finally, a cousin of the old man had reached out to me and there I sat waiting for the phone to ring.

Negotiations had now started in earnest and, it was going better t…

Like the Last Time

If you have not heard of Sunday At Noon, now you no longer have to live in the dark.

Make America Rock again

The Barranti Life Changer

June 25th, 2017

Writing, I have learned, is a funny business. When in the full throes of it and, doing so consistently you don't want to stop. At the same time you have this nagging bit in you secretly fearing that someday you will run out of things to say.

For me at least for me, writing can be a bit of a task master, requiring me to do it constantly in order to feel like I am any good at it. Step away too long and, it can feel as though you have moved out of a country whose language you once spoke fluently.

One must understand that these words are in effect and apology of sorts to Mike Barranti of Barranti Leather, the famed holster maker. As I sit and, write this, it is a beautiful Sunday morning, the last one of this particular June and, we are tent camped at the foot of the Sawtooth Mountains, along the Wood River, just North of Ketchum, Idaho. The Wife, the Kid and I. My pen scrawling it's way across the notebook that sits on a well worn wooden table top. My Ruger conver…