mugwump
04-29-2006, 14:44
[Team Sergeant, do not ban me. No USPs were injured in the production of this story - at least I hope not. I have nothing against H&K, H&K hats, .40 USPs, .45 USPs, or squeaky boots. In fact a full size .45 USP (not tactical) will be my next pistol.]
I don't have any really good stories but I'll start this one in the traditional manner anyway: So there I was...
My godson is on block leave and he came in for a visit last week. What a great kid -- hard as woodpecker lips, sharp as a tack, and everyone instantly likes him: men, women, kids, dogs. Anyway, we are the only ones at just about the only pistol range left in N. Illinois playing "spinner for dinner" which is sort of a combination of musical chairs, poker, weak-hand Mozambique drills and FTF drills with snap caps. Whoever loses pays for dinner. Due to a brilliant psych-out move on my part, the godson has one round in the 8 zone and I'm up.
In walks another shooter, so CRAP! that ends the game -- house rules per the range boss. The guy looks like Diamondback Tactical barfed all over him -- 5.11 shirt/pants, some kind of molle tactical range bag festooned with pouches and patches, really squeaky tan high-speed boots of some kind, and a H&K ball cap. He sneers at my red Converse All-Stars ("Like Cadillacs on Yo' Feet!") and my pinkish "Girls Soccer Association" good luck hat. That hat was pivotal to a first place finish when my daughter was 8 I'll have you know and, as my godson says, it takes a brave man to wear a hat like that. Smart kid.
Anyway, we continue to load each other's mags with random snap caps and crank out 2-1 drills from various angles. I hit three snap caps in a row and I'm frantically slap-rack-click'ing my way through the mag and muttering about my hat when someone lays a hand on my shoulder. Now, I've finally got a live round in my 229 and I'm so startled I jerk it off the paper.
I drop the hammer, set the gun down, turn around and find Mr. HSLD, who proceeds to tell me the reason I'm having "so much trouble with my gun" is because I'm limp wristing it! Or maybe it's my Sig, they are notorious for having problems like that. I should get a USP .40 like him. Also, I'm not squaring up to the target. He's willing to give me some instruction if I'd like. Now I may be wearing a pink hat, but I'm 6'4" and 230 and my wrists are plenty stiff enough, thank you very much. He must not have noticed us rooting around for snap caps, or that there were two ragged holes in the COM and head of the target I was using.
After politely telling him I'll continue to muddle through on my own, Mr. HSLD decides to change positions from the end of the line to right next to me. He starts banging away at his target with little effect. WTF? Is he keeping an eye on me? Has the pink hat given him the impression I'm batting for the other team? Anywho, I take my hat off just in case and continue to load up a mag for my GS. I need another snap cap and I start kicking brass around on the floor, when I spy something weird. Then another one falls and spins in front of me. Picking it up I see...
5988
OMG! Mr. HSLD is firing .40 S&W in a .45 USP!!! I pick up a few cases, give the godson the high sign and we both mosey on out to the front desk. The range manager looks at the hulls, hits the roof, flicks the lights, and yells "CEASE FIRE" via a speaker system I never knew they had. We busy ourselves looking at targets and the toes of our shoes and such while he goes in to drag the idjit out. They come out, we go in to pack up, and when the range boss is trigger-locking our pistols (don't ask, Illinois) HSLD is whining that "operators do it all the time, it causes massive tumbling." ISYN.
That's it. That's my idiot at the range story. I paid for dinner -- Steak and Shake. And, my hat ended up in the godson's range bag, I swear by mistake. So now I don't have my lucky hat and he says it was a Freudian move -- I was threatened by Mr. HSLD moving positions and I'm not secure in my sexual orientation. Punk kid.
I don't have any really good stories but I'll start this one in the traditional manner anyway: So there I was...
My godson is on block leave and he came in for a visit last week. What a great kid -- hard as woodpecker lips, sharp as a tack, and everyone instantly likes him: men, women, kids, dogs. Anyway, we are the only ones at just about the only pistol range left in N. Illinois playing "spinner for dinner" which is sort of a combination of musical chairs, poker, weak-hand Mozambique drills and FTF drills with snap caps. Whoever loses pays for dinner. Due to a brilliant psych-out move on my part, the godson has one round in the 8 zone and I'm up.
In walks another shooter, so CRAP! that ends the game -- house rules per the range boss. The guy looks like Diamondback Tactical barfed all over him -- 5.11 shirt/pants, some kind of molle tactical range bag festooned with pouches and patches, really squeaky tan high-speed boots of some kind, and a H&K ball cap. He sneers at my red Converse All-Stars ("Like Cadillacs on Yo' Feet!") and my pinkish "Girls Soccer Association" good luck hat. That hat was pivotal to a first place finish when my daughter was 8 I'll have you know and, as my godson says, it takes a brave man to wear a hat like that. Smart kid.
Anyway, we continue to load each other's mags with random snap caps and crank out 2-1 drills from various angles. I hit three snap caps in a row and I'm frantically slap-rack-click'ing my way through the mag and muttering about my hat when someone lays a hand on my shoulder. Now, I've finally got a live round in my 229 and I'm so startled I jerk it off the paper.
I drop the hammer, set the gun down, turn around and find Mr. HSLD, who proceeds to tell me the reason I'm having "so much trouble with my gun" is because I'm limp wristing it! Or maybe it's my Sig, they are notorious for having problems like that. I should get a USP .40 like him. Also, I'm not squaring up to the target. He's willing to give me some instruction if I'd like. Now I may be wearing a pink hat, but I'm 6'4" and 230 and my wrists are plenty stiff enough, thank you very much. He must not have noticed us rooting around for snap caps, or that there were two ragged holes in the COM and head of the target I was using.
After politely telling him I'll continue to muddle through on my own, Mr. HSLD decides to change positions from the end of the line to right next to me. He starts banging away at his target with little effect. WTF? Is he keeping an eye on me? Has the pink hat given him the impression I'm batting for the other team? Anywho, I take my hat off just in case and continue to load up a mag for my GS. I need another snap cap and I start kicking brass around on the floor, when I spy something weird. Then another one falls and spins in front of me. Picking it up I see...
5988
OMG! Mr. HSLD is firing .40 S&W in a .45 USP!!! I pick up a few cases, give the godson the high sign and we both mosey on out to the front desk. The range manager looks at the hulls, hits the roof, flicks the lights, and yells "CEASE FIRE" via a speaker system I never knew they had. We busy ourselves looking at targets and the toes of our shoes and such while he goes in to drag the idjit out. They come out, we go in to pack up, and when the range boss is trigger-locking our pistols (don't ask, Illinois) HSLD is whining that "operators do it all the time, it causes massive tumbling." ISYN.
That's it. That's my idiot at the range story. I paid for dinner -- Steak and Shake. And, my hat ended up in the godson's range bag, I swear by mistake. So now I don't have my lucky hat and he says it was a Freudian move -- I was threatened by Mr. HSLD moving positions and I'm not secure in my sexual orientation. Punk kid.