Shotgun War Quotes

Imagine waking up and finding your first and last view of the world was a shotgun barrel. That’d be a hell of a life.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for a few seconds, long enough to hole up and wait for the shooting to die down. Only it didn’t. Pistols, shotguns, and that clatter you never forget, the kind that tells you someone has a Kalashnikov.

sawed-off shotguns, machine pistols, and at least two battle axes. Although Max was not himself very good with a battle ax, he liked them a lot. There

The underpass was a tent city. The people living there dirty faced and unfed. Refugees of a war only they knew about.

I wonder if my mother knew that her own grandmother died of an abortion after bearing nine children, back in Russia, during the First World War, or if her mother kept that family secret from her as she kept her secret from me. Women’s lives are different now—so much so we’re in danger of forgetting how they used to be. Legalizing abortion didn’t just save women from death and injury and fear of arrest, it didn’t just make it possible for women to commit to education and work and free them from shotgun marriages and too many kids.

When I was nine, my father sliced his knee with a chainsaw. But he let himself bleed and finished cutting down one more tree before his boss drove him to EMERGENCY. Late that night, stoned on morphine and beer, my father needed my help to steer his pickup into the woods. “Watch for deer,” My father said. “Those things just appear like magic.” It was an Indian summer and we drove through warm rain and thunder, until we found that chainsaw, lying under the fallen pine. Then I watched, with wonder, as my father, shotgun-rich and impulse-poor, blasted that chainsaw dead. “What was that for?” I asked. “Son,” my father said. “Here’s the score. Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.

When I was nine, my father sliced his knee with a chainsaw. But he let himself bleed and finished cutting down one more tree Before his boss drove him to EMERGENCY. Late that night, stoned on morphine and beer, My father needed my help to steer his pickup into the woods. “Watch for deer,” My father said. “Those things just appear like magic.” It was an Indian summer and we drove through warm rain and thunder, Until we found that chainsaw, lying under the fallen pine. Then I watched, with wonder, as my father, shotgun-rich and impulse-poor, blasted that chainsaw dead. “What was that for?” I asked. “Son,” my father said. “Here’s the score. Once a thing tastes blood, it will come for more.

We end up at an outdoor paintball course in Jersey. A woodsy, rural kind of place that’s probably brimming with mosquitos and Lyme disease. When I find out Logan has never played paintball before, I sign us both up. There’s really no other option. And our timing is perfect—they’re just about to start a new battle. The worker gathers all the players in a field and divides us into two teams, handing out thin blue and yellow vests to distinguish friend from foe. Since Logan and I are the oldest players, we both become the team captains. The wide-eyed little faces of Logan’s squad follow him as he marches back and forth in front of them, lecturing like a hot, modern-day Winston Churchill. “We’ll fight them from the hills, we’ll fight them in the trees. We’ll hunker down in the river and take them out, sniper-style. Save your ammo—fire only when you see the whites of their eyes. Use your heads.” I turn to my own ragtag crew. “Use your hearts. We’ll give them everything we’ve got—leave it all on the field. You know what wins battles? Desire! Guts! Today, we’ll all be frigging Rudy!” A blond boy whispers to his friend, “Who’s Rudy?” The kid shrugs. And another raises his hand. “Can we start now? It’s my birthday and I really want to have cake.” “It’s my birthday too.” I give him a high-five. “Twinning!” I raise my gun. “And yes, birthday cake will be our spoils of war! Here’s how it’s gonna go.” I point to the giant on the other side of the field. “You see him, the big guy? We converge on him first. Work together to take him down. Cut off the head,” I slice my finger across my neck like I’m beheading myself, “and the old dog dies.” A skinny kid in glasses makes a grossed-out face. “Why would you kill a dog? Why would you cut its head off?” And a little girl in braids squeaks, “Mommy! Mommy, I don’t want to play anymore.” “No,” I try, “that’s not what I—” But she’s already running into her mom’s arms. The woman picks her up—glaring at me like I’m a demon—and carries her away. “Darn.” Then a soft voice whispers right against my ear. “They’re already going AWOL on you, lass? You’re fucked.” I turn to face the bold, tough Wessconian . . . and he’s so close, I can feel the heat from his hard body, see the small sprigs of stubble on that perfect, gorgeous jaw. My brain stutters, but I find the resolve to tease him. “Dear God, Logan, are you smiling? Careful—you might pull a muscle in your face.” And then Logan does something that melts my insides and turns my knees to quivery goo. He laughs. And it’s beautiful. It’s a crime he doesn’t do it more often. Or maybe a blessing. Because Logan St. James is a sexy, stunning man on any given day. But when he laughs? He’s heart-stopping. He swaggers confidently back to his side and I sneer at his retreating form. The uniformed paintball worker blows a whistle and explains the rules. We get seven minutes to hide first. I cock my paintball shotgun with one hand—like Charlize Theron in Fury fucking Road—and lead my team into the wilderness. “Come on, children. Let’s go be heroes.” It was a massacre. We never stood a chance. In the end, we tried to rush them—overpower them—but we just ended up running into a hail of balls, getting our hearts and guts splattered with blue paint. But we tried—I think Rudy and Charlize would be proud

