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I am interested in the human need to toy with the machines of war. I have noticed my sporting arms occasionally giving me the poison breath of burnt propellant gas or a love tap with a scope. Maybe it was my pistol caressing me with shards of unburnt powder from cheap ammo that got me started thinking that way...
... but easily the best range story (best- it means memorable, right) is this kid who lives about two blocks from me and whose daddy was a civil war renactor. The kid was ramming charge down a cannon and it had a spark evidently because the discharge removed his lower arm and I believe the elbow joint as well. He has had a prosthetic for a lot of years and does well, but man o man what a bad day at the range.
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The fine art of B.S. is not found in what is said, but in its plausibility.
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