#Colt Machine Gun

[cid5]

Belgian soldier with a Colt machine gun, ca. 1918. He .is wearing a modified US tunic

[n0tst0nks]

Love when I'm learning about some random well made late 19th century or early 20th century firearm and it's an impressive design that works well and I'm like wow maybe there were more good firearms designers out there than just the ones I know and then I look at the designer and it's John Browning. Every time you see a weapon from that era that isn't a mauser style bolt action you have to double check it's not a Browning.

[solitaryyconfinement]

I managed to archive many reposts from Natalie / Samantha Rupnow’s TikTok account (targetedbloodsport) before it was taken down at the end of December, and I finally brought myself to write a little summary of things about her that I found there.

(I didn’t mean to idolize her by writing this, just thought that digging into her daily internet life could be interesting + I was a little annoyed with amount of misinformations on social media regarding her case)

Ideologically: anti-liberal, right-wing, white supremacist, pro-Trump, anti-refugees and similar stuff. I didn’t see anything that would indicate her being a radical feminist, or even feminist at all. Quite the contrary, she rather mocked them. + I believe that I don’t need to really emphasize it here, but since many people, e.g. on Twitter, still believe in it: she also WASN’T trans (nor support them in any form), there’s lots of her childhood photos proving it.

Reposted a lot of tiktoks about love for nature, videos with cute animals etc. (one of the main themes on her profile), as well as about eco-terrorism.

Also reposted a lot of stuff regarding love for her boyfriend and being happy with him despite the distance. She wasn’t a femcel, although clearly had an interest in Elliot Rodger.

Shooters/other killers that she was a fan of/was interested in: Vladislav Roslyakov (+ mentioned in her manifesto, in which she stated that she „looked into him since like late 2021-2022”), Pekka-Eric Auvinen (+ mentioned in her manifesto), Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold (+ both mentioned in her manifesto), Elliot Rodger, Brenton Tarrant (e.g. reposted AI minions version of his shooting), Anders Breivik, Payton Gendron, Dylann Roof, Patrick Crusius (+ mentioned in her manifesto), Alexandre Bissonnette, Ted Kaczynski, Luigi Mangione, Guilherme Taucci Monteiro (+ mentioned in her manifesto), and Luiz Henrique de Castro, Timur Bekmansurov, Cho Seung-hui, Juraj Krajčík, Vyacheslav Zinchenko, Colt Gray, Varg Vikernes. Also: Arda Küçükyetim (mentioned in her manifesto), Anton Lundin Pettersson (posted edit of him on Twitter - Postalbrained account), Adam Lanza (called herself a „Sandy Hook Truth finder and writer” in one of her tweets - Rotten_Rc account), Mikhail Pivnev (Twitter pfp - Postalbrained account), Daniil Zasorin (Discord pfp), Alina Afanaskina (liked a post about her on Tumblr), Dmitry Vinogradov (mocked a guy who didn’t know him, Twitter - Rotten_Rc account), Jeffrey Dahmer (created Spotify playlist themed around him on September 2022, shortly after the Netflix series - so far her earliest found connection to true crime, along with researching Roslyakov). She didn't like Audrey Hale (reposted tiktok about cops who killed her), Nikolas Cruz (made fun of him on Tumblr) and Salvador Ramos (called him a huge fag on Twitter - Rotten_Rc account).

Music that she listened to: KMFDM (obviously; also all related stuff like MDFMK or discography of Tim Skold), Alex G, TV Girl, Nirvana, Blod Besvimelse, Crystal Castles, Frank Sinatra, ABBA, musical The Phantom of the Opera, Gioacchino Rossini (specifically reposted about William Tell Overture), Rokiczanka (song „W moim ogródecku”). Also, from her Spotify and Volf.fm: Mindless Self Indulgence, Radiohead, Deftones, System Of a Down, Rammstein, Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Misfits, Queen, The Smiths, Marilyn Manson, Fried By Fluoride, dj trippie flameboy, Goreshit, Kitty Gore, Memo Boy, Rory in early 20s, Columbine Carcass, BONES (including album „TeenWitch”), Sematary, Tanin Jazz, Katya Sambuca (song „Клан”), Joost, Melanie Martinez, IC3PEAK, She Wants Revenge, MGMT, The Smashing Pumpkins, Gorillaz, Slipknot, Eminem, Kate Bush, Nick Cave, Chemlab, Acumen Nation, Sister Machine Gun, Made Of Pain, Killing Joke, Decalius, Nightmare At Hanging Rock (including song „Columbine”), grandson, salvia palth, BRN1NG BRA1N SOUND INDUSTRIES, 4ut1st, heelflip, Kroka Koka, German Error Message, Alan Aztec, Tyler The Creator, The Neighbourhood, Lana Del Rey, Sufjan Stevens, Lady Gaga, Mitski, Billie Eilish, Grimes, Ayesha Erotica, Ski Aggu, The Living Tombstone, Andreas Rönnberg, Ensemble Vanya + Liliana Bush & Daria Scherbak (their „Russian Cyberfolk Song”), soundtrack from the game NEEDY STREAMER OVERLOAD.

Movies/shows that she liked: Donnie Darko, Dead Poets Society, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Evangelion (especially Asuka), Azumanga Daioh (especially Osaka), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (had the main character on her pfp), Fight Club (both videos that she uploaded there herself were related to that film, with Tyler Durden / Narrator's monologue about insomnia, and song „Where Is My Mind?” by Pixies), Taxi Driver, Joker (though didn’t like the second movie), American Psycho, A Clockwork Orange, Zero Hour (episode about Columbine), Zero Day, Elephant, Klass, Duck! The Carbine High Massacre, The Dirties, Dexter, The Boys (mainly Homelander), Inglourious Basterds (mainly Hans Landa), Breaking Bad, Terrifier, Creep, The Shining, All Quiet on the Western Front, Kill Bill (repost about Gogo Yubari), Saw, Arcane, Lucky Star, Girls und Panzer, Titanic, The Notebook, 500 Days of Summer, Mysterious Skin, Suicide Room, Lilja 4-ever. + was a fan of Ryan Gosling. Also liked Tumblr posts about the movie Lisa Frankenstein and J.D. from Heathers.

Games that she played: Postal (+ wrote a positive review on Steam about it) Manhunt, Half-Life (+ Cry of Fear), Left 4 Dead, Bloodborne, Silent Hill, Minecraft, Doki Doki Literature Club, Yandere Simulator. Also Genshin Impact (she streamed herself playing it on Twitch approx. 5 months prior to the attack) and (from her Xboxgamertag account): DOOM, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Fortnite (streamed it on Twitch as well).

Many of her reposts were centered around Russia and Poland (about their memes, history, military or „aesthetic” + also shared a tiktok showing them dividing the territory of Ukraine), as well as other European countries like Germany, Serbia, Finland, Sweden or Norway. As an additional info, her Duolingo account shows that she was learning German and Russian.

Reposted tiktoks about novels of Kafka and Dostoevsky.

Reposted tiktoks about Russian neo-nazi Dmitry Borovikov.

Reposted tiktoks about Gleb Korablev and Ukrainian suicide duo Vika & Vova.

Reposted tiktoks about GypsyCrusader.

Reposted tiktoks about looksmaxxing.

Reposted tiktoks about hating school, hating popular girls/popular kids in general, „feeling like a burden to everyone”, witnessing parents arguing with each other etc.

Bonus: reposted tiktok about hating TCC girls that are making edits of school shooters to KMFDM songs. Didn’t age too well.

The marked things are the ones that were most likely to be her favorites (e.g. movies that she reposted the most tiktoks about, perpetrators that were the most ideologically similar to her etc.)

I couldn’t add more than 30 screenshots at one time, so I’ll maybe make another post for them. UPDATE: part 2.

[draconic-desire]

💥 Take My Whiskey Neat 💥

Yandere Boothill x Reader

Again and again, you find a way to escape, and every time ends with you peering down the barrel of a gun.

Warnings: Yandere behaviors, forced relationship and captivity, implied kidnapping, some suggestive content but mostly sfw. Mild spoilers for his background story; I want to write him both as a super attentive and protective guy but also crazy for you???

You’ve become all too familiar with the sensation of a gun being pointed to your forehead.

“Aw, darlin’, why the long face? Took me two whole days to find ya this round! You should be proud’a yerself. I dare say our time together has taught you well,” he concludes with a wink.

Somehow, his praise feels more like a taunt.

That’s because it is. Obviously you never had a chance at escaping from him, a Galaxy Ranger with a bounty on his head worth more than your life a hundred times over. He was born and raised to hunt, to track, to kill. You’re just the unlucky target.

He leans the gun ever so slightly closer to you, mere inches before it can graze your skin, and waits for your response. Although you know he won’t pull the trigger, the sight of the 9 millimeter colt aimed directly between your eyes still sends goose flesh skittering down your arms.

You grit your teeth and pin him with a withering glare. The last thing you’ll relinquish is your pride—you’re not intimidated by him, and it is impressive that you evaded him for so long, relatively speaking. Your other escape attempts lasted mere hours.

Unfortunately, the fact that the Ranger has always traveled alone doesn’t help your chances—especially when lately, his only occupation has been you.

