Smith And Wesson Quotes

Good kitty" "Why do you encourage them?" "They're good kitties." "They're your minions." "Everyone needs a minion or two" "You won't be so pleased when you find me ground up in their food bowl one day.

I don't need no Smith and Wesson, man, I got Merriam and Webster.

He reached out, opened the glove compartment, and took out a gun. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 five-shot special. It looked a lot like my gun. "I stopped by your apartment this morning and picked this up for you," Ranger said. "I found it in the cookie jar." "Tough guys always keep their gun in the cookie jar." "Name one." "Rockford." Ranger grinned. "I stand corrected.

Some made the long drop from the apartment or the office window; some took it quietly in two-car garages with the motor running; some used the native tradition of the Colt or Smith and Wesson; those well-constructed implements that end insomnia, terminate remorse, cure cancer, avoid bankruptcy, and blast an exit from intolerable positions by the pressure of a finger; those admirable American instruments so easily carried, so sure of effect, so well designed to end the American dream when it becomes a nightmare, their only drawback the mess they leave for relatives to clean up.

You know that ‘no weapons at work’ policy?” I asked the twitching and growing hairy monstrosity standing less than ten feet from me. His yellow eyes bored into me with raw animal hatred. There was nothing recognizably human in that look. “I never did like that rule,” I said as I bent down and drew my gun from my ankle holster, put the front sight on the target and rapidly fired all five shots from my snub-nosed .357 Smith & Wesson into Mr. Huffman’s body. God bless Texas.

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. In the case of William Jessup Brady, it’s been hand carved with a lever-action Henry rifle over his shoulder and a Smith & Wesson six-gun strapped to his hip.’ – Solace Walters

Connie drove a silver Camry with rosary beads hanging from her rearview mirror and a Smith& Wesson stuck under the seat. No matter whatwent down, Connie was covered.

Only law firm out there’s called Smith and Wesson.

Rich people always had someone to call who could arrange something that the average guy couldn't get done, no matter how right or wrong. The only call the poor man could make was to Jesus. If Jesus didn't answer, Smith and Wesson always did.

Sprawled, bloody, holding the pistol, he looked like a police photograph of a suicide. Dart went back to his chair and picked up the Smith and Wesson. Five minutes passed like a year.

Time to figure out if I need to buy stock in Smith & Wesson or Magnum

Sono qui perché se mi arrendo questa volta mi arrenderò tutta la vita.

Sig Pro by Sig Sauer. Chambered for forty-caliber Smith and Wesson rounds.

In 1999, and a mere ten days after a certain Thursday , eighteen-year-old Eric Harris and seventeen-year-old Dylan Klebold planted bombs in their Littleton, Colorado, high school and went on a shooting rampage that killed one teacher and twelve students, while wounding twenty-three, after which they shot themselves. So young Kevin—your choice—has turned out as American as a Smith and Wesson.

I want the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson,” Candy said. “I have a silver snakeskin belt that will go perfectly with it.” “Done, girl. Style points are always appreciated. We may be robbing this joint, but there is no excuse for looking tacky.

Charley looked over at him. "About how much you and Jesse have in common." Jesse said, "Why don't you tell it, Bob; if you remember." Bob inched forward in his chair. "Well, if you'll pardon my saying so, it is interesting, the many ways you and I overlap and whatnot. You begin with my daddy, J.T. Ford. J stands for James! And T is Thomas, meaning 'twin.' Your daddy was a pastor of the New Hope Baptist Church; my daddy was part-time pastor of a church at Excelsior Springs. You're the youngest of the three James boys; I'm the youngest of the five Ford boys. You had twins as sons, I had twins as sisters. Frank is four and a half years older than you, which incidentally is the difference between Charley and me, the two outlaws in the Ford clan. Between us is another brother, Wilbur here (with six letters in his name); between Frank and you was a brother, Robert, also with six letters. Robert died in infancy, as most everyone knows, and he was named after your father, Robert, who was remembered by your brother's first-born, another Robert. Robert, of course, is my Christian name. My uncle, Robert Austin Ford, has a son named Jesse James Ford. You have blue eyes; I have blue eyes. You're five feet eight inches tall; I'm five feet eight inches tall. We're both hot-tempered and impulsive and devil-may-care. Smith and Wesson is our preferred make of revolver. There's the same number of letters and syllables in our names; I mean, Jesse James and Robert Ford. Oh me, I must've had a list as long as your nightshirt when I was twelve, but I lost some curiosities over the years.

unbuttoned her blazer and revealed she’d been concealing three deadly weapons. While all were respective thirty-eights and all were equally special, only one was a Smith & Wesson.

