Colt 45 Quotes

That's when he lifted up a black pistol. I later learned it was a Colt .45. Some of the girls screamed. Moniba tells me I squeezed her hand.

Not that it was a crazy complicated skill, but operating an espresso machine during high traffic could be added to my repertoire along with card tricks and how to fire a Colt .45. (Quote taken from ARC, subject to change)

God made big people. And God made little people. But Colt made the .45 to even things up.

The shots left a hard ringing sound within the closeness of the brick walls. Terry held the pistol at arm's length on a level with his eyes--the Russian Tokarev resembling an old-model Colt .45, big and heavy--and made the sign of the cross with it over the dead. He said, "Rest in peace, motherfuckers," turned, and walked out of the beer lady's house to wait at the side of the road.

You sold a story last week," said Pettit, "about a gun fight in an Arizona mining town in which the hero drew his Colt's .45 and shot seven bandits as fast as they came in the door. Now, if a six-shooter could—" "Oh, well," said I, "that's different. Arizona is a long way from New York. I could have a man stabbed with a lariat or chased by a pair of chaparreras if I wanted to, and it wouldn't be noticed until the usual error-sharp from around McAdams Junction isolates the erratum and writes in to the papers about it." (from "The Plutonian Fire")

Whereas the larger caliber .45 Colt revolver bullets caused the cattle to drop to the ground after three or four shots, the animals shot with smaller caliber .38 bullets failed even after ten shots to drop to the ground. And ever since the U.S. Army has gone confidently into battle knowing that when cows attack, their men will be ready.

Hascomb snatched an ancient weapon out of his glove compartment. Officers have smuggled them home from the last five wars. The Colt.45 automatic.

Miss Pringle was not much larger than the handheld personal assistants of his own age, and usually lived, like the Old West’s Colt 45, in a quick-draw holster at his waist.

One of the first significant, substantial purchases I made after starting testosterone, was a Compact Colt .45 1991 A1 automatic pistol. It's just about the best penis substitute I've ever waved at a sex partner. I love my gun. Can I get an a-a-ay-men? You better fucking believe I lo-o-ove my gun. I love to take it apart and put it back together and admire...oh,you sexy little death-machine...I suppose I oughta feel guilty or something, loving and fetishizing to the point of anthropomorphizing it it. But I don't. I won't either-don't matter to me whether or not I'm supposed to keep this a dirty little secret. I got a dick and I can kill you with it. Yeah, baby, trip my trigger, why dontcha. Heh.

Lucas’s Colt .45 Gold Cup and Beretta 92F, and drove up

I open the shoe box dusted with seven winters & here, sunk in folds of yellowed news -paper, lies the Colt .45—silent & heavy as an amputated hand. I hold the gun & wonder if an entry wound in the night would make a hole wide as morning.

Baltimore Oeste. Te sientas en el porche, bebiendo una lata de Colt 45 envuelta en una bolsa de papel marrón, y ves un coche patrulla que dobla lentamente la esquina. El agente se baja del coche. Ves la pistola, distingues la pelea, oyes los disparos, te asomas para ver a los enfermeros meter el cuerpo del policía herido en la parte trasera de la ambulancia. Luego vuelves a tu casa adosada, abres otra lata, te sientas frente al televisor y miras la reemisión de las noticias de las once, después vuelves a sentarse en el porche.

The center console rattled when it hinged open, and after futilely pawing around for a bottle of aspirin, Steele settled on the FN Five-seven instead. Most of the time Steele carried a modified Colt 1911. The .45 was an old gun, and the only thing his father left at the house before he disappeared. It was Steele’s most cherished possession, but not the right weapon for what he had planned

But those are truly gifts of the Holy Spirit which make drunk with the richest knowledge of the Son of God, just as when John Hus was led to martyrdom, he prayed with great and unbroken courage: “Jesus, Son of God, Thou who hast suffered for us, have mercy on me.”63 This is not said without the Holy Spirit. No one else would have spoken this way unless he had been made drunk by that wine. He was one of the colts bound to the excellent vine.

West Baltimore. You sit on your stoop, you drink Colt 45 from a brown paper bag and you watch the radio car roll slowly around the corner. You see the gunman, you hear the shots, you gather on the far corner to watch the paramedics load what remains of a police officer into the rear of an ambulance. Then you go back to your rowhouse, open another can, and settle in front of the television to watch the replay on the eleven o’clock news. Then you go back to the stoop.