“What, no clap back today? No, ‘fudge you, ya son of a nice lady’ or ‘fork you, shirtbaggin’ bootlicker’? I’ve gotten so used to yer colorful language that I’m almost disappointed!” Boothill tilts the gun and juts his hips, his bullseye gaze locked on your own.

Ignoring the subtle look of longing, of hurt, within their depths is getting harder and harder. He’s superb at hiding it behind jokes and attempted curses, but you know that look. He’s clinging to you after all that’s been taken from him, seeking love after it was destroyed in flames. If only he still held onto his human emotions and didn’t rely on that neuro chip of his; then he’d know that what he’s showing you isn’t love, but obsession.

You wish you had never extended your kindness to him that fateful day, when he’d burst into your home, sparks flying and wires exposed. One of his arms was barely attached, completely torn through with bullet holes. A shootout, he’d said, and he’d caught wind of a handy ‘machine doctor’—a mechanic, you’d corrected him—in town who could fix him right up.

It had taken a full two weeks for you to get him back up and running functionally. Two weeks of evading IPC grunts knocking on your door in search of him, two weeks of tolerating (and fine, maybe even enjoying) his crude jokes, and two weeks of stories over a glass of whiskey, about your hope to one day travel among the stars and his of finding a companion to do so with.

That’s when he’d seemed the most human. Voice tinged with sorrow, yes, but lips curved into a morose smile, eyes looking up at the stars. Reminiscing about when he was still fully human, nothing but a cowboy on a seemingly insignificant planet, surrounded by his adopted parents and siblings, and even that little girl whom he never got to see grow up.

After he’d shared his story, you’d felt the sudden urge to be close to him. Without thinking, you’d brought your hand up to his cheek, wiping an invisible tear despite the fact that he lost his tear ducts long ago.

He’d sucked in a breath and gone deadly still; thinking you misjudged the situation and overstepped a boundary, you’d quickly started to jerk your hand back, only for him to lock it firmly against his face with his metal palm.

His voice, normally loud and clear through the synthesized distortion, had been quiet, low, wavering. “I—please, don’t stop. That feels…nice.”

You were sad to see him go after those two weeks. You honestly expected to never see him again—he was a Galaxy Ranger, after all, the definition of a lone wolf—but to your surprise, his visits didn’t end there. He kept returning again and again, and not just for repairs. Sometimes he’d bring you gifts or tell you stories of his hunt, and you’d cherish those moments when the galaxy felt just a bit less lonely with him.

Then the visits started to increase in their frequency—and intensity. He’d show up while you were working with a client and brazenly threaten them to leave so he could occupy your time instead, or he’d appear on your doorstep in the middle of the night with your favorite bottle of liquor, winking at the sight of your embarrassed form, still in your nightclothes. Your world suddenly seemed to revolve around the gunslinging cyborg.

You’d had to put your foot down—as much as you did enjoy his company, you wouldn’t allow him to interfere with your career. You’d worked hard to gain your skills, and even though you were barely scraping by and living in a tiny, modest home by yourself, you were still proud of what you’d achieved on your own.

His initial reaction was an uncharacteristic and frightening bout of silence, his pupils blown wide, locked onto yours. Just as quickly, his typical smirk returned as he laughed it off. “Just watch out, lil cutie, ‘cause I know you’ll be missin’ me soon.”

Apparently, soon was imminent, immediate. You were pouring yourself a drink after a long week of work when he finally kicked down your door and announced you’d be coming with him.

“I’ve been waiting a long while now to claim you, darlin’.”

“And if I refuse?”

That was the first time you witnessed his gun trained on you.

Now, Boothill drags you along everywhere, hopping from one planet or system to the next, living together as nomads. What you believed to be a serendipitous friendship, he thought was the start of your romance and life together.

It would be thrilling in any other circumstance, treading the path of The Hunt, evading the law, tracking down the IPC members who destroyed his family…except the cyborg transferred that need to protect, to save someone, onto you. You have no choice but to be his now, and he’ll be damned if he ever lets you go.

“You just want to hear me curse because you can’t,” you growl. What a stupid argument to be having with a pistol to your head. Yet you can’t help but siphon all of your anger into this dumb little game of cat and mouse, of shark and minnow, of hunter and bird.

He forgets you’re not the only one armed.

You flash him the most vulgar gesture you can make. “Go fuck yourself, Boothill.”

The cowboy throws his head back in a laugh. “Haha! There she is. Wild as a newborn colt.” He grins, flashing those shark teeth you’d groan to loathe. You’ve lost count of the number of puncture marks and scars they’ve littered across your flesh.

That’s something he can’t seem to get enough of—the feel of your warm, organic, human skin against his cold, steel shell.

“Lan shoot me with an arrow, do you ever shut the fuck up?” you grumble, looking up as if the Aeon will give you an answer.

“Think ya already know the answer to that,” he replies, lowering his weapon to sling his opposite arm around your shoulders. The gun hangs languidly from his other hand, as if he’s not the deadliest shot in the galaxy.

His breath brushes your neck as he leans in and nips at your ear. “Now, how ‘bout we take this back home, eh cutie? Two days without you has got me pretty…” His voice drops an octave. “…pent up, if ya know what I mean.”

The tooth marks along your skin flare. Oh, you know all too well.

~*~

Trying to find the solution to your imprisonment at the bottom of a bottle seems like a really clever idea, at least until the room starts spinning.

The empty glass cracks against the wooden table again as brown liquor burns down your throat. What did he call it? Rocket fuel? Damn right, and you’d lost count of the number of shots you’d taken.

Boothill’s normal smirk is contorted into a small frown. “Darlin’, I know it’s been a long couple’a days away for you, but I think we should retire the whiskey for the time being—”

“Shyut up!” you slur, jabbing a finger at the Ranger, your neck still throbbing from all the love bites and hickeys he’d given you. “Thiz is your fault.”

He reaches for the bottle, but you snatch it away and instead start to take pulls directly from it. A deep sigh reverberates behind you as you stand and begin to spin around, hands extended. “Aren’t we celebrating you catching me again? You got what you wanted, you…you mudder…fuuuu…” You sway and just barely catch yourself before you tumble—wait, no, that’s him steadying your shoulders.

“(Y/n).” You blink out of your haze momentarily; only on rare occasions does he use your name and not things like darling or cutie. His face is controlled, mouth tilted downward. “Put the bottle down. I know the feelin’ of wanting to drown in liquor, but it ain’t right.”

“I’m only like this because you took me from my life!”

He bares his teeth, and you know you hit a nerve. “That little shack you called a home? Was that really livin’? All those nights we talked, you said how you wanted grand adventure and risk! To travel and see the stars! To be with me!”

“I didn’t ask for you to put me in a moving cage,” you spit back, trying to shake out of his iron-clad grip. “But you never asked what I wanted, did you?”

“Why’s this all so hard for you to accept?” One hand moves to grab your chin, tilting your face towards his tall form. “It could be just us, ridin’ through the galaxy for all time.” His lips brush lightly against your own, and you feel a tinge of warmth run down your spine. “Just be mine.”

In your drunken stupor, your anger morphs into something else, something more carnal. He wants to be the predator? Well, even the hunted fight back sometimes.

The bottle drops from your hand, shattering against the floor, as you hook an arm around his neck and kiss him fervently, your tongue running along the edges of his pointed canines.

Before he can kiss you back, you pull away, wiping the back of your mouth with your forearm. “That’s what could have been if you hadn’t kidnapped me. If you’d asked me first.” Skipping over the remnants of the whiskey bottle, you flip him the finger over your shoulder as you walk away. “Too bad that’s all you’ll get. Fork you, Boothill.”

As soon as you leave the room, Boothill raises a metal digit to his lips, savoring the sensation of your warm mouth against his. So that’s what your willing kiss feels like. The true passion he knows is hidden deep in your soul, buried beneath the dirt like an unmarked grave. He releases a breathy laugh.

Well fork him sideways, but he wants more.

Taking his hat off, he sets it on the table and moves to pour himself a glass of sherry. He’s nearly positive he’ll find you passed out in bed if he goes to you now, and knows he shouldn’t, can’t be in the same room with you when his self control is so near to breaking. Better to let you sleep it off and tease you about the kiss in the morning.

Boothill kicks his feet up and takes a long sip. So, it turns out your drunken self may actually be harboring some attraction for him. Yeah, he can use that.

“I’ll have you someday,” he whispers, a promise to both you and himself. “Whiskey ain’t the only thing that’ll be on your lips, darlin’.”

[captain-price-unofficially]

1896 Columbia Model 40 bicycle with Colt machine gun, at the Bicycle Museum of America in New Bremen, Ohio

[doctorbitchcrxft]

In My Time of Dying | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ?)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, hospitals and death and fun stuff like that

Word Count: 2997

A/N: Surprise! It's time for season 2! And as an extra treat, I'm gonna publish episode 2 with this one since it's a little short. Happy reading!! Thank you guys for all the love and support!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You were completely pinned down beneath the side of the car that had been pushed into your lap in the accident. You clung to Dean still, afraid to move your upper-half and unable to move your bottom. You listened to the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat and willed him to stay alive for you.

Your eyes opened at the sound of Sam groaning.

“Sam!” you exclaimed. 