Bakın sözcükler şaşmaz bir kesinliğe sahip küçük makinelerdir, inanın bana, insan sözcükleri kullanmasını bilmiyorsa hiç kullanmasın daha iyi...

Yanlış bir yazgının büyüklüğünü durdurmak için artık çok geç kalınmış olduğu halde, küçük kusurları tuhafça düzeltme gereksinimiydi benimkisi.

RACHEL: [...] Ci aspettavamo un sacco di cose dalla vita, non abbiamo combinato niente, stiamo scivolando giù nel nulla e lo stiamo facendo in un buco di culo dove una splendida cascata ogni giorno ci ricorda che la miseria è un'invenzione degli uomini e la grandezza il normale andazzo del mondo. Potremmo spararci, ma non abbiamo neanche i soldi per comprare una pistola. Quindi siamo nella merda, tutti e tre, e una sola cosa ci può salvare. WESSON: Sarebbe? RACHEL: Il nostro talento.

Ama olmadı işte, çoğu kez beklenen olmaz. Ekilir, biçilir ama iki şey arasında çoğunlukla bir bağlantı yoktur. Olduğunu öğretirler sana ama... bilmem, ben hiç görmedim. Zaman olur ekersin, zaman olur biçersin, o kadar... İşte bunun için bilgelik gereksiz bir kural, hüzün doğru olmayan bir duygudur, her zaman. O gün özenle ektik, hayal, çılgınlık ve yetenek ektik. Ne biçtik, belirsiz bir meyve: bizi her zaman güzel ve gizemli kılacak bir anının güzel ışığını ve bir duygulanmanın ayrıcalığını.

Le avrei dovuto dire che tanti saltano nello stesso modo via dalla loro vita, oltre se stessi, rischiando tutto per sentirsi davvero vivi. Avrei dovuto dirle che tutti lo fanno chiusi nelle loro paure. Un posto piccolissimo, molto nero, dove sei solo, e fai fatica a respirare. Non c'è nulla che si possa fare per cambiare le cose e già si è fortunati se qualcuno ha avuto per noi l'attenzione di mettere una piccola musica, là dentro; o se capita di avere un amico ad aspettarci in un'ansa del fiume per riportarci a casa, in una qualche casa.

Here's a good one. God made man. Guns made man equal. Guns are the legacy of liberty. Just because...just because our magazine doesn't feature a naked woman on the cover! Hell, no, there's no naked women. The sickos would rather squeeze a trigger than a woman's breast. Guns are good old boys! They got them wham-whap two-fisted names, like...like Savage, Colt, Ruger, Baretta, Sigs, Winchester... Springfield! Browning! Luger. Smith & Wesson. Remington Viper. Glock. Don't forget Glock! Markov, Walther! H and K. Mauser parabellum. Anschutz. Magnum! All sorts of mags. I quit, you win. Mags are it.

Of more interest was the weapon Watts carried in a shoulder holster on her ride side. The movement had caused her jacket to open a little, exposing the side arm. A Glock Model 22, chambered with .40 Smith & Wesson ammunition. Effective range, up to 50 metres. Standard issue for Agency security personnel.

IN THE FALL, with his wife in the basement studying Latin, Winston Ma, once Ma Sih Hsuin to everyone who knew him, sits under the crumbling mulberry and, with Verdi’s Macbeth blasting out the bedroom window, puts a Smith & Wesson 686 with hardwood grips up to his temple and spreads the workings of his infinite being across the flagstones of the backyard.

Tim collected his gifts within the metal hoop and then pestered Santa for more, investigating pockets, sticking his hands into straw, lifting the sides of the red coat until he contacted a Smith and Wesson revolver. The boy snatched his hand back as if it were burnt and scowled at the man in the red suit. "You're not Santa Claus; you're Daddy." Charley called across the room, "He's one of Santa's helpers!" Jesse sat low in the chair with his boots kicked out, drew off the soft red cap by its cotton ball, then reached out and snuggled Tim close to his chest. He said, "Let me tell you a secret, son: there's always a mean old wolf in Grandma's bed, and a worm inside the apple. There's always a daddy inside the Santa suit. It's a world of trickery.