Where I sat looking out the window one summer night from the fifth floor of our building, and the air was warm and sweet like it is now, and there were the low voices of young couples, their Converses and Air Force Ones tapping against each other on the fire escapes as they worked to make the body speak its other tongues, the sound of matches, or flames sparked from lighters the shape and shine of 9mms or Colt .45s, which was how we turned death into a joke, how we reduced fire to the size of cartoon raindrops, then sucked them through cigarillo tips, like myths.

Miriam really hates for me to ride to and from the ranch alone so your coming along should make her feel better. Right, Miriam?" Miriam cast her a don't-play-my-own-tricks-on-me look. For her benefactress's peace of mind, less than for Rider's knowledge, Willow added, "I've told Miriam she doesn't need to worry about me. I always carry a pistol." Rider's brows shot up. "You pack a gun?" "Uh-huh, an old Colt .45. It was a present from Nick, my oldest brother." "And I bet you know how to shoot it, too." He smiled wryly. "I ain't no quick draw, but I usually hit what I aim at.

I Want You to See" I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened a dream at the back of the neck. Here, let me unbutton it for you. Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides, the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in my eyes, now close it all up and walk away. Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen loss. For god’s sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

Owen stepped into the saddle and reached a hand down as he took his foot out of the stirrup, so Bay could mount behind him. Once she was settled, he said, “Hang on. And don’t be wiggling around. We can’t afford any more accidents.” Bay glowered at him. She clamped her hands on either side of his waist at his beltline, but his Colt .45 was holstered on one side, which kept her from getting a comfortable hold. She put her right hand above the gun, but that meant it was practically under his armpit. Then she moved it below the gun, but that put her hand low on hips close to his crotch. “Sonofabitch.” He grabbed her hands and pulled them around his midriff. “Now hang on.” Bay kept her breasts rigidly distanced from Owen’s back, but her nipples puckered anyway. It was that damned washboard of male abdominal muscle under her hands. The man could do commercials for those workout machines they advertised on TV. The horseflies were a surprise. Where had they come from? She let go with one hand and swatted at one that seemed determined to bite her on the nose. And knocked Owen’s hat askew. “That does it. Off.” “It wasn’t my fault,” Bay said. “I was getting bitten.” “Off.” He grabbed her arm and levered her out from behind him and onto the ground.

Just a couple more questions, Mr. Strickland. Do you own a firearm?” “Yes I do. A Colt 45 pistol. It was a gift from Gus Burbank, a five-star general and a good friend of mine.” “You must have some interesting friends,” he said, slightly dismissively. “Where do you keep it?” “At my house — in my office desk drawer. Why are you asking

They went Indian file. First came the scouts, clever, graceful, quiet. They had rifles. Next came the antitank gunner, clumsy and dense, warning Germans away with a Colt .45 automatic in one hand and a trench knife in the other. Last came Billy Pilgrim, empty-handed, bleakly ready for death. Billy was preposterous - six feet and three inches tall, with a chest and shoulders like a box of kitchen matches. He had no helmet, no overcoat, no weapon, and no boots. On his feet were cheap, low-cut civilian shoes which he had bought for his father's funeral. Billy had lost a heel, which made him bob up-and-down, up-and-down. The involuntary dancing, up-and-down, up-and-down, made his hip joints sore.

After a moment’s thought, he opened the diplomatic case and threw in an extra set of identification papers, under a Belgian passport. It had served him well in the past and it never hurt to plan ahead. The case also contained his Colt .45, two loaded magazines, and a box of Federal Hydra-Shok hollowpoints. Being able to carry the gun through security was one of the benefits of his diplomatic immunity. If he was forced to use it…well, that was another story

How the Italian gunmaker’s awkward 9mm handgun had replaced the Colt 1911A1 .45 to become the official sidearm of the U.S. armed forces, Reece could only guess.

As far as a “technology that could remove people from their clothes,” Billy Dee Williams would recommend Colt ‘45 – works every time.

After that everything was a blur for Emma. She remembered little beyond blinding pain, hazy, shifting faces, and finally, relief and the furious squall of an infant. “My baby,” she whispered, lying back. “My baby’s here.” “It’s a fine girl,” Dr. Mayfield said. When had he arrived? Emma decided she didn’t care, and smiled wearily. “Steven?” “He’s not feeling too well right now,” the doctor explained. “Crumpled to the floor when I had to cut you.” Emma laughed. Steven the outlaw, with his dreaded Colt .45. She’d never let him forget the occasion of his first child’s birth.