He groaned again, moving his head a little to the direction of the sound of your voice. “(Y/N)?”

Suddenly, the hinges were ripped off the driver’s side door to reveal the demon-possessed driver of the eighteen-wheeler that had struck the Impala.

“Back. Or I'll kill you, I swear to god,” Sam stated firmly.

“You won't. You're saving that bullet for someone else.”

Sam cocked the Colt. “You wanna bet?”

You looked on in fear before the demon poured out of the man, and he collapsed to the ground. You heard the sound of the gun uncocking, and Sam dropped his head back in relief.

“Oh my god!” you heard the trucker’s voice say. “Did I do this?”

“Dean, come on,” you whined. “Please.”

Sam called his brother’s name and told the trucker to call 911. He did so despite his panic. After what felt like forever, emergency services were to you. The EMTs had to pry you off of Dean, and you wailed in agony as they moved your sore body away from him. “No, please! I have to stay with him!”

“Ma’am, don’t fight us, please. We don’t want to hurt you more,” the EMT strapping you into a stretcher and neck brace said. She began to shout your blood pressure and vitals to the uniformed people surrounding you as you called out to Dean again. “Please! Just tell me he’s okay!”

No one would answer you.

“Is he even alive?!”

***

As soon as the doctors told you you could go see Dean, you leapt out of the bed as well as you could on your throbbing leg and bruised rib cage. Thankfully, that was as serious as your injuries got. You had no idea what the Winchesters’ situations were. 

You limped down the hallway to Dean’s room just down the hall from yours and took a sharp breath in horror. Wires were hooked up to every part of him. He was intubated, and machines steadily beeped around him. His chest was exposed with electrodes hooked up to it. His forehead had a deep cut running down the center of it, and his body remained lifeless. You tentatively walked over to his bedside and sat in the empty chair next to it. You held his hand tightly and kissed it repeatedly. “Dean, you have to come back to me, please.” Tears streamed down your face.

Sam walked in the room just after you did, giving you his puppy dog eyes at the sight of you holding his brother’s hand and Dean’s body. “Oh, no,” he said.

You dropped Dean’s hand long enough to hobble over to Sam and hug him as tightly as your damaged body would allow. “I’m so glad to see you, man. Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Are you?”

“All things considered, yeah,” you replied.

A doctor entered the room behind you and Sam. “Your father's awake. You can go see him if you like.”

“Doc, what about my brother?” Sam asked.

“Well, he sustained serious injury: blood loss, contusions to his liver and kidney. But it's the head trauma I'm worried about. There's early signs of cerebral edema,” the doctor explained.

“Well, what can we do?” You looked between Sam and the doctor worriedly. 

“Well, we won't know his full condition until he wakes up.” The doctor paused. “If he wakes up.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “If?”

“I have to be honest, most people with this degree of injury wouldn't have survived this long. He's fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations.”

Your chest felt like someone was squeezing the air out of you. You began to hyperventilate as you made your way back over to Dean. Using his bed for support, you eased yourself back down into the chair and picked up his hand again.

Sam looked at you sadly before exiting the room, presumably to go see his father.

“It’s gonna be fine,” you muttered. “John ‘ll know what to do. You’re gonna wake up, and I’m gonna tell you everything. You have to come back to me, so I can tell you.” Tears streamed steadily down your face. “You have to come back, Dee. You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you, man. I… I need you here. I need you.” You brought his hand up to your lips and just held it there as you sobbed. After a while, you drifted off, crying and holding onto Dean tightly.

***

It had been hours of sitting next to Dean and praying to a god you didn’t believe in that he’d wake up and this would all be over. You needed to tell him the feelings you’d been holding in for the better half of a year now. You needed him to know how much he meant to you.

You just needed to talk to him. And so, you did. “Dean, I’ve never told you this— in fact, I feel weird saying it now— but you matter more to me than anybody else in my life has. You just… you make my day better just by being in it. And I hope I do the same for you.

“Y’know, I never really hated you. You frustrated me so fucking much, but I could never hate you.” You drew in a breath. “I figured out that the reason I thought I hated you was because you challenged me. You told me you found me intimidating, but you never treated me like I was. That’s the difference between you and most other people. You’re fearless. Completely. It scares me sometimes, honestly. But you make me stronger, Dean. And I just… I hope I make you feel half as much as you make me feel. There’s so much I have to tell you when you wake up. I probably won’t say any of this to you while you’re awake— y’know, vulnerability and all that— but… I just needed to say it in case—” Your throat caught. “In case I never see you again.”

***

Another hour had gone by of you sitting with Dean. You refused to move from your spot to eat or drink or go to the bathroom. All that mattered was that you kept your eyes on him. You told yourself that if you could still feel or see him, then he was here. And that was enough.

You stared at his peaceful features. You remembered for a moment what he’d looked like sleeping, and you could almost see it now. However, the wires and tubes obstructing your view kept you grounded in the horrible reality that was the present moment: you and Sam may be leaving without him.

Your heart rate picked up as that thought crossed your mind and began to race even more as Dean flatlined.

“Help, help!” you screamed. You raced out into the hallway. “Code Blue, room 202! Code Blue!” 

Doctors and nurses immediately responded to your call and rushed behind you into the room. You watched in horror as they began to try and resuscitate him.

Sam had apparently heard your cries and ran down the hallway to you.

“Sam, he flatlined, he—” You buried your face in his chest, and he guided you into the room against the far wall. 

“Still no pulse,” a nurse said. You couldn’t bear to watch as they shocked his lifeless body.

Sam suddenly stiffened against you just as the frantic beeping of the monitors quieted. 

“We have a pulse. We're back into sinus rhythm,” the nurse said.

You let go of Sam and breathed deeply as you turned to his brother. You couldn’t get to him due to the doctors and nurses still fussing about, but you smiled briefly at the fact that he was still here. You looked up at the younger brother. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I just thought I heard something,” he said looking around confused. “It felt like Dean.”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him. “What do you mean?”

“Like, he was there, just out of eyeshot or something. I don't know if it's my psychic thing or what, it— But do you think it's even possible? I mean, do you think his spirit could be around?”

You shrugged, suddenly feeling embarrassed of the things you’d admitted to Dean’s unconscious body. “Anything’s possible.”

“Well, there's one way to find out.” Sam began to leave Dean’s room. 

“Where are you going?”

“I gotta pick something up. I'll be back. Let me go tell my Dad.”

***

About an hour later, you still sat holding Dean’s right hand. You couldn’t let go now that you’d almost lost him a second time. Sam reentered the room. He was clutching a brown paper bag with an oblong object in his arms. 

“Welcome back,” you said. “What’s that?”

Sam seemed embarrassed. “I, uh, almost don’t wanna say.” He pulled out a Ouija Board.

You snorted. “Seriously?”

He ignored you and looked around the room at nothing. “Hey. I think maybe you're around. And if you are, don't make fun of me for this, but um, well, there's one way we can talk.” He sat the box and board on the floor in front of Dean’s bed. You looked on eagerly.

“Dean? Dean, are you here?” He put two fingers on each hand on the planchette. Moments later, it moved to “YES” on the board.

“Sam, don’t tell me you’re doing that,” you breathed out. “Or do, I don’t know which answer I want.”

“It's good to hear from you, man,” Sam laughed. “It hasn't been the same without you, Dean.”

The pointer began to slide around the board. “Dean, what? H? U? Hunt? Hunting? What, are you hunting?”

The pointer slid back to "YES."

“It's in the hospital; what you're hunting? Do— Do you know what it is?” Sam paused and gained his composure. “What is it?”

The pointer slid across the board too fast for you to read from your position next to Dean’s body. 

“A reaper. Dean. Is it after you?”

You watched with bated breath as the pointer slid to “YES.”

“If it's here naturally, there's no way to stop it,” Sam murmured. “Man, you're, um—” He got up from the ground and began to pace.

“No, no, no,” you said, looking over to Dean’s peaceful features. “You’re not fucking leaving me, dammit. There’s gotta be a way.”

“Dad'll know what to do.” Sam rushed out of the room, leaving the Ouija board on the ground.

You slowly stood and moved over to the board. You immediately missed the feeling of his hand in yours, even if he couldn’t hold back. You sat before the board and let out a shaky breath, placing your hands on the planchette. “Dee, you still here?”

The planchette slid to “YES” before returning to the middle of the board.

You huffed out an anxious breath. “Did you, um, did you hear what I said earlier?”

It slid back to “YES.”

“Oh, God, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you until you were awake again,” you rushed out. “I didn’t— I’m sorry— Can you—”

“S” “L” “O” “W” “D” “O” “W” “N” the board spelled out.

You laughed shakily. “Sorry.” You paused. “Do you— Do you feel the same way?”

The planchette hesitated before sliding over to “YES.” A smile you couldn’t contain spread across your face. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you die now.”

Sam returned moments later carrying his father’s journal. “Hey. So Dad wasn't in his room.”

“Where is he?” you asked.

“Who knows? Maybe there's something here.” He tapped the journal before leafing through it. He stopped on the page that said “Reapers.” 

“How’s this supposed to help us, Sam? We already know we can’t kill ‘em,” you stated.

“I know, I know, I just… I thought maybe there’d be something else here. A way to… bargain with ‘em or something.”