In the end, the cats were rounded up and put into a room. My father went into the room with his First World War revolver, more reliable, he said, than a shotgun. The gun sounded again, again, again, again. The cats that were still uncaught had sensed their fate and were raging and screaming all over the bush, with people after them. My father came out of the room at one point, very white, with tight angry lips and wet eyes. He was sick. Then he swore a good deal, then he went back into the room and the shooting continued. At last he came out. The servants went in and carried off the corpses to the disused well. Some of the cats had escaped – three never came back at all to the murderous household, so they must have gone wild and taken their chances. When my mother returned from her trip, and the neighbour who had brought her had gone, she walked quiet and uncommenting through the house where there was now one cat, her old favourite, asleep on her bed. My mother had not asked for this cat to be spared, because it was old, and not very well. But she was looking for it; and she sat a long time stroking and talking to it. Then she came out to the verandah. There sat my father and there I sat, murderers, and feeling it. She sat down. He was rolling a cigarette. His hands were still shaking. He looked up at her and said: ‘That must never happen again.’ And I suppose it never did.

In the 1980s, a Fundamentalist couple named Randy and Vicki Weaver fled to a mountain top in Idaho, to get as far as possible from the U.S. government, which they considered a Zionist conspiracy. However goofy that idea was, it was the only “offense” of which the Weavers were guilty. They didn’t annoy their neighbors and they didn’t plot an insurrection against the government: they just tried to avoid and evade it. This alone was too much for the Feds. They sent in an informant to make friends with Randy and eventually entrap him into selling a shotgun. With that excuse, the FBI and ATF made war on the Weaver family, killing Vicki while she stood holding her baby in her arms, killing the older son, and even killing the family dog.*

The Home Guard overtopped the million mark, and when rifles were lacking grasped lustily the shotgun, the sporting rifle, the private pistol, or, when there was no firearm, the pike and the club. No Fifth Column existed in Britain, though a few spies were carefully rounded up and examined. What few Communists there were lay low. Everyone else gave all they had to give.

picking flowers Grandma’s rosebush reminiscent of a Vice Lord’s do-rag. the unfamiliar bloom in Mrs. Bradley’s yard banging a Gangster Disciple style blue. the dandelions all over the park putting on Latin King gold like the Chicano cats over east before they turn into a puff of smoke like all us colored boys. picking dandelions will ruin your hands, turn their smell into a bitter cologne. a man carries flowers for 3 reasons: • he is in love • he is in mourning • he is a flower salesman i’m on the express train passing stops to a woman. maybe she’s home. i have a bouquet in my hand, laid on 1 of my arms like a shotgun. the color is brilliant, a gang war wrapped & cut diagonal at the stems. i am not a flower salesman. that is the only thing i know.

From the front passenger seat, one of Yaqub’s fighters produced a short-barreled shotgun. As soon as Harvath saw it come above the line of the dashboard, he yelled, “Gun!” and fired multiple rounds through the windshield, killing the man instantly. The ISI driver tried to unholster his weapon, but Sloane was already at his window and fired two shots at his head, shattering the glass and killing him. When the fighter in the backseat on the passenger side made himself known, Chase had almost been on top of him. The man didn’t wait to get the door all the way open before firing. He sent heavy 7.62 rounds from his AK-47 slicing right through the door panel. Chase had to lunge between two parked cars to take cover and avoid being hit.

They sent spies", Gramma went on, her voice a hush, "and they look like one man, but they can split into two, then four, and so on. I've seen it before. During the war. It's a Communist trick and they taught it to the Democrats so that they could take our guns. I would have fought them off, but they already made the shotgun disappear.

For all the emphasis on assault weapons, 68 percent of mass public shootings did not involve any long guns (Figure 2). Eighty-four percent of shootings involved handguns, 24 percent rifles, and 20 percent shotguns (more than one type of weapon can be used in an attack). FIGURE 2

The very fates seemed arrayed against the President’s party. Death claimed eight Democratic Senators during the 65th Congress, thinning their already sparse majority. Perhaps the cruelest blow of all was the accidental shotgun killing of Wisconsin’s Paul O. Husting on a duck-hunting trip in October 1917. Husting, the first Democrat sent to the Senate from Wisconsin in more than twenty years, had been elected in 1914; in the normal course of events his seat would not have been contested again until 1920. Democratic retention of this one seat would have meant a Democratic Senate in 1919–20, which might have had quite different consequences for the passage of the Versailles Treaty and the history of the postwar world. But it was not to be.