You can remember how it was, because you weren't really any different. You could believe the things that people told you, too. Their words were gospel, and you trusted them. You believed because you were sixteen…or seventeen…or eighteen. You believed because your dreams had started running up against the Line like it was a brick wall that didn't have a single crack. And you believed—most of all—because you had to. You needed to believe that someone could get out of this town, same way you needed to believe that that someone just might be you. And you held onto that belief. You had to. You held on, and it saw you through the Run, saw you crowned the winner. And it saw you down the black road to a cleared patch of dirt in a cornfield, a spot where Jerry Ricks's Smith & Wesson took all your dreams away.

Ona yardımcı olmak için söyleyebileceğim şeyi, ancak o günü, atlayışını, çılgınlığını daha sonra düşündükten sonra, yani çok geç anladım. Birçok insanın aynı şekilde, kendilerini gerçekten canlı hissetmek için, her şeyi tehlikeye sokarak, hayatlarından, ayrıca kendilerinden dışarı atladıklarını söylemem gerekirdi. Hepsinin, kendilerini korkularının içine, korkularının havasız fıçısına kapatarak bunu yaptıklarını ona söylemem gerekirdi. Orası çok küçük, çok karanlıktır, içinde yalnızsındır, soluk almakta güçlük çekersin. Olayları değiştirmek için yapılabilecek hiçbir şey yoktur; eğer birileri bizim için oraya küçük bir müzik koyma özenini göstermişse şanslıyız demektir; ya da bizi eve, herhangi bir eve götürmek üzere nehrin bir kıvrıntısında bekleyen bir dostumuz varsa kendimizi yine şanslı hissedebiliriz. Ona bunu söylemem gerekirdi.

WESSON: Volare giù dalle cascate e non morire... nessuno lo dice, ma qui è il sogno di tutti. SMITH: Ma da quando? WESSON: Da sempre. Noi campiamo delle cascate, ma loro fanno quel che vogliono. L'unico modo sarebbe quello di entrarci dentro e uscirne vivi. E' da sempre che ci aspettiamo che qualcuno lo faccia. SMITH: Sono cinquanta metri che finiscono nell'inferno, Wesson! WESSON: Sì, ma una strada c'è. Me l'ha insegnata mio padre.

We were scarecrows in blue uniforms. After a grand total of five days of blackboard instruction and fifty rounds at the NYPD firing range, my new police academy classmates and I were standing out on the sidewalks of central Brooklyn pretending to be police officers. They gave us badges. They gave us handcuffs. They gave us guns—standard police-issue Smith & Wesson .38 Specials. They told us, “Good luck.” In early July 1966, riots had broken out in East New York, Bedford-Stuyvesant, and Brownsville, Brooklyn. Hundreds of angry young men were roaming the streets and throwing bottles and rocks. Already they had injured police officers and attempted to flip over a radio car. On one corner, police found eighteen Molotov cocktails. The borough commander was calling for reinforcements—and fast.

On the evening of Wednesday, June 22, 1955, there was an official re-election ceremony being held on the open porch behind the Executive Mansion. As usual it was hot and steamy in Monrovia and without air-conditioning the country’s President and several members of his administration were taking in the cooler, but still damp, night air. Without warning, several shots were fired in the direction of the President. In the dark all that could be seen were the bright flashes from a pistol. Two men, William Hutchins, a guard, and Daniel Derrick, a member of the national legislature, fell wounded, but fortunately President Tubman had escaped harm and was hurried back into the building. In the dark no one was certain, but Paul Dunbar was apparently seen by someone in the garden behind the mansion. James Bestman, a presidential security agent, subdued and apprehended the alleged shooter in the Executive Pavilion, best known for its concrete painted animals. It was said that Bestman had used his .38 caliber “Smith and Wesson,” revolver. Members of the opposition party were accused of participating in the assassination plot and a dragnet was immediately cast to round up the alleged perpetrators. It didn’t take long before the son of former President William Coleman, Samuel David Coleman, was indicted, as was his son John. The following day, warrants for the arrest of Former President Barclay, and others in opposition to Tubman, were also issued for allegedly being accomplices. Coleman and his son fled to Clay-Ashland, a township 15 miles north of Monrovia in the St. Paul River District of Montserrado County. Photo Caption: The (former) Liberian Executive Mansion.

