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  • Best Gun I Ever Owned...

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        Wednesday, January 10, 2007

    Best Gun I Ever Owned...

    Google sucks balls when it comes to firearms. I can't find a single picture of the best pistol I ever owned, a Hawes .44 mag single action. Wait a minute, let me try something different...okay, here:

    That's not my hand, sadly. Damn, I miss that gun. Sold it to help pay my lawyer from my first divorce (from the Perennial Ex). I kick myself for selling it every time I think about it...

    I think that gun there, and the Luger, are the two most beautiful guns ever made. There's folks as will try to tell you they have a 'reliability problem', but it always turns out that they were using junk, handloaded gun-show ammo...folks, don't buy that shit, unless you know the guy personally, or you don't mind blowing your face off. Crap comes in big plastic bags, and everything I've ever tried was garbage. I got three squibs out of one bag one time, and I have never ever had one from quality, commercial American ammunition.

    Those pics make the gun look big to me, but it's not all that big. I mean, it's not delicate, but it's no Ruger or Casull.
    And it was the finest fitted pistol that I've ever handled, even smoother that the Colt Python, if you can imagine that. And considering that it was German Engineering at its best (JP Sauer & Sons made it) that is not surprising. It didn't clack and clatter when you cocked it, it ticked musically, like winding a fine Swiss clock.

    I bought it when I worked in the oil fields of Oklahoma and Texas, right after me and my partner arrived at a rig only to find the drilling crew tied up and naked and beaten and robbed of anything of any worth on or around the rig, including their trucks.
    Teams of robbers would arrive at a rig Road Warrior style, overwhelm the workers, and pick the place clean.

    After we freed the men and got ahold of the sheriff, my buddy Tim (my white buddy Tim, not my black buddy Tim) and I went to the nearest gun store and bought pistols, and shoulder holsters to wear under our coveralls. There were very strict rules about wearing weapons on drilling rigs, heck, even a fistfight would get you banned from the oil field for life, but we both decided that before we let ourselves get robbed, we would kill the fuckers and go into another line of work.

    I kept my .44 loaded with 300 grain hollowpoint rounds, designed to be fired from a carbine. At 100 feet, I could bounce a five gallon dope bucket (empty and refilled with water) up in the air like a beer can, a rooster-tail of water blasting up like a geyser, with a thumb size hole in the front, and a jagged hole the size of your fist out the back.

    One night we were headed back to the house (the shop) in Oklahoma City, from a job in Tyler Texas. Well, outside of Tyler Texas. I chronicled the death of the owner of that drilling claim somewhere else in this blog, where he pulled off the rig site and got plowed by an 18 wheeler hauling sheets of glass. Prettiest wreck I ever saw, and speaking of rooster tails, you should have seen all of that glass spraying everywhere in the light of a dying day.

    Anyway, me and Tim were drunk, of course, and he was driving the 2 ton (or was it 2.5? I forget) a big-ass truck with a compressor mounted in the back, and towing another one, and heavily laden with all of our tools and gear and hoses and beer... yes, every job we had in Texas, we stopped at a border liquor store and bought as many cases of Coors Light as we could fit into the truck bed and stuff up into the compressors and any other nook and cranny we could find, because Coors would not ship to Oklahoma, and we got $25 per case from thirsty gullible Okies.

    One of the things I hated about Oklahoma (and there were many things I both loved and hated about the place) was the backwards-ass country fucks who ran the State Liquor Stores. The only thing you could buy in bars and stores was this piss-weak 3.2 beer. To get high-point beer, you had to go into a State store, and the pusillanimous parsimonious Baptist fucks did not allow any refrigeration, so Coors just said okay, fuck you Oklahoma, we just won't ship our beer to you, and it was 1979 and Coors Light was like the hottest thing around, so me and Tim made out like bandits.

    So, here's Tim and I, rocking out to some heavy metal, running down the road in some heavy metal, and half in the bag, and he says to me "Look at this shit..." and I check his mirror, and coming up on us is a crew-cab pickup full of guys, and they pull up alongside us on the freeway (I-40? I forget) and wave for us to pull over.

    Tim gives them the finger.

    They swerve at us, hard, and Tim hollers something at them, and then they swerve in front of us, close, and began tapping their brakes and making Tim choose to either slow down, or hit them.
    Well, he decides to hit them, but not quite in the way you might imagine. By now, he is apoplectic with rage; I had seen him plenty of times casually swing up a 300 pound Snubbing Bowl onto the back of our truck, and the bed was nearly as high as your chin. We usually used the winch, but if he was pining for beer, he just sling that Bowl up there like it was a styrofoam cooler. Then he'd shove it til it slid along the steel bed a few feet, and go get more gear.

    Tonight, he jammed down hard on the brake pedal with both feet, and sent us into a controlled fishtail skid, the towed compressor whipsawing like a scorpion's tail, the truck's tires billowing out rubber-smoke, and before we even came to a complete stop he had the gearshift in neutral and the parking brake locked and was swinging out of the cab and down to the ground, and before he even knew what was happening Tim yanked the driver of the pickup out through the window and was beating his ass in a Biblical, Old Testament fashion and...

    I had my own door kicked open, the spot mounted on the roof flooding the entire scene, like a helicopter might have done, and Tim has this guy, now, by the back of his shirt collar and his belt, and is rhythmically thumping dents along the side of guys truck with his very own head, and I have the Hawes out and cocked and aimed, and these guys are just now trying to spill out of the truck to get involved, and I see one of them reach in and begin to slide out some sort of long gun so I take a bead on him, then remember we're drunk, in a company truck, with a load of bootleg booze, so I aim into the soft shoulder of the road just behind him and pull the trigger and the pistol roars and it looks like someone set off an asphalt grenade behind him and I can't hardly see or hear shit and they all freeze except for Tim who didn't even flinch and is looking for new bones in this guy to break and...

    "Y'all get back in that fuckin truck or I start shooting!" and that gets Tim's attention, and he looks up at me and then raises the asshole over his head like a floppy rag doll and slams him down hard into his own truck bed onto some tools and shit, and their truck doors slam as they all disappear like clowns back into the car, and I blow another chunk of highway to heck for effect, and their truck leaps forward, us just an incandescent glow in their rear view, because I keep the spot on them for a long ways...

    I only give them one more motivational gunshot, along the road in front of them. Their headlights went out, but that's okay, cuz it was like 2 or 3am, so there was virtually no traffic, and it was where the freeway just started to have lights. They'd set their ambush just at the edge of the last bit of dark area, just before the light, and several off-ramps, which was lucky for them, cuz Tim still had his dander up and decided he wanted to kill them all, and he tortured that truck to get it up to pursuit speed to catch up to them, but we never did, so we went back to the house.

    But I surely do miss that pistol...

    The End.


    I once saw Tim stand up from our table next to the dance floor, and knock out a guy for Disco Dancing. Hit him so hard, the guy skidded all the way across the dance floor and under someone else's table.

    This was in a Disco Bar. Tim sat back down, took a swig of his beer, and said "Fuck, I hate that shit."

    This being Texas, and us being us, they asked us politely to leave, so we did. Because Disco sucks.