Lethal Shooter Quotes

Homicide, or rather the homicide fantasy, is the engine that drives America’s fascination with guns. Target shooters spend hour after hour

It was, in fact, his weapon of choice—extremely accurate, with a manageable form factor, and most importantly, dependable. The thing never jammed, never malfunctioned. When an operator needed to spit a lot of lead in the bad guys’ direction, an HK416 would do it forever without complaining once. “Who the hell are you?” Trapp asked, eyeing the man with his steel-blue gaze. The shooter was dressed in dark combat fatigues and had the mark of a special operator about him—a cold, lethal tension that suggested he could snap into action with a millisecond’s notice. Out of the corner of his eye, Trapp saw that the man’s partner was dressed and armed exactly the same. Except the other shooter had his weapon raised and aimed directly at Trapp’s skull. He did the math, quickly, and decided for the time being to play it cool. In all honesty, he didn’t really have much of a choice. Either of the two operators could drop him before he moved a yard. The man ignored the question. “Get back on the helicopter!” he yelled, his voice a slow Arkansas drawl. Trapp’s brow furrowed. The hell? What was the point in dragging him halfway across the country just to send him back? And then it clicked. The operator wasn’t speaking to him. “But—” “No questions. Get back on the helicopter, and fuck off!” the shooter shouted, jerking his thumb to accentuate his point. Trapp glanced over his shoulder at the liaison officer’s dismayed frown, and a wide grin crept across his face. Maybe he didn’t mind being held at gunpoint after all.

In the aftermath of the shooting, John did not experience any sense of relief at having survived the lethal series of assaults. Nor did he gloat over his victory. In fact, he was horrified that he had caused such severe physical damage to another human being. It didn't help that some of his fellow officers seized upon this opportunity to call him "back shooter" and other phrases used in police humor as a way of dealing with the trauma of violence.

Slaton heard nothing more than a pair of muffled thumps, sounds he recognized all too well—the lethal signature of high-velocity rounds striking center of mass in a human body. Her tall figure snapped forward and she crumpled to the ground. Slaton instantly knew three things. Astrid was dead. There were two shooters. And he was next.

I am not calling for violent revolt here. We’ve done that twice in our nation’s history—to claim our freedom from tyranny and when we fought a civil war to recognize (at least a little) the humanity of blacks held in bondage. Yet, as millions are stripped of their rights, we live out the policy consequences, from lethal pollution running through poor communities to kindergartners practicing active shooter drills taught with nursery rhymes. I question what remedy remains. The questions that confront me every day are how to defend this sacred right and our democracy, and who will do so.

It was quite common for households in towns like mine to have BB rifles, commonly called slug guns. These were air rifles that shot very tiny soft lead pellets called slugs. They weren’t that lethal unless you shot at very close range, but they could blind you if you got shot in the eye. Most teenagers had them to control pests like rats, or to stun rabbits. However, most kids used them to shoot empty beer cans lined up on the back fence, practising their aim for the day they were old enough to purchase a serious firearm. Fortunately, a law banning guns was introduced in Australia in 1996 after thirty-five innocent people were shot with a semi-automatic weapon in a mass shooting in Tasmania. The crazy shooter must have had a slug gun when he was a teenager. But this was pre-1996. And my brothers, of course, loved shooting. My cousin Billy, who was sixteen years old at the time – twice my age – came to visit one Christmas holiday from Adelaide. He loved coming to the outback and getting feral with the rest of us. He also enjoyed hitting those empty beer cans with the slug gun. Billy wasn’t the best shooter. His hand-eye coordination was poor, and I was always convinced he needed to wear glasses. Most of the slugs he shot either hit the fence or went off into the universe somewhere. The small size of the beer cans frustrated him, so he was on the lookout for a bigger target. Sure enough, my brothers quickly pushed me forward and shouted, ‘Here, shoot Betty!’ Billy laughed, but loved the idea. ‘Brett, stand back a bit and spread your legs. I’ll shoot between them just for fun.’ Basically, he saw me as an easy target, and I wasn’t going to argue with a teenager who had a weapon in his hand. I naively thought it could be a fun game with my siblings and cousin; perhaps we could take turns. So, like a magician’s assistant, I complied and spread my skinny young legs as far apart as an eight-year-old could, fully confident he would hit the dust between them . . . Nope. He didn’t. He shot my leg, and it wasn’t fun. Birds burst out of all the surrounding trees – not from the sound of the gunshot, but from my piercing shriek of pain. While I rolled around on the ground, screaming in agony, clutching my bleeding shin, my brothers were screaming with laughter. I even heard one of them shout, ‘Shoot him while he’s down!’ Who needs enemies when you have that kind of brotherly love? No one rushed to help; they simply moved to the back fence to line up the cans for another round. I crawled inside the house with blood dripping down my leg, seeking Mum, the nurse, to patch me up. To this day, I have a scar on my leg as a souvenir from that incident . . . and I still think Billy needed glasses. I also still get very anxious when anyone asks me to spread my legs.