But not here,” she added. “Let’s take a walk around the block.” Myron nodded and they rose. Before they reached the door, his cell phone rang. Myron snatched it up with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp step back. He put the phone to his ear and cleared his throat. “MB SportsReps,” he said, silky-smooth, professional-like. “This is Myron Bolitar speaking.” “Nice phone voice,” Esperanza said. “You sound like Billy Dee ordering two Colt 45s.” Esperanza Diaz was his longtime assistant and now sports-agent partner at MB SportsReps (M for Myron, the B for Bolitar—for those keeping score). “I was hoping you were Lamar,” he said. “He hasn’t called yet?” “Nope.” He could almost see Esperanza frown. “We’re in deep doo-doo here,” she said. “We’re not in deep doo-doo. We’re just sucking a little wind, that’s all.” “Sucking a little wind,” Esperanza repeated. “Like Pavarotti running the Boston Marathon.” “Good one,” Myron said. “Thanks.” Lamar Richardson was a power-hitting Golden Glove shortstop who’d just become a free agent—“free agent” being a phrase agents whisper in the same way a mufti might whisper “Praise Allah.” Lamar was shopping for new representation and had whittled his final list down to three agencies: two supersized conglomerates with enough office space to house a Price Club and the aforementioned pimple-on-the-buttocks but oh-so-personal MB SportsReps. Go, pimple-butt! Myron watched his mother standing by the door. He switched ears and said, “Anything else?” “You’ll never guess who called,” Esperanza said. “Elle and Claudia demanding another ménage à trois?” “Oooo, close.” She

What’s the matter, chile? The debil chasin’ after you?” Emma paused to take a deep breath and recover her dignity. “Yes,” she said. “Do you know where Chloe put Mr. Fair—Steven’s pistol?” “She done locked it up in her desk drawer with the derringer. Why? You gonna give it back to him?” Emma nodded, then proceeded toward the hallway. “I most certainly am.” “Why you wanna do that?” Daisy fussed, following her out of the kitchen and into Chloe’s study. Finding the key in its customary hiding place, Emma unlocked Chloe’s desk and lifted the formidable Colt .45 gingerly from its depths. “There’s always the hope that he’ll shoot himself,” she said cheerfully. Daisy shrank back against the doorway. “Miss Emma, you put that thing down right now, or I’s gonna take you over my knee and paddle you!” Emma raised the gun and sited in on a book shelf across the room. She wondered what it would be like to fire the weapon. In the next instant she found out, for the gun went off with no intentional help from Emma, and several of Chloe’s leatherbound books exploded into a single smoldering tangle of paper. Daisy screamed and so did Emma, who dropped the gun in horror only to have it fire again, this time splintering the leg of Big John’s favorite chair. “Don’t you dare touch that thing again!” Daisy shrieked, when Emma bent to retrieve it. Emma left the pistol lying on the rug and straightened up again, one hand pressed to her mouth in shock. The two women stood in their places for a long time, afraid to move. Emma, for her part, was busy imagining all the dreadful things that could have happened. She was amazed to see Steven stumble into the room, fully dressed except for his boots, drenched in sweat from the effort of making his way down the stairs in a hurry. The expression in his eyes was wild and alert, almost predatory. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he rasped. Emma pointed to the pistol as though it were a snake coiled to strike. “It went off—twice.” Steven was supporting himself by grasping the edge of Chloe’s desk. “Pick it up very carefully and hand it to me,” he said. Emma bit her lower lip, remembering what had happened when she’d handled the gun before. “You can do it,” Steven urged. “Just make sure you don’t touch the hammer or the trigger.” Emma crouched and picked it up cautiously. The barrel was hot against her palm. “Here,” Steven said, holding out his hand. Emma surrendered the gun, and leaning back against the desk, Steven spun the chamber expertly, dropping the four remaining bullets into his palm. He gave a ragged sigh, then just stood there, cradling the pistol in his hands like a kitten or a puppy. “I was going to bring it to you,” Emma confessed in a small voice. “She was hopin’ you’d blow your brains out with it,” Daisy muttered, before she turned and went back to the kitchen. Steven

— Sanderson walked to her starting position, and Reacher went with her. He wanted to know she was still chewing. Or if not, whether that was a good thing or bad. She was still chewing. Doing OK. He hoped she wasn’t peaking too early. She had the Ruger Standard. The .22. Two rounds in it. It was all she would take. Bramall had the Colt .45. Three rounds in it. Mackenzie had the empty Springfield. Better than nothing. Like the man said, ninety percent of everything was striking a pose.