You smiled at him sadly. Not knowing what else to say, you told him, “I know he appreciates that you’re not givin’ up on him, Sammy.”

***

Hours later, Sam had poured through almost every page of the journal. He paced around the room and began talking to Dean’s spirit. “Dean, are you here? I couldn't find anything in the book. I don't know how to help you. But I'll keep trying, all right? As long as you keep fighting.

"I mean, come on you can't, you can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that.” He stopped and stood over you, looking down at his brother. “Dean, you gotta hold on. You can't go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again. Can you hear me?”

***

You had even slept with Dean’s hand in yours through the night. Sam had gone in and out of the room a few times, but never John.

“Sam, what do we do, man?” You brushed a hand over your eyes, feeling exhausted and fueled by emotion all at once. 

He shook his head. “I’m thinkin’, okay?” he snapped.

“Sorry,” you muttered after a moment. 

“Me, too,” he said. 

Suddenly, Dean shot up and gasped, choking on the tube in his throat.

“Help! I need help!” you called into the hallway. 

***

“I can't explain it. The edema's vanished,” the doctor explained. “The internal contusions are healed. Your vitals are good. You have some kind of angel watching over you.”

“Thanks, doc,” Dean said. 

Your stomach sank knowing Dean didn’t remember what you’d said to him while he’d been unconscious, but you felt comforted knowing he felt the same way. You’d tell him when he was out of that crummy hospital gown, that somehow, he still managed to make look attractive.

Dean turned to his brother. “So, you said a Reaper was after me?”

You and Sam nodded.

“How'd I ditch it?”

You shrugged. “We don’t know. You really don’t remember… anything?”

“No. Except this pit in my stomach. (Y/N), something's wrong.”

The three of you turned your head to a knock at the door. John limped in for the first time you’d seen him since the accident. You fought the urge to start yelling at him about how he hadn’t come to see his son.

“How you feeling, dude?” John asked his son.

“Fine, I guess. I'm alive.”

John smiled sadly for a reason you couldn’t place. “That's what matters.”

“Where were you last night?” Sam was angry.

“I had some things to take care of.”

Sam scoffed. “Well, that's specific. Did you go after the demon?”

“No.”

“You know, why don't I believe you right now?”

John half-smiled despite the situation. “Can we not fight?” he pleaded. “You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Sammy, I— I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “Dad, are you alright?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, son, would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?”

Sam left you and Dean with John.

“I, uh, have a thing. At a… place,” you mumbled awkwardly, leaving the room. You stood outside and waited for Sam to return, bouncing on your heels and thinking about how and when you were going to tell Dean how you felt for the second time.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by John putting a hand on your shoulder. Strangely, he pulled you into a hug. “I’m happy I ran into you in Jericho. Thanks for watching my boys.” And with that, he left. You watched him retreat back to his room for a moment before heading back in to see Dean. 

“Hey,” you said awkwardly.

“Hey,” he responded, seeming a little out of it. “What’re you nervous about?”

“I feel like the timing’s really bad for me to tell you,” you responded. "Especially with your dad and his cryptic thing he did just now."

“Well, now you definitely have to,” Dean half-smirked.

You took a deep breath. “While you were… out… I told you something.”

He looked at you expectantly.

You huffed out a quick breath. “You remember that stupid pinky promise I made you make? You told me I confuse you, and you promised to tell me why someday. Is… Are you? I mean— Jesus, I’m never like this—” 

Before you or Dean could continue, you suddenly heard Sam screaming, “Help! Somebody, help!” from down the hall. You and Dean jerked to attention and looked at each other briefly before leaping off the bed and running down the hall. When you reached the doorway, John was being taken away from Sam and Sam was shoved out of the room.

A nurse tried to shove you and Dean away as well. “No, no, no, it's our dad. It's our dad!” 

She stopped pushing you and allowed you to stay by the door.

“C’mon, John,” you muttered. “C’mon.”

“Okay, stop compressions.”

Your heart sank watching Dean’s horrified face as they called the time of his father's death.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[zeke-fanfucs]

(I hope you like this @riooooooooo! It was really fun writing Marie! Colt—

HIII Rio!Marie seem weird but it’s Maya so- anyways hiii I’m Colt, extremely cool and—

GO AWAY- sorry. Uh hope you like the fanfic.)

╭⫘⫘⫘'｡ﾟ‧☠︎︎‧｡ﾟ'⫘⫘⫘╮

Title: A Bounty (and a Bot?)

.•.•.•.

The desert wind howled like a feral cat caught in a blender, which was a perfectly normal sound in the middle of bum-fried-nowhere. Hipswitch adjusted his rust-buzzed visor, Albus cracked his neck like a dying glowstick, and Karmor silently regretted not faking food poisoning to stay behind.

“So,” Albus grunted, “we’re looking for raiders. Big bounty. Lots of bullets. Nice and simple.”

“Simple,” Karmor muttered, half-hiding behind Mahatma.

“Depends on your definition,” Mahatma chirped helpfully, Atilla hissing something in the back of his head about gutting the loudmouths.

Colt had already wandered ten feet away and was kicking a rock at Karmor’s boots. “Giddy up, future-boy. Ain’t you excited? Might get kidnapped again.”

“Don’t you have a personality to be?” Karmor hissed.

Before Colt could sass back, the ground suddenly collapsed in front of them. Not a sinkhole. No. A Mariehole.

With all the grace of a possessed vending machine, a tall figure yanked himself out of a scrap pile, silently towering above the group like a slightly bent skyscraper in a hoodie. His glowing eyes flicked over each of them, evaluating. Judging. Looming.

Colt immediately burst out laughing. “Oh, this one’s good.”

Marie said nothing. His voice box whirred ominously before settling on: “…Hello.”

Karmor took a step back. Albus took a step forward. Mahatma took notes.

“Are you—uh, one of the raiders?” Mahatma asked gently.

“No,” Marie signed in perfect fengral. “I was just… here. With… my friends.”

“What friends?” Albus asked.

As if on cue, a tiny robotic spider skittered up Marie’s leg and perched on his shoulder.

“Oh HELL no,” Karmor muttered, turning to leave.

“I think I like him,” Albus muttered. Then louder: “You wanna join the raid hunt, lamppost?”

Marie blinked slowly.

Jessie’s voice crackled through Marie’s comm: If they look like idiots, it’s safe. Go with them.

Marie looked at the group again—one guy with a strange aura, one with enough weapons to arm a city, a half-possessed doctor, an demon, and a cowboy robot.

“…Okay,” Marie said.

The gang trudged into the smoke-wrapped ruins of a freshly-raided town. Windows were busted, buildings still smoldering, and a single banjo played softly in the wind, despite no banjo being in sight.

“Smells like someone burned a burrito and half a village,” Colt muttered, cocking his gun with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary.

Albus drew his sword—a slab of metal so heavy it had its own weather system—and rolled his neck.

“Alright,” he growled, “we keep this clean. I hit ‘em, you shoot ‘em.”

Colt smirked. “Like a murder ballet. But sweaty.”

Albus blinked once. Slowly. “Why are you like this?”

Meanwhile, Marie, towering and silent, climbed atop a collapsed shack, crouching like a surveillance gargoyle. His eyes flickered and he sent a mental message to Jessie:

[REPORT:] Group identified raider camp. Team entering. Observation mode active. Colt still talking. Estimated chance of disaster: 83%.

Then, Colt spun both guns with theatrical flair, accidentally shooting a cactus.

“I meant to do that.”

“No, you didn’t,” Karmor whispered from the back, hiding behind Mahatma like a curtain made of nerves.

Mahatma patted him gently. “Don’t worry. If you die, I’ll bring you back. Maybe.”

“I didn’t ask—”

BOOM.

A grenade launched out of nowhere, landing between the gang and several howling raiders, who emerged like someone kicked open a trash pile full of angry raccoons.

Albus didn’t flinch. He charged.

“FOR NO REASON IN PARTICULAR!” he screamed, swinging the sword like it owed him money.

SPLAT. CRACK. SLICE. The raiders didn’t stand a chance—limbs went flying, bodies cartwheeled into walls, and somewhere, a goat screamed.

Colt followed behind, casually dual-wielding pistols, whistling like it was a carnival game.

“Pop goes the idiot!” BANG!

“Oops, missed your brain—wait, found it!” BANG!

“Hey Albus, leave some meatbags for me!”

Albus kept swinging, saying nothing, except maybe growling the word “therapy.”

Hipswitch, meanwhile, leapt from rooftop to rooftop, gunning down raiders mid-flip.

Back behind the battlefield, Mahatma flipped through a medical book as Karmor sat nervously beside him, arms wrapped around knees.

“This is fine,” Karmor whispered. “We’re supporting. This is support. This is safety.”

Atilla popped in Mahatma’s head: “We should be stabbing someone. Or setting fires. Or both.”

“No, Atilla,” Mahatma said aloud, “we’re not doing that again. Last time you set a cow on fire.”

Marie continued observing, eyes scanning, sending another mental update:

[REPORT:] Albus achieved berserker status. Colt performing kill puns. Karmor in fetal position. Mahatma calm. Atilla feral. Situation stable. 17 hostiles down. I remain unengaged.

