It was about 1985, and I was an obvious greenhorn visiting a nice rural Oregon redneck rifle range. I was highly suspicious because I was sighting in a sexed-up shotgun, a rare thing those days, with folding stock, extended magazine, and a very early red dot sight. I shot well and emptied the shotgun. I racked the slide to check for empty, good, closed the action and aimed at the ground to pull the trigger and relieve the spring. BOOM! I blew a big crater in the gravel about two feet in front of the firing line! All of the nice, big redneck men were silent, coldly looking at me like I was a rabid rodent with leprosy. I seems that I had miscounted my rounds in that extended magazine, and a slug had been hiding back in the carrier when I checked it (lesson: rack the slide TWICE to prove empty!) I cringed with shame and rapidly packed up to leave the cold, silent group of gentlemen. Finally, one of them sardonically enunciated, "Way'll, 'et least it was DOWN range."