an instant, a simple swatch of light, then movement: the blond-haired executioner. She stood in a doorway just beyond the street corner, hiding, waiting, arms raised and weapon trained. The reflection in the car window saved Dewey from what would have been, in five feet or so, a warm bullet in the back of the head. Dewey stopped just before the corner, feet away from where the blond assassin lurked. He looked behind him, down the block he’d just run down, and saw a Laundromat. He dropped back and entered the Laundromat. He ran through the store, pushing his way past piles of laundry and women folding articles, to the back room, where a man sat, smoking a cigarette in front of a pile of papers. “Lo siento,” murmured Dewey as he charged through the office toward an alley entrance, gun in hand. The sirens became louder, multiple vehicles joining in the distance. Out the door and across the alley and through a dented steel door. Inside, stacks of bread loaves, other boxes of food, the smell of meat. He moved through the storage room and entered the back of a bodega. Colt .45 cocked in front of him, he passed a middle-aged woman who fainted as she saw the weapon in his hand. Catching the eye of the man at the cash register, Dewey held a finger to his lips. There, at the side of the entrance, her back to the store, stood the blond assassin. Suddenly another customer, an elderly woman, screamed as she saw Dewey with gun. The blonde turned abruptly, leveling what he now saw was an HK UMP compact machine gun with a six-inch suppressor on the end. A full auto hail of bullets crashed through the windows as she swept the weapon east-west. The elderly woman’s screams ended abruptly as a bullet ripped through her head and killed her. The assassin’s bullets shattered the storefront’s glass, but Dewey was already down and partially hidden by a chest freezer, which shielded him from the slugs. As soon as the blonde’s gun swept past him, Dewey had a clear sight. He fired twice, two quick shots into the assassin’s neck and chest, flinging her backward onto the brick sidewalk in a shower of blood and glass. Dewey ran

The engineer didn't pay any attention to a lone figure poised on the top of the bridge, staring down at the oncoming train. He wore a black cowboy hat and a tattered dister coat. His waist was belted with two Colt 45 revolvers.

After nightfall, when most of the American planes had been taken aboard, a new formation of planes arrived over the task force. First, the drone of their engines could be heard above the cloud cover; then they slipped into view, at about the height of the Lexington’s masts. “These planes were in very good formation,” recalled Lieutenant Commander Stroop. They had their navigation lights on, indicating that they intended to land. But many observers on both carriers and several of the screening vessels noted that something was awry. Captain Sherman of the Lexington counted nine planes, more than could be accounted for among the American planes that were still aloft. They were flying down the Yorktown’s port side, a counterclockwise approach, the reverse of the American landing routine. They were flashing their blinker lights, but none of the Americans could decipher the signal. Electrician’s mate Peter Newberg, stationed on the Yorktown’s flight deck, noticed that the aircraft exhausts were a strange shape and color, and Stroop noted that the running lights were a peculiar shade of red and blue. The TBS (short-range radio circuit) came alive with chatter. One of the nearby destroyers asked, “Have any of our planes got rounded wingtips?” Another voice said, “Damned if those are our planes.” When the first of the strangers made his final turn, he was too low, and the Yorktown’s landing signal officer frantically signaled him to throttle up. “In the last few seconds,” Newberg recalled, “when the pilot was about to plow into the stern under the flight deck, he poured the coal to his engine and pulled up and off to port. The signal light flicked briefly on red circles painted on his wings.” One of the screening destroyers opened fire, and red tracers reached up toward the leading plane. A voice on the Lexington radioed to all ships in the task force, ordering them to hold fire, but the captain of the destroyer replied, “I know Japanese planes when I see them.” Antiaircraft gunners on ships throughout the task force opened fire, and suddenly the night sky lit up as if it was the Fourth of July. But there were friendly planes in the air as well; one of the Yorktown fighter pilots complained: “What are you shooting at me for? What have I done now?” On the Yorktown, SBD pilot Harold Buell scrambled out to the port-side catwalk to see what was happening. “In the frenzy of the moment, with gunners firing at both friend and foe, some of us got caught up in the excitement and drew our .45 Colt automatics to join in, blasting away at the red meatballs as they flew past the ship—an offensive gesture about as effective as throwing rocks.” The intruders and the Americans all doused their lights and zoomed back into the cloud cover; none was shot down. It was not the last time in the war that confused Japanese pilots would attempt to land on an American carrier.

