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Most of you know I accidentally (ok, negligently) shot myself straight through two large bones in my ankle last October, a full ten months ago, with one of my 9mm handguns. Apparently, I will forever have to live with that story. As proof, I offer the following.
I recently purchased a beautiful addition to my collectible firearms, a Smith and Wesson Model 64 no-dash .38 Special stainless steel revolver that was produced between 1970-1972 but had likely never been fired and was in exquisitely pristine condition. The following happened when I went to Cascade Firearms, the small local gun store in Vancouver I frequent, to pick it up after my background check came back clean.
I walked into the gun store and proceeded to the counter. It's a small place that is often frequented by some older guys (ok, my age) who come in to just chat with the owner, a really nice guy I've traded with for years. There were two of them sitting at the counter talking with him when I walked up.
I told him I'd received a call saying my gun was ready to pick up. He found the background check paperwork, retrieved the revolver, and gave me the final transfer form I had to fill out.
As I was starting to fill out the paperwork, the owner asked casually, "Hey man, how's your foot?" At which point, both of the old guys at the counter pivoted toward me, pointed their fingers at me, and in unison loudly asked "So he's the guy?!"
Yep. My reputation does indeed precede me. And apparently will forever. But the revolver, a truly beautiful piece, was worth the brief moment of shame, I suppose.
I recently purchased a beautiful addition to my collectible firearms, a Smith and Wesson Model 64 no-dash .38 Special stainless steel revolver that was produced between 1970-1972 but had likely never been fired and was in exquisitely pristine condition. The following happened when I went to Cascade Firearms, the small local gun store in Vancouver I frequent, to pick it up after my background check came back clean.
I walked into the gun store and proceeded to the counter. It's a small place that is often frequented by some older guys (ok, my age) who come in to just chat with the owner, a really nice guy I've traded with for years. There were two of them sitting at the counter talking with him when I walked up.
I told him I'd received a call saying my gun was ready to pick up. He found the background check paperwork, retrieved the revolver, and gave me the final transfer form I had to fill out.
As I was starting to fill out the paperwork, the owner asked casually, "Hey man, how's your foot?" At which point, both of the old guys at the counter pivoted toward me, pointed their fingers at me, and in unison loudly asked "So he's the guy?!"
Yep. My reputation does indeed precede me. And apparently will forever. But the revolver, a truly beautiful piece, was worth the brief moment of shame, I suppose.