Colt flipped over a burning crate, landed in a kneel, and fired directly between a raider’s eyes. “BOOM. Head empty. Just like my ex.”

“You never had an ex,” Hipswitch shouted.

Colt winked. “Exactly.”

Albus cleaved a raider into two halves, pausing only to huff. “You done?”

“Emotionally? Never,” Colt replied, reloading with flair. “But yeah, I think we’re good.”

Marie dropped silently down from his perch and walked past the carnage like a haunted lamp post on a mission.

“Are you gonna help next time?” Karmor asked warily.

Marie signed without looking: “I am helping. I’m watching.”

“And judging,” Colt added. “He does this thing where I feel like my whole life’s under review.”

Marie turned to Colt and very deliberately gave a thumbs-up.

“…I don’t know how to feel about that.”

[REPORT:] Situation resolved. Friends unharmed. Jessie will be pleased. I did not kill anyone. Disappointed. Mildly.

╰⫘⫘⫘'｡ﾟ‧☠︎︎‧｡ﾟ'⫘⫘⫘╯

[wrathofresistantx]

Bastian Bosse’s LiveJournal Activity (Part One)

On September 2nd, 2004, Bastian Bosse created his LiveJournal account. He posted to this account between September 2004 and August 2005, with his first entry being on September 2nd, 2004, and his last being on August 15th, 2005.

He posted his first entry on September 2nd, writing:

“So first, I have to try out how this works ...”

His entries during this time were about his airsoft guns and problems he was having at school, with him writing on September 8th:

“Well first of all, I got to class late, and they wrote me up. That’s especially good, when it happens on the first class with a new teacher! Well, it was only Religion ... the subject where they tell you such garbage that you like to go to class because it is so funny ... Our new topic: (for the third time) “Satanism / Occultism.” Oh man!

Then I rushed home after school and had to find out that my mom snooped around my stuff again a little ... Well, maybe they are just worried ...”

On March 7th 2005, he began posting again on his LiveJournal account, which he hadn’t posted to since September 15th, 2004. His post on this day mentioned being teased by his classmates, as he wrote:

“Other than that, really nothing spectacular happened during the week. I had to listen to the usual crap, like “Hey look! There is the Matrix-Man!” Looooooool, nitwits!”

On April 3rd, he wrote about ordering an MP5-SD6 airsoft machine gun online and not receiving the money on time:

“Then I ordered an MP5-SD6 AEG during break and told them that I would transfer the money on April 2nd . .. and what’s happening? The guy who is supposed to buy my old G36c is not coming, and now I don’t have the money .. . great!”

On May 15th, he wrote two entries, with one talking about his attitude to life:

“The longer I think about life, the more I realize how senseless it actually is ... Somebody is born, has a good life for 6 years, but then gets enrolled in school. Then unconsciously, he has to make a decision; do I stay the way I am or do I conform to the others? To be more precise, do I remain strong or do I become my own traitor?”

And the other mentioned a girl called Nadine:

“There is no progress with Nadine . . . I blame this sick HipHop Music that all the kids listen to . . . you have to go crazy and only talk shit. I HATE EVERYTHING!!! What’s up with all that shit??? Did I come to this damn world to be the idiot next door, my whole life? What should I do here? What are all of us supposed to do here?”

He wrote on May 16th:

“I am thinking about just dropping out of school next year, so I don’t have to see their faces anymore, so I don’t have to hear their voices anymore. No idea, if I should do that . . .”

He also responded to an online friend of his that commented:

“is it really that bad at your school? mhm, yeah, I was also glad when I was allowed to leave...”

“Indirectly. The fact that I am older than those in my class makes things significantly easier, in other words, it is not like it was in my old class, in which I was humiliated. But those people are all such complete morons; either over the top clowns or blowhard potheads, who consider themselves the greatest.”

His entries throughout May discussed his growing collection of airsoft guns. However in this period he also bought a Colt pistol, which he was able to test on May 18th:

"Then I was finally able to test my Colt, was a little lame, but nice ;) Other than that, nothing happened."

On May 23rd he wrote:

“Tomorrow is the 24th, Tuesday .. . and what will happen? NOTHING!!! I hate it, I hate to always be everybody’s dimwit. I hate to always be portrayed as a dork. I hate to always be the individual who seems unnecessary, but I hate it even more when people try to betray me . .. LH !!! Who do you think you are? What do you think you can get away with? Who gives you the right to breathe my air?”

“I am done with the world, I feel outcasted by it and hope for change. But how do we define such change? Or even more important: What am I doing here?”

His entries from this point forward would become a lot longer and discussed his thoughts on life, his guns, and his views on people at his school.

[End of Part One]

I'm doing this in two parts, otherwise this post would get stupidly long and a bit boring, both for me to write and for everyone else to read.

[mikamikapodcast]

Derringer

Derringer – A Small Gun with a Big History

The Derringer is like a secret weapon from history: small, discreet, yet full of stories. It’s not a revolver, semi-automatic, or machine pistol—it’s in a category of its own. While it might resemble pocket pistols or mini-revolvers, especially later models built in the so-called pepperbox style, the Derringer has carved out its own iconic place in the world of firearms.

Modern Derringers are often multi-barreled and as compact as possible—just enough to handle a given caliber. That’s why they became especially popular among women: easy to hide in a purse, stocking, or even up a sleeve.

A fun fact: the name “Derringer” is actually a misspelling. The original firearm was the Philadelphia Deringer, but when the press reported on President Abraham Lincoln’s assassination—committed with a concealed Deringer—the error stuck. The misspelled version became widely used to describe all pocket pistols, and competitors even marketed their own versions under terms like “palm pistol.”

The Original: Henry Deringer’s Invention

In 1825, gunsmith Henry Deringer introduced a compact, percussion cap, muzzle-loading pistol that would carry his name. About 15,000 Philadelphia Deringers were made. They were typically single-shot, .41 caliber pistols with rifled barrels and walnut stocks. Barrel lengths ranged from 1.5 to 6 inches (3.8 to 15.2 cm), and the metal parts were often crafted from a copper-nickel alloy known as “German silver.”

Loading the Gun Was an Art Form

Loading a Deringer was a delicate process. First, a couple of caps were fired to dry out moisture in the barrel. Then, with the hammer set to half-cock, the shooter poured in black powder, rammed a patched lead ball tightly onto it (leaving no air gap), and placed a fresh percussion cap on the nipple. Any mistake could cause a misfire—or worse, a dangerous explosion.

You had one shot—so you had to make it count. If you missed, your best hope was a second Derringer. That’s why they were usually sold in matching pairs. Prices ranged from $15 to $25 per pair, with fancy engraved or silver-inlaid versions costing more.

From Officers to Outlaws

Deringers were first popular with military officers, but soon became civilian favorites for self-defense—especially in the rough-and-tumble world of the American Wild West. There, these tiny weapons earned nicknames like vest pocket pistol, sleeve gun, and boot pistol.

But the Derringer also gained a darker reputation. Its small size and easy concealment made it a weapon of choice for assassins. The most infamous example? John Wilkes Booth used a Deringer to assassinate President Lincoln in 1865. Booth’s pistol was unusual—it had left-handed rifling, while most twisted to the right.

Moore, Colt, and the Cartridge Revolution

In 1861, Daniel Moore patented a single-shot .38 Rimfire cartridge pistol with a side-pivoting barrel for easier loading. He produced these until 1865, then sold the design to National Arms Company, which continued production in .41 Rimfire until Colt acquired them in 1870. Colt not only kept producing the model but also introduced three of its own single-shot Derringer designs, all chambered in .41 Rimfire. The last, the “Third Model Colt Derringer,” remained in production until 1912—and was revived in the 1950s thanks to Western movies, rebranded as the Fourth Model Colt Derringer.

The Derringer isn’t just a gun—it’s a symbol of a time when one shot could change everything. Carried in boots, sleeves, and waistcoats, it left a mark on history far larger than its size would suggest.

Derringer – pieni ase, suuri historia

Derringer on kuin historian salainen ase: pieni, huomaamaton, mutta täynnä tarinoita. Se ei ole revolveri, puoliautomaatti eikä konepistooli – se on oma lukunsa. Vaikka ulkonäöltään se saattaa muistuttaa taskuaseita tai minirevolvereita, erityisesti ns. pepperbox-mallisia versioita, derringerillä on oma, ikoninen paikkansa asehistoriassa.

Nykyajan derringerit ovat usein monipiippuisia ja kompakteja – pienin mahdollinen tapa pakata tuliase tiettyyn kaliiperiin. Juuri tämän takia ase oli (ja on yhä) suosittu erityisesti naisilla: sen pystyi helposti piilottamaan laukkuun, sukkaan tai vaikka käsivarsien alle hihan sisään.

Hauska yksityiskohta: sana “derringer” on itse asiassa virheellinen kirjoitusasu. Alkuperäinen ase oli Philadelphia Deringer, ja nimi sai laajemman, väärinkirjoitetun muotonsa, kun siitä kirjoitettiin uutisissa presidentti Abraham Lincolnin salamurhan jälkeen – tapahtuma, jossa käytettiin juuri tätä pientä, piilotettua asetta. Väärä muoto jäi elämään ja siitä tuli yleisnimitys taskupistooleille.