Honest to God, I hadn’t meant to start a bar fight. “So. You’re the famous Jordan Amador.” The demon sitting in front of me looked like someone filled a pig bladder with rotten cottage cheese. He overflowed the bar stool with his gelatinous stomach, just barely contained by a white dress shirt and an oversized leather jacket. Acid-washed jeans clung to his stumpy legs and his boots were at least twice the size of mine. His beady black eyes started at my ankles and dragged upward, past my dark jeans, across my black turtleneck sweater, and over the grey duster around me that was two sizes too big. He finally met my gaze and snorted before continuing. “I was expecting something different. Certainly not a black girl. What’s with the name, girlie?” I shrugged. “My mother was a religious woman.” “Clearly,” the demon said, tucking a fat cigar in one corner of his mouth. He stood up and walked over to the pool table beside him where he and five of his lackeys had gathered. Each of them was over six feet tall and were all muscle where he was all fat. “I could start to examine the literary significance of your name, or I could ask what the hell you’re doing in my bar,” he said after knocking one of the balls into the left corner pocket. “Just here to ask a question, that’s all. I don’t want trouble.” Again, he snorted, but this time smoke shot from his nostrils, which made him look like an albino dragon. “My ass you don’t. This place is for fallen angels only, sweetheart. And we know your reputation.” I held up my hands in supplication. “Honest Abe. Just one question and I’m out of your hair forever.” My gaze lifted to the bald spot at the top of his head surrounded by peroxide blonde locks. “What’s left of it, anyway.” He glared at me. I smiled, batting my eyelashes. He tapped his fingers against the pool cue and then shrugged one shoulder. “Fine. What’s your question?” “Know anybody by the name of Matthias Gruber?” He didn’t even blink. “No.” “Ah. I see. Sorry to have wasted your time.” I turned around, walking back through the bar. I kept a quick, confident stride as I went, ignoring the whispers of the fallen angels in my wake. A couple called out to me, asking if I’d let them have a taste, but I didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, I headed to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was empty, so I whipped out my phone and dialed the first number in my Recent Call list. “Hey. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him. They’re lousy liars when they’re drunk. Uh-huh. Okay, see you in five.” I hung up and let out a slow breath. Only a couple things left to do. I gathered my shoulder-length black hair into a high ponytail. I looped the loose curls around into a messy bun and made sure they wouldn’t tumble free if I shook my head too hard. I took the leather gloves in the pocket of my duster out and pulled them on. Then, I walked out of the bathroom and back to the front entrance. The coat-check girl gave me a second unfriendly look as I returned with my ticket stub to retrieve my things—three vials of holy water, a black rosary with the beads made of onyx and the cross made of wood, a Smith & Wesson .9mm Glock complete with a full magazine of blessed bullets and a silencer, and a worn out page of the Bible. I held out my hands for the items and she dropped them on the counter with an unapologetic, “Oops.” “Thanks,” I said with a roll of my eyes. I put the Glock back in the hip holster at my side and tucked the rest of the items in the pockets of my duster. The brunette demon crossed her arms under her hilariously oversized fake breasts and sent me a vicious sneer. “The door is that way, Seer. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.” I smiled back. “God bless you.” She let out an ugly hiss between her pearly white teeth. I blew her a kiss and walked out the door. The parking lot was packed outside now that it was half-past midnight. Demons thrived in darkness, so I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’d been counting on it.

