Clint Eastwood Gun Quotes

I took my .38 out and looked to see that there were bullets in all the proper places. I knew there would be, but it did no harm to be careful. And I'd seen Clint Eastwood do it once in the movies.

I know what you're thinking," Grandma said into the silence. "Do I have anymore bullets in this here gun? Well, with all the confusion, what with being locked up in a refrigerator, I plumb forgot what was in here to start with. But being that this is a 45 magnum, the most powerful handgun in existence, and it could blow your head clean off, you just got to ask yourself one question. Do you feel lucky today? Well, do you, punk?" Christ," Spiro whispered. "She thinks she's f**king Clint Eastwood.

In the movies, they always make sure the hero kills only in self-defense, typically in the instant before the bad guy gets the drop on him. Even in that film Miyamoto had mentioned, Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood blows away a guy who had kidnapped, tortured, and killed a teenage girl only when the guy goes for a gun. To me, that’s all bullshit. More than anything else, killing is about survival. About doing everything you can to deceive, and cheat, and stack the odds in your own favor. You don’t wait for the other guy to go for his gun; you shoot him before he has a chance. If he has his back to you, that’s even better. If you can call in an air strike, that’s better still. You don’t just do everything you possibly can to prevent a fight from being fair—preventing the fight from being fair is the entire point. Do you want the enemy to have as good a chance of killing you as you have of killing him? Or do you want to make sure he gets no chance at all? As far as I’m concerned, the people who think a fair fight is desirable can go ahead and die in one.

You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns ... and those who dig. ... You dig." Clint Eastwood

checked the downstairs bathroom and the hallway closet, ducking around corners and pointing that gun like Clint Eastwood, if Clint Eastwood was doing house rounds in nothing but a towel. But there was simply nothing to shoot. The doors were locked; the windows were securely latched; nobody was hiding in the shadows, but his heart continued to slap against his diaphragm at a million miles an hour. There was no chance of getting to sleep now, at least not without soothing his nerves first. The Ativan wouldn’t kick in for at least another ten minutes, and he had been too sore to drive into town for more