Aseen alkuperä – Henry Deringerin käsialaa

Vuonna 1825 aseseppä Henry Deringer esitteli nallilukolla varustetun, etuladattavan pikkupistoolin, joka tunnetaan nykyään hänen nimellään. Philadelphia Deringereitä valmistettiin noin 15 000 kappaletta, ja ne olivat pääosin yksipiippuisia, .41 kaliiperin rihlattuja aseita pähkinäpuutukilla. Piiput vaihtelivat lyhyistä, vain 3,8 cm mittaisista jopa 15 senttiin. Metalliosissa käytettiin usein kupari-nikkeli -seosta, "saksalaishopeaa".

Lataus vaati taitoa ja tarkkuutta

Aseen lataaminen oli seremonia sinänsä: ensin ammuttiin nalli tai kaksi "kuivaksi" poistaen kosteus piipusta, sitten kaadettiin mustaruuti, ladattiin lyijykuula tiiviisti ruudin päälle, asetettiin uusi nalli paikalleen ja asetettiin vasara puolikukolle. Pienikin virhe, kuten ilmarako kuulan ja ruudin välissä, saattoi tehdä aseesta vaarallisen myös ampujalle.

Ampujan piti olla nopea ja varma – sillä yhdellä laukauksella piti osua. Jos ei, vaihtoehtona oli kakkosase – monet kantoivatkin derringereitä pareittain. Näin myös varmistettiin, ettei epäluotettavan teknologian varaan jäänyt vain yhden laukauksen verran toivoa.

Villissä lännessä ja suurkaupunkien kaduilla

Aluksi Deringer oli suosittu erityisesti upseerien keskuudessa, mutta pian siitä tuli siviilien suosikki itsepuolustukseen – etenkin kun ase oli helppo piilottaa. Villissä lännessä näitä kutsuttiin nimillä kuten vest pocket pistol, sleeve gun ja boot pistol – ase, joka kulki mukana vaikka kengässä.

Aseen maine ei kuitenkaan ollut pelkästään puolustava. Sen pienuus ja helppo piilotettavuus teki siitä myös salamurhaajien suosikin. Historian kuuluisin tapaus: John Wilkes Booth käytti Deringeriä presidentti Lincolnin murhassa vuonna 1865. Boothin ase oli erikoinen – sen rihlaus kiersi vasemmalle, mikä oli hyvin harvinaista.

Moore, Colt ja metallipatruunoiden aika

Vuonna 1861 Daniel Moore keksi uudenlaisen yksipiippuisen .38 Rimfire -pistoolin, jonka piippu kääntyi sivulle lataamista varten. Tämä innovaatio sai jatkoa, kun National Arms Company ja myöhemmin Colt alkoivat valmistaa omia versioitaan. Colt kehitti kolme omaa Deringer-malliaan .41 Rimfire -kaliiperilla, ja viimeistä niistä, "Third Model Colt Deringer", valmistettiin vuoteen 1912 asti. 1950-luvulla se palasi takaisin – lännenelokuvien innoittamana – uudella nimellä: Fourth Model Colt Deringer.

Derringer ei ole vain ase – se on tarina aikakaudesta, jolloin henki oli kirjaimellisesti kiinni yhdestä laukauksesta. Se kulki saappaissa, hihoissa ja liivitaskuissa, mutta jätti jälkensä historiaan pysyvästi.

[strictlyfavorites]

Gun Safety taught at an elementary school in 1956

This mysterious Colt 38 revolver from 1938 automatically takes a photo every time the trigger is pulled

Sgt. Arthur L. Smith, Radio Gunner of B-17 Our Gang, Takes A Look At At The Machine Gun Before A Mission. England, 1943.

1860 Henry Rifle.

Marlin .45-70 Govt. 1895 Trapper

The gun is a TOOL. Like any tool, its use in the hands of a PERSON is what “makes it” good or evil PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY is what make it good or bad

Gun control doesn't work. Who would have thought

They left the roof wide open Secret Service snipers had eyes on the shooter People were screaming about a man on the roof with a gun But Secret Service waited They waited for him to take the shots Then they killed the shooter.

[theweirdowhowantstobeamangaka]

Cult of the Lamb: Resident Evil

Cast's Weapons

This contains irl gun images.

Lamb and Goat

Of course, their weapons

Narinder

Mouser Red9 Pistol. I just wanted to give him an evil looking gun! Story of My Life!

Thompson Machine Gun. Now that's a weapon. STORY OF MY LIFE!

Leshy

His own makeshift bow n' arrows. Made of branches and vine.

Le-Mat Revolver CUSTOM. A magic handgun that can fire not only ordinary handgun rounds but also shotgun shells. For one reason or another, Leshy is forced to get a new weapon, and this is what he will get. Kudaai re-chambered this gun in .38 Special and 12 Gauge.

Heket

Colt Python Revolver. She uses 9x19mm ParaBellum Rounds with moon clip.

SPAS 12 Shotgun. I gave her a shotgun according to a certain Discord message I got.⬇️

Kallamar

Luger P08 Pistol. That shape is very beautiful! You gotta agree.

Smith n' Wesson 1854. I gave him this Lever-Action little baby so that he can perform spin-cock!

Shamura

Four Colt Government Pistols. At first I was going to give them Tokarev Pistols, but then I decided that since Shamura is a smart and strong spider, a more elegant and tough Pistols would be more appropriate, so I changed them to Government Pistols.

Sozo

Glock 17 Pistol

M4A1 Assault Rifle. He would fire it laughing crazily LMAO.

Yarlen

Colt Paterson Revolver CUSTOM. This revolver is an odd one, with the trigger coming out when it's cocked. Originally Paterson was .36 caliber percussion type, but this model has been converted to a top-break cartridge type and re-chambered in .38 Special. Kudaai is a damn genius.

Ingram MAC 10 Machine Gun

[lboogie1906]

Sandy H. Love or S.H. Love (February 28, 1893 - March 17, 1963) known as S.H. Love, invented and patented the refrigerated vending machine in 1933. She was born in Colt, Arkansas, and served in Europe during WWI.

Now people use vending machines mostly anything and anywhere like in big stores or buildings. They have vending machines for different stuff like drinks, chips, toys, phones, ice cream, lottery tickets, alcohol, cologne, gold, etc...

Military guns have had a huge impact on history. They help many soldiers and have helped people protect others and themselves. Without military guns, they would probably still be using pistols.

She took a while to improve the vending machine, longer than it takes to make one now. Nowadays, if you want to install a vending machine, it takes about 15 business days. For the military guns, all she did was improve them, apply, and be granted a patent.

Another improvement she made was to improve military guns. She got a patent for military guns on April 22nd, 1919. She had an idea for a theater curtain that would draw instead of dropping from the ceiling. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[werezmastarbucks]

1. the bitch

pic credit

masterlist

word count: ~4000

warnings: language, verbal abuse

music: vignette by twenty one pilots

author's note: there will be a lot of dramatization of a BAU worker in this fic because I couldn't care less.

Chibs looked around at the boys. His eyes met Juice's. They spoke without words like they already got used to. His nose was itchy: wanted to smoke. But for now, he was focused. Left side of his ribcage was tugging a little. He brushed his hand mindlessly, against his side, quietening mild, irritating pain. Come on now, he said to himself. There was silence in the barn, only disturbed by the click-clack of the magazines into chambers and heavy steps. Someone tried whistling but shut up immediately. Come on now, he said to himself, without moving his lips. It was his mantra that didn't mean anything anymore, because the years flattened its surface to become a mirror. Come on now, and he was ready.

Juice was pacing, inexperienced, shaking in his boots. Jackie was loading his machine gun, ginger mustache sticking out like a cub's against the light. He caught another glance, from Bobby, who nodded at him with another invisible message. The ritual didn't allow for any sentiments before the 'job', so Chibs simply moved his tongue around his mouth searching for fangs.

They grouped and stepped back as Jackie went on to open the doors. As the heavy wood croaked away, the thick summer night air brushed against their faces. The shoulders moved against hardened leather and he regretted not wearing his kutte tonight, for the mobility. He looked around in the corner of his eye again, observing them; bushy eyebrows furrowing, lips moving in silent swearing, necks tilting to grab a stretch. An hour ago Bobby said, "If we survive this". A bit dramatic, in his opinion. This was just a regular Friday, nothing like Belfast used to be. But Bobby was, in general, a moany old fart.

He checked the trigger. Always stuck to his Colt, no matter the occasion. It felt secure in his hand, with it under his belt, he always had a clear understanding of his next step.

He pulled his glove up and traced the line on his cheek with his thumb. The signal was sent, and they started moving.

As soon as they left the barn, the rain started. Chibs grabbed Juice by the collar and pulled after himself, releasing when the boy found his feet. Gotta give him credit for his brain working faster in the rapid-paced emergencies than in any other circumstances. They crawled along the barn wall, Chibs' pulse waking up. Lately he's been grinning more than often when the shit got going. Maybe it's the midlife crisis they keep talking about, a kind of a death wish, or he was simply having too much fun.

"What are you grinning about?" Juice screamed. The sound of bullets riddling the old barn was so hollow and loud that it was almost impossible to hear. Chibs shook his head slowly, checking his gun, his hands sitting snugly in gloves; then stepped up like the wolf papa, showing Juice the way.