Sky's The Limit" [Intro] Good evening ladies and gentlemen How's everybody doing tonight I'd like to welcome to the stage, the lyrically acclaimed I like this young man because when he came out He came out with the phrase, he went from ashy to classy I like that So everybody in the house, give a warm round of applause For the Notorious B.I.G The Notorious B.I.G., ladies and gentlemen give it up for him y'all [Verse 1] A nigga never been as broke as me - I like that When I was young I had two pair of Lees, besides that The pin stripes and the gray The one I wore on Mondays and Wednesdays While niggas flirt I'm sewing tigers on my shirts, and alligators You want to see the inside, I see you later Here comes the drama, oh, that's that nigga with the fake, blaow Why you punch me in my face, stay in your place Play your position, here come my intuition Go in this nigga pocket, rob him while his friends watching And hoes clocking, here comes respect His crew's your crew or they might be next Look at they man eye, big man, they never try So we rolled with them, stole with them I mean loyalty, niggas bought me milks at lunch The milks was chocolate, the cookies, butter crunch 88 Oshkosh and blue and white dunks, pass the blunts [Hook: 112] Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want, have what you want, be what you want [Verse 2] I was a shame, my crew was lame I had enough heart for most of them Long as I got stuff from most of them It's on, even when I was wrong I got my point across They depicted me the boss, of course My orange box-cutter make the world go round Plus I'm fucking bitches ain't my homegirls now Start stacking, dabbled in crack, gun packing Nickname Medina make the seniors tote my Niñas From gym class, to English pass off a global The only nigga with a mobile can't you see like Total Getting larger in waists and tastes Ain't no telling where this felon is heading, just in case Keep a shell at the tip of your melon, clear the space Your brain was a terrible thing to waste 88 on gates, snatch initial name plates Smoking spliffs with niggas, real-life beginner killers Praying God forgive us for being sinners, help us out [Hook] [Verse 3] After realizing, to master enterprising I ain't have to be in school by ten, I then Began to encounter with my counterparts On how to burn the block apart, break it down into sections Drugs by the selections Some use pipes, others use injections Syringe sold separately Frank the Deputy Quick to grab my Smith & Wesson like my dick was missing To protect my position, my corner, my lair While we out here, say the Hustlers Prayer If the game shakes me or breaks me I hope it makes me a better man Take a better stand Put money in my mom's hand Get my daughter this college grant so she don't need no man Stay far from timid Only make moves when your heart's in it And live the phrase sky's the limit Motherfuckers See you chumps on top [Hook]

One time I saw her nail a guy in the ass with a Smith & Wesson because he stole a bag of chips from her. She takes hangry to another level.

lie. She makes a note to call her sisters and discuss the Wheaton collapse. Parents on the fritz. What to do? But long-distance to the East Coast is two dollars a minute, if you don’t have a magic shoe phone. She decides to write them both that weekend. But that weekend is her ceramic sintering conference in Rotterdam, and the letters slip her mind. IN THE FALL, with his wife in the basement studying Latin, Winston Ma, once Ma Sih Hsuin to everyone who knew him, sits under the crumbling mulberry and, with Verdi’s Macbeth blasting out the bedroom window, puts a Smith & Wesson 686 with hardwood grips up to his temple and spreads the workings of his infinite being across the flagstones of the backyard. He leaves no note except a calligraphic copy of Wang Wei’s twelve-hundred-year-old poem left unfurled on parchment across the desk in his study: An old man, I want only peace.

But she’s definitely more Lord and Taylor than Smith and Wesson.

Now ‘means’ is how she died, the method. Her throat was slashed with a knife. Blood everywhere. What kind of human would do something so horrible to their mate?” “Precisely, much too messy,” Winston said. “Why not use a gun? Very impersonal. Something simple, like a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver.” “My Fresno human had the Revolver album,” said Meatloaf. “H played it a lot. He said he Beatles explored new ground with their work.” “A gun?” I said. “Too loud. The neighbors would hear and call the cops.” “What about hitting her on the head?” asked Gizmo. “That’s quiet. Messy, maybe - but quiet.” Meatloaf spoke up again. “I been hit with a newspaper, it makes a loud sound. Whack! Right on the butt.” “A crowbar. Silent but deadly.” “Who carries a crowbar? It would be something like a tire iron.” “Or a golf club.” “Everybody around here plays golf.” The pack nodded.

From another desk drawer, I removed a Smith & Wesson .38 police special, clicked off the safety, thumbed a cartridge up into the empty chamber, slipped the safety back on, and dropped the heavy weapon in my jacket pocket. I left the living room, leaving the rent collection ledger and the duplicate

A Smith & Wesson beats four aces

Waterman describes one attack in vivid, angry detail: A party of whites, in April 1871, pursued a band of Indians with dogs. They located them in a cave across a narrow gulch, and shot a number of them, finally entering the cave itself. Here they found a lot of dried meat, and some small children. The hero of the occasion, being a humane man, a person of fine sensibilities and delicacy of feeling, could not bear to kill these babies - at any rate, not with the heavy 56-calibre Spencer rifle he was carrying. ‘It tore them up too bad.’ So he shot them with his 38-calibre Smith and Wesson revolver. The

The guns were Smith & Wesson Sigma .40s, which were modern part-polymer weapons, and expensive. They were both fully loaded.

the idea I'm lesbo or nothing," she explained. "I just ain't ever gotten around to taking 'em down. Willie passed two years ago—shot himself with that Smith and Wesson right there." She nodded to the case mounted on the wall. "I'm sorry to hear that.