In view of such an atmosphere, it is strange that when he dressed for the half-hour trip to the center of his forces, Patton chose his “dress,” whipcord riding breeches, a custom-tailored light-khaki shirt and cavalry boots, and carried a candid camera and riding crop. More standard with Patton in combat was an item at his side, gleaming in the searing southern sun: the Colt .45 Single Action, strapped in its mahogany-bay Myres holster. Binoculars completed the showy outfit, together with helmet-liner and an old helmet.

AL HUBBARD IS SURELY the most improbable, intriguing, and elusive figure to grace the history of psychedelics, and that’s saying a lot. There is much we don’t know about him, and many key facts about his life are impossible to confirm, contradictory, or just plain fishy. To cite one small example, his FBI file puts his height at five feet eleven, but in photographs and videos Hubbard appears short and stocky, with a big round head topped with a crew cut; for reasons known only to himself, he often wore a paramilitary uniform and carried a Colt .45 revolver, giving the impression of a small-town sheriff.

She took out the last of the books, then nearly dropped the canvas bag in fright. At the bottom, neatly wrapped in a red handkerchief, she could just make out the bone grip of a Colt .45 pistol.

It was too late to think about that. No time—no time for anything but action as the gate swung back. As Crawford entered behind him. The Colt came out in his hand, a long black shape in the night. He saw his target’s eyes widen, the suppressor almost touching the man’s chest as he pulled the trigger. Once, twice—the .45-caliber hollow-point slugs smashing through bone, body tissue, deforming and expanding outward as they traveled through the body. The young man staggered, but didn’t fall—staring down at the holes in his chest as if it belonged to someone else. Disbelief filling his features. Harry could hear the slide of Crawford’s Sig-Sauer cycling behind him, a deadly cadence. The strangled cry as the older jihadist went down. Taking care of business. He didn’t hesitate, raising the pistol to put a third shot between his target’s eyes, the head snapping back from the impact of the round. No remorse. “Clear.” He glanced back to see Crawford standing over the body of the older man, his pistol aimed down—his finger tightening around the trigger. There was a loud cough, and then the SAS sergeant looked up. “Clear.” Harry keyed his mike, glancing upward toward the building where Hale was providing overwatch. “Bring the Range Rover around and keep it running. We’re going in.

...military operations, even when employing the Colt .45 (developed to stop juramentados dead in their tracks) and the Krag rifle, achieved no permanent results in pacifying the Muslims. The Americans were faced with the choice of annihilating the Muslims altogether or changing their tactics. Fortunately, they choose the latter course. They began to pursue a policy of friendship, aid and toleration. American civil officers earned the confidence of the Muslim sultans and datus, established free public schools, built roads and enhanced the Muslims'opportunities for progress.

He selected an AR-15 rifle and a Benelli M1014 12-gauge combat shotgun and propped them in the corner to take along. Cody packed a gear bag with two .45 ACP 1911 Colts with extra magazines, night vision goggles, body armor, .223 rounds for the AR-15 and 12-gauge buck for the shotgun, binoculars, rope, handcuffs and flex-ties, a pair of radios, and several cell phones. While he was bent over buckling a holster with a 9MM Model 26 “Baby” Glock to his ankle, the door was pushed open.

have to kill whoever’s chasing you. Can you do that?” Corman hesitated. “I—I never kilt nobody before,” Corman said. Slocum weighed the man’s words. Corman was obviously frightened, scared of losing his life. But was he also afraid of killing someone, even in self-defense? That was what separated the men from the boys. Corman had years on him, but perhaps not much wisdom. “Ever shoot a Winchester? Or a Henry?” Corman nodded. “Both,” he said. “I have a Yellow Boy.” He paused. “Back at my digs.” “That’s a heavy rifle,” Slocum said. “The Winchester is lighter.” “I know.” “Well, if push comes to shove, you can have my Winchester. It’s loaded. Just jack a shell into the chamber and start shooting.” “Do you think it will come to that?” “You’re the one being chased, Corman. What do you think?” Corman went silent. But he listened to the wind, and wisps of fog, or cloud, were beginning to seep into the cracks of the boulders around them and creep along the ground like thin cotton batting, ever so slowly. Slocum checked the Winchester and handed it to Corman. He went to his bedroll and took out the sawed-off Greener shotgun that he kept rolled up in it. He grabbed some shells from his saddlebag and put two in the shotgun, and snapped the barrel back into the receiver, where it locked. The shotshells were all double-ought buck and, at close range, would tear a man to pieces. Besides the Colt .45 six-gun on his