The Niners decided to go against the plan, but this was somewhat the plan all along. If Chibs had to count the times, when dealing with Niners went smoothly, he would only need one finger. He was now showing this finger towards a tall beefcake collapsing with a couple of his bullets in chest.

It was going well; pretty dynamic, as usual. Chibs stepped back, feeling the hollow shells under his hill. He was clocking Juice, trying to keep him behind himself so that he could give cover at any moment. At the same time, his eye was registering purple-collared Niners reappearing from the shade behind the three parked minivans.

"Hey boy", he yelled, "if you wanna be useful, go blow their fucking tires", he landed his hand on Juice's skeletal back, afraid the little guy will collapse; followed him, cancelling his untimely death several times, striking their scythes with the swift movement of his finger.

He laughed out, listening to Juice cursing through his teeth as he put away his gun and took out a knife to slash the tires.

"It ain't done like that!"

Then the mood changed, like someone sucked the joy out of it. The party died with the shrill sound of the siren. Distant voices expressed what Chibs felt: the curses echoed above the vans and short dry bushes, the sound of feet amongst the last rare bangs. Chibs moved his two, and this time Juice didn't need grabbing. He nodded towards the boy's bike parked neatly in the no-go zone behind the barn:

"Go on, leave. Meet ya at the house later".

Juice froze in place, his knees half-bent.

"And you?"

"Ain't gonna be the first time. Get off in the morning the latest. I gotta check on the others".

They nodded, and Chibs tilted his head up, putting his warm gun away, disappointed. It is always like when the song ends abruptly at the climax. Like when they don't let you come. He spotted Jackson and was measuring the parking lot with big steps, breathing in the sweet, tropical, gunpowder ridden air. Short rain refreshed the outside, injected it with fruity colors. His feet bouncy, he clutched Happy's shoulder on his way.

"Niners?"

"Running", Tig yelled with a giggle.

"Hey, get on a fucking bike, Tig!"

He circled the two bodies pooling in blood and rested his hand on Jackie's shoulder.

"Good thing daddy's not here tonight, eh", he grinned, and then remembered he has the holy sixty seconds before the cops get out of their fucking cars, pull on their belts and stumble upon their own three feet. His hand moved like lightning as he took out the pack of cigarettes and bit one, feeling for his Zippo.

"Fuck... I dropped me lighter".

"I don't have one with me", Jax shrugged.

"Ey, Bobby! You got a lighter?"

The round man was shaking his foot like a cat that stepped onto snow for the first time. He dismissed the two with his hand. Chibs' cigarette was stuck onto his lower lip as he shook his head, stepping closer to the cub. They were the same height. Jax was watching the police dismounting their cars and he stretched the 'uuuugh' in the way that told Chibs he should pay attention.

"Isn't that the chick..."

Chibs narrowed his eyes, but it was unnecessary. She was a bright spot among the black uniformed stock, her ponytail bouncing happily.

"From the club, yeah", he muttered.

"The one who gave Kozik a lap dance", Opie stepped on Jackson's other side. Chibs remembered her - hard to forget. For the whole day this little butt has been all over the club like a desperate groupie; a spirit of horniness, and nobody could agree where she came from. Opie said Lyla introduced her to the studio last week; Clay said that Gemma said that she was one of the girls from the road; Tig was dead sure she was his birthday present although nobody called her up. She just appeared in the morning; when Chibs arrived by nine, she was already at the house, smoking with Kozik. Her bubble butt in tight shorts and ribbed grunge crop top was a nice sight to the barely woken eye, that's true. Her little tanned ankles excited Chibs for their speed, but once he discovered her on Opie's lap in the corner an hour later, he sort of lost interest. Wasn't used to picking up the trash after the boys. He had good hygiene. She would tilt her head there and back, making the long golden ponytail bounce, and the small of her back was kind of screaming at him; but then again everybody noticed that. Tig was salivating with happiness at the thought that a little thing like this runs around the whole day, giggling, her big cherry eyes piercing his chest with her mouth slightly open. She was so ready for it. Even tried flirting with Jackie boy, somewhat successfully. She took particular interest in the youngest one, her sharp finger pointing at his title badge. Chibs heard her voice, thinly tuned to the mosquito frequency, asking,

"Mmm, does it mean you're next in line? You kinda look like King Arthur, you know?"

There was plainly hidden irony in that voice, and they had a good laugh at her jumping from one belt to another as she was selecting the dick for the night; she could take a lot of alcohol, unless she retreated to the bathroom to vomit it out; but she was pleasantly tipsy by the time it was finally Chibs' turn. The basic sweetness of her perfume and the way she was flexing her perfect hips told him something was off. The intuition was Chibs' strongest suit for many years; and now he knew he had been right, again. He noticed a short, wide scar on her inner thigh, and her scarred knee; she was moving like a cheerleader. Once she finally approached him, Chibs realized he went on the whole day without catching her name. The guys called her sweetheart, and dolly, Happy said she was a bitch for moving around them; as she sat on the sofa with Kozik and Juice, they called her Cleopatra.

Chibs was slightly irritated by the recent influx of young prostitutes. They provoked a lot of drama nowadays. Going in rounds, they sometimes confused the guys they've already slept with, and distributed the diseases in circles. Chibs was blessed not to be too needy. However, he did notice her belly button when she stretched, her funny fists clenched, and the sharp fingernails stabbing the air next moment.

As he took her chin, breaking her fall towards his face, and initiating a sly smile, he was sparing himself of something more insidious than an already used cunt. She pouted, telling him he was mean.

Now she looked much meaner.

The four who were left, watched her as she was approaching them with her bouncy step dying and turning into a firm stride of a yob. She winced and lifted her arms, releasing her hair of the hair tie.

"We are fucking bafoons", Chibs groaned. Bobby stood there with his mouth agape, the pathetic animal, having promised this girl a little house on the lake and her own bike after she allowed him to feel her up while finishing her drink.

She was still in her whore clothes, but the face was now changed: evil, with pointed black eyebrows, wide mouth playing some inside joke. The miserable cop bunch was pacing behind her back, and Chibs was sick of this embarrassing picture.

"Where's the rest?" officer Jayn asked her. His big jaw moved like his teeth were always dancing in his mouth. Every time Chibs saw this guy, which was way more often than preferable, he always had intense desire to open his round mouth with a crowbar and check if he needs a dentist or glue.

"What do you mean where's the rest?" she chimed, "woulda been here if you locked the road like I told you to".

She gestured to the other officers profesionally, and a pad turned up in her hands. The Sons were speechless for now, a sore frown on Chibs face, with the cigarette still in his mouth. The officers surrounded them, and silence fell. The morning whore stood before them and tapped her foot in a Vans shoe on the ground. She then lifted her eye, and her glance couldn't be further from the dreamy look she had before.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Officer Jayn nodded at her pad,

"I thought you'd announce the... charges".

"I am not the police though", she snapped, a little questioningly. Jayn and Bobby exchanged glances, because sometimes two men could have something in common even if they're essentially on two different sides.

Jayn then set forth their rights and charges, and then put them in hadncuffs. The first shock started to wear off, and Jax, passing by her, spat out:

"Undercover bitch? Found out enough today?"

"More than enough, mama's boy", she murmured, without taking her eyes off the pad. She only paid her attention to Chibs, forcing him to turn his head behind his shoulder as he was being led to the police van.

"Fuck", Jax expressed, once the doors bashed close, and they were in the pleasant darkness of the car.

"She must have pulled this out one of ya", Chibs concluded.

"Which one of you bawbags told er about tonight?"

"And what else has she found out?" said Opie. He finally found his tongue again and now sounded really rustled. Chibs licked his lips, adjusting the hands behind his back. The van lurched, and he was pressed against the soft, fat shoulder of Bobby. He wanted to close his eyes and rest there a little.

"It must have been Juice. He was completely smitten", Jackie said. "Has been following her around the whole day. Did she suck his dick or something?"

"She promised to suck mine", Bobby hooted sadly.

"In exchange for what?"

Chibs tried to distance himself from this chatter, trying to go back three hours, to when the boys had drinks with her. Such intense work must have earned her a lot of drunk information. What exactly has she been fishing for? And who the fuck is she?

"Anybody caught her name?"

"She said she's Juno", Opie replied. "Not sure it's her real name though".

He nodded. Jax seemed to have caught his thought. He threw a short glance towards the drivers.

"She said she's not the police", he reminded. The others also noticed that.

"What, you think FBI?" Bobby asked.

"Isn't she too small? I mean, young?"

Opie spat onto the floor, and Chibs hissed at him.

The rest of the ride was quiet. They hoped that the others will pay bail before the night falls, and they'll have some time to regroup and discuss this. Mainly, find out what exactly was told to the Juno bitch. Chibs couldn't stop thinking of her weird scar for some reason.

They haven't seen her for the rest of the night. Had to sleep in the cage because the boys didn't come to collect them until the very morning.

Chibs opened his dry eyes to the flickering sunlight, and immediately was immersed into ongoing conversation. He could barely make out the words while still horizontal. He grunted, pushing himself up, and met Jackson's eyes.

"Get up, Chibs", the boy said, "the bail's been paid. Let's go".