I want the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson,” Candy said. “I have a silver snakeskin belt that will go perfectly with it.” “Done, girl. Style points are always appreciated. We may be robbing this joint, but there is no excuse for looking tacky.” Terry

The Smith and Wesson was stainless steel, as opposed to black. Easy to see in the dark. I could also hear him pull back the hammer. You do that on a revolver, not a semiautomatic.” “And the Beretta?” “I can’t be sure of the exact make, but it had a floating barrel in the style of Beretta.” “As

Smith & Wesson Model 642,” I

Two old maids who wanted to hire me had asked me to tea, so I’d treated my nails to a fresh coat of raspberry pink and put on a hat that matched and a Smith & Wesson that didn’t.

He removes one hand from the binoculars, checks the lumpy shape under his blanket, resting on his lap. It’s his backup weapon from when he was on the job, a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special. Ronald nods

The knife in his boot and the Smith & Wesson strapped to his ribs had been enough to get him through the past ten years flying intercept missions with the DEA into South America, breaking up the drug trade. Surely they would be enough to see him through this little exercise in neighborhood push and shove. But just as surely, he didn’t want to talk about them.

You bet that sweet ass I want to read it. Come on. We’ll talk about this kick-ass book of yours on the way to the doctor.” He leans in and places a kiss against my stomach before standing up. “Time to figure out if I need to buy stock in Smith & Wesson or Magnum.

Before he could stand, he heard a familiar metallic click ring out. It was the slide on his pistol, racking back. A bright red dot pierced through the darkness and crawled up Ted’s shirt. It flared across his eyes, then landed at his forehead. His Smith and Wesson pistol was equipped with an integrated laser sight.

The answer came all too quickly. Ducking aside behind the door, Laila desperately grabbed for the weapon that was kept on a shelf running along one wall. It was a Smith & Wesson revolver, its six chambers loaded with armour-piercing rounds. Tarek had once explained to her that weapons which used magazines couldn’t be left loaded for long because the constant tension would weaken the magazine springs, causing them to misfire. Revolvers, on the other hand, could be kept almost indefinitely, ready to be used at any time.

Smith & Wesson 9mm—satin finished, stainless steel and loaded with eight rounds of XTPs.

Un pays armé jusqu'aux dents, enclin à la violence, trouve qu'il est parfaitement raisonnable de munir ses forces de l'ordre d'armes et de l'autorité d'en faire usage. Aux États-Unis, seul un flic à le droit de tuer à l'aune de son jugement et de son initiative personnelle. A cette gin, Scotty McCown et trois mille autres hommes et femmes étaient déployés dans les rues de Baltimore avec Smith & Wesson calibre .38 pour lequel ils recevaient une formation au tir de quelques semaines et un passage annuel au stand de tir de la police. On considère que cette formation, alliée au bon jugement de chaque officier, constitue un savoir suffisant pour prendre la bonne décision à tous les coups. C'est un mensonge.

Smith and Wesson 357 magnum

He walked to it, shoved his hand inside and came up with a thirty-five caliber Smith and Wesson. He held it in his hand, hefting it. Then he ejected the cartridge case, checked it and socked it back into the gun.

Smith & Wesson .45 revolver.

I retired Wild Bill's Navy Colt pistol a while back and replaced it with a Smith & Wesson .460 hunting pistol. The thing is so big and mean it doesn't even need bullets. I could beat Godzilla to death with it if I stood on a chair.

Ashley drew the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter

pass the sign hammered into the front yard’s overgrown lawn, warning the house is protected by Smith & Wesson, and I laugh quietly to myself in the darkness. I know a gun isn’t going to save her tonight.

His arm hooked around one rung of the ladder to keep himself from drifting away in the current, Tex screwed the suppressor into the threaded muzzle of the Smith & Wesson. The first pair of guards were right above him—separated now, one moving to starboard, the other to port. Shifting the pistol to his left hand, he reached out, pulling himself carefully up on the ladder, water cascading off his wetsuit. Footsteps above him and the big man paused, pressing himself tight against the side of the boat. Scarce daring to breathe. And then they passed. Even separated as they were, the two men still maintained an open line of sight, Tex realized as he raised himself up just high enough to obtain a visual. Weighing his options. He gave scarcely a moment’s consideration to the dive knife strapped to his ankle before rejecting it. The idea of a knife as a “silent” means of killing was largely a myth—perpetuated by Hollywood and untold scores of novelists over the decades.