He shook his head. Devilishly wanted to smoke, or punch somebody. He thought of Juice, considering how probable it is that the silly boy managed to off himself while escaping last night.

But they were alright. As they left the corridor and saw the inside of the police station they knew as well as their five fingers, Juice and Tig were there, greeting them. They didn't know about the girl yet, probably.

Chibs and Bobby waited for their turn to collect their personal stuff when Juno entered the station.

"Ten am!"

Jackie cracked his neck, looking at her. He must have felt humiliated; only yesterday his hand was on her hip, indulging into flirty Arthurian myths conversation which was weirdly euphemistical. Now she pulled up her sunglasses, giving a bored look to the Captain Boulder who specifically left his office to greet her.

"And it's already eighty-four degrees", she agreed darkly. Gone was the thin cheerful voice of a dumbass. Even her eyes looked more hollow as they observed the station like it was all below her. She did light up a little when she saw their bunch, though. Chibs turned away not to look at her, and started signing the form, the other hand working, putting his phone and keys into his pocket. All he wanted was a shower and to smoke.

"Morning, gents", she greeted them, a small smile on her face. Opie stepped up to her like he wanted to say something, and she lifted up her head to look him in the eye bravely and expectantly. Opie was about three times bigger than her.

"Got your bail, huh?"

"We did", Jackie said firmly, "far as I know, it's the procedure. Agent".

"Was what you've been doing even legal?" Bobby asked. He still seemed heartbroken, and it was hard to tell why exactly. Was it the betrayal, or the death of his lakehouse wife dream?

"Oh, very much legal", she responded and put her hand into her bag, looking for something, "I think? Anyway, can't wait to see you lads again. Did they have to fish the thirty thousand from your Irish guns money?"

She looked at them four with her questioning eyes, and Chibs saw nothing inside. She hated them, he realized. The curve of her lips read disdain like she was looking at something disgusting. As her eyes stopped on his face, he sized her up.

"Or the drugs money?"

Opie shifted.

The people at the station were moving along as usual, the Captain having retreated back into his office. The fact that Boulder, the notoriously big stick in his ass poking his brain day and night, just gave up and left, told them that she was something of an outlier. Jackson stepped up to her, and Chibs' hand twitched out of habit. Constantly had to hold him back, this cub. Constantly trying to get himself into trouble.

"You couldn't have found out about this just yesterday. None of us is that dumb", Teller murmured into her face.

Gotta give her that, she stood very straight, the indifference oozing out of her at the sight of angered Jackie.

"First of all, personal space. Don't ever get into my face like that again, Arthur".

"My name's Jackson".

"Sure, Arthur. Second, I've been working you guys for some time", she finally pulled out something out of her bag. She popped the cap off a chapstick and started rubbing it against her lips. Her eyes registering them all one by one, like they were now in her separate data folder.

"Also, you are pretty dumb".

"We've been around this city for a long time", Chibs noted, "if you think you'll nail down a bunch of us with some intel now, you must be flattering yourself".

She nodded quickly.

"Yeah, I know how it looks. The new girl in town. The old order must be untouched. Everything, that. But I'm finding a lot of interesting stuff about the IRA", her head threw a fit to his direction.

"I'm done with this shit", Chibs groaned. He pushed Opie away, ready to leave this place. The girl waved her hair, spreading her heavy perfume in the air like plague. Even the way she smelt now was different. Like she was using it as a weapon, to smother people. Who the hell applies this much perfume in this weather? Everything about her was irritating.

"Listen, you", Jackie grinned, "you'll need something more substantial than that".

"I'll have it", her fingers traced the hem of the shirt on her shoulder like she was thinking, "now you boys hop on your little bikes and ride away, because tomorrow is a new story".

Oppie was holding his saliva, apparently, not to get arrested right at the station again. Juice and Tig were waiting outside, smoking, and Chibs all but trotted towards them, his hand outstretched for a lighter. Instead, as he saw the boy's face, he couldn't fight the impulse and presented him with a light slap on the back of the head.

"You'll have to learn to hold yer dicks to yerselves one day", when he was angry, he heard his accent get thicker. He secretly enjoyed this original voice more, although he could control it less. Juice made a guilty face.

"Was that Juno entering the fucking station?!" Tig exclaimed, looking at Jackie, Opie and Bobby coming down the stairs. Chibs glued his mouth with a cigarette and decided to stay silent for the rest of the day. This is how much it pissed him off.

"Did you tell her something?" Jax ran towards Juice, ready to beat the shit out of him. Chibs stood in front, catching Teller by the shoulder. The sun was already burning them like they were eggs on a pan; they stepped into the shadow. He smoked while the other explained the Juno situation.

"Clay's gonna be pissed", Tig said, unbelieving, "Shit, she was so convincing. She seemed so dumb to me, like she kept talking about Europe water, I said, what Europe, what country in Europe? What do you mean by Europe water? She just kept saying Europe water sucks, that's it".

Teller's nostrils flared.

"We gotta have some ground rules on outside prostitutes", Bobby declared, "gotta make it a point at the table today".

Everybody nodded.

They spoke quietly and watched the station doors.

"You've been quiet, Chibs", Jackie nudged him gently with his shoulder. Everybody looked at him. Chibs was glad, more agreeable now, more in his element. There was even a semblance of draft coming from the trees.

"I keep thinking about Boulder", he admitted.

"What about him?"

"He has everybody's asses around 'ere. Ever since he's been in charge, ya can't sneeze around the station. Fucking officers wearing full uniform in weather like this. And this cunt walks in, in jeans, two hours late, and he fucks off?"

He stabbed the tree with the short butt of the cigarette and gave them time to think.

"She is fucking FBI or something worse. That should be on the table today. Knows about IRA, the guns, the drugs already. She's been digging under us, maybe for weeks before coming. That should concern you".

Tig scratched his ear, unwilling to face this new problem.

"I guess we could just break her neck", Opie shrugged.

"And have the Bureau in Charming?"

Jax sighed.

"Can't believe I was kissing this snake", Juice shook his head slowly.

"Come on now, don't be so dramatic. Wouldn't be your first time", Tig supported him a little, giving him a tap-tap on his back.

"It's just, so gross, you know? Knowing that she's with the police".

"Let's go", Jackie decided, "Clay will want to hear about that. He'll figure it out".

They left the shade and went for the bikes and the van. The sun was growing merciless.

"What does fucking FBI want with us", Clay boomed, annoyed to no end. Even the sound of the undercover agent in their house almost gave him a migraine. "as if we need a bitch around here, sniffing our business. Who is she?"

"Name's Juno. That's all we know for now", Jackie reported.

"Have you asked Wayne?"

"We did", Chibs nodded, "he hasn't even met her yet. Said she rolled into the city the day before yesterday".

"And went straight to business", Bobby continued. Clay rolled his eyes. Chibs was moving his tongue around the mouth, looking for any resolutions.

"The drugs are bothering me", Clay said after a pause, "only us and Wayne knew about this. Find out how she knows. What leaks we have".

"Otto can't know", Happy noted.

Silence was heavy above the table. Thick smoke, dancing in curles, made it feel like evening. Chibs didn't like the smell in the room today and was dreaming about opening the window.

"Keep an eye on her, look around", Clay decided, and struck the gavel.

[ohblahdo]

Regarding the Mal book, I do think some attention deserves to be paid to this part (which took place in 1975, a few months before he died):

But there were other occasions when Mal couldn’t wrest himself from his demons so easily, times when he exacerbated his condition with drink and drugs. And, for the first time, Fran found herself afraid of her boyfriend, whose darkness had never been more acute. It all came to a head one night when Mal, drunk to the gills, began threatening her with his Colt Woodsman pistol, at one point placing the gun against her head before discharging it into the washing machine. When he sobered up, Mal couldn’t have been more apologetic, swearing to mend his ways and be the boyfriend she deserved.

He held a loaded gun to his girlfriend's head and threatened to kill her! That is not okay! And he fired the gun at the washing machine while they had a four-year-old in the house with them - imagine how scary that might be for her.

So yeah, Mal was a great big lovable teddy bear to his male friends, and he was a devoted aide to the Beatles, and he was also a terrible husband and an absentee father who coerced young fans into sleeping with him in order to meet their idols, got a young woman pregnant and then abandoned her, threatened to kill his girlfriend, and then when he was feeling suicidal, grabbed a loaded rifle and forced that same girlfriend to call the cops on him (again with a child in the house), making her live with that for the rest of her life. All of that has to be considered as part of his legacy, and I'm glad the book didn't completely shy away from it.

[captain-price-unofficially]

Infantry of the Royal Italian Army firing their Colt-Browning M1895 machine gun at the enemy during the Second Battle of the Piave River. Italian Front, 1918.

[madnessofmen]

1896 Columbia Model 40 with Colt Machine Gun

It is a single-barrel gun, with a pistol handle attached to a breech casing, containing the mechanism for feeding, firing and ejecting the cartridges, which are contained in belts stored in a box on the machine, the boxes containing 250 or 500 cartridges each. Single shots may be fired, or the gun will automatically fire all the cartridges on the belt at one pull of the trigger, firing 100 shots in 16 seconds. The recoil is very light and does not affect the frame of the machine.

– The Engineer, page 189, 21 February 1896