His big hands moved quickly, efficiently, over the hard polymer—re-assembling the Smith & Wesson M&P Compact he’d brought with him across the unguarded border with France. No borders. It was a lofty idea, in theory. In reality, it only served to make the work of men like him easier. He lifted the semi-automatic pistol in one hand, sliding a full double-stacked magazine into the grip. Twelve rounds of 9mm Federal Hydra-Shok, jacketed hollowpoints. Carrying hardball wouldn’t have been of much use—pistol rounds weren’t going to go through good body armor on the best of days. The Smith & Wesson went into a holster under his armpit, in a cross-draw position. Another pair of loaded magazines went into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. Along with a long, thin suppressor.

He fired once, twice—the Smith & Wesson’s throaty cough drowned out in the hail of fully-automatic fire. The first round splintered the frame of the door near the sergeant’s head. The second buried itself in his shoulder. To his credit, he didn’t drop the rifle, but it gave Tex all the opening he needed. The semiautomatic came up, steady in both hands as he fired two more shots—almost as one, a single ragged hole opening where the bridge of the sergeant’s nose had once been

That Lecia sends her son’s outgrown slick leather jackets and that fancy loafers come free never strikes me as fortune. Nor does my subsidized rent. Nor the fancy Harvard doctors Dev has through Warren’s job. Nor the Minks’ ongoing calls and letters. I have a gaze that blanks out luck any time I face it, like a black box over the eyes of a porn star. Whap and thunk. I compose my Christmas list for my in-laws, who always give exactly what you ask for—nothing more, nothing less. This year I’ve asked for a crockpot, but I secretly long for a Smith & Wesson. The machine jams. I resist the urge to step back five yards and head-butt it repeatedly. By fumbling around on the side, I locate some kind of handle and pull. I stare at the machine’s innards. For one thousand years I could ponder here before any useful action came to me.

Free body piercing by Smith & Wesson.

she took the firearm from her purse.  A Smith & Wesson .38 Special six- shot revolver, Luisa placed it on the seat beside her.

He had no use for guns—these were for people who didn’t know how to use words. Or, to quote him, “I don’t need no Smith and Wesson, man, I got Merriam and Webster.

Smith & Wesson .38 Magnum revolver

priced at $25 was not a bad buy, but only 977 were manufactured from 1880 to 1885.

Raphel, then still Johnson, started dating a young Rhodes Scholar and fellow University of Washington graduate, Frank Aller, and befriended his roommates: Strobe Talbott, who would go on to become a journalist and deputy secretary of state, and an aspiring politician named Bill Clinton. In their modest house at 46 Leckford Road in North Oxford, the friends spent hours agonizing over the threat of the draft. Clinton and Aller were both classified as “1-A”—available to be drafted—and both opposed the war. Clinton considered various strategies for avoiding the draft but ultimately decided against them, as he put it, “to maintain my political viability within the system.” Aller, on the other hand, stayed in England, on the run from the draft and agonized by the resulting stigma. A year later, he went home to Spokane, put a .22-caliber Smith & Wesson in his mouth, and blew his brains out.

Let’s rewind a little. Back to this morning. Back to the house. Back to Foster. Joe’s still got my revolver—a Smith and Wesson Model 36, in case you forgot. (Although I asked you not to. Take some fucking notes if this is too hard.)

Which reminds me,” I said. “You got my pistol?” “Smith.” “And Wesson?” “Ben Smith.

It’s a specialty item, handcrafted by the Dökkálfar and acid etched with runes of power—think the ill-behaved-Frankenstein-spawn of Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson.

Some made the long drop from the apartment or the office window; some took it quietly in two-car garages with the motor running; some used the native tradition of the Colt or Smith and Wesson; those well-constructed implements that end insomnia, terminate remorse, cure cancer, avoid bankruptcy, and blast an exit from intolerable positions by the pressure of a finger; those admirable American instruments so easily carried, so sure of effect, so well designed to end the American dream when it becomes a nightmare, their only drawback the mess they leave for relatives to clean up. The men he broke made all these various exits but that never worried him. Somebody had to lose and only suckers worried.