What We Do

Men, I mean. When bored. Not that I could possibly be bored, but everyone needs a new gig sooner or later and my later is upon me.

It might come as something of a surprise to learn that I enjoy shooting. And, in perhaps something akin to a woman buying shoes or a new clutch when depressed or in need of a pick-me-up, I rustle up some new ammo and it's off to make holes.

But I'm tired of same-old, same-old. And that is when even piss poor advertising can be deadly. I'd never take a second look at something as dumb as Extreme Shock Ammo, but I'm finding myself drawn to the stuff and may very well buy a quantity to fool with. Not that I'd ever use such an obvious conjob for self defense, but the guy who runs the joint is lying so well of late that I'd be honored to become snookered by so devious a bunko-bum.

Lately, he's been telling folks that the FBI has approved his cartridges for agent use, and the mere premise of that staid and monster-under-the-bed organization switching rounds to accomodate the gaudiest of tall-tale-tellers is just too funny.

First it was the secret Nytrilium, that turned out to be nothing more than a wad of nylon behind a hunk of lead, and now he's claiming that certain of his zombie-killing-rounds are in fact compressed agglomerates of tungsten, that virtually explode into a soft target and make hay where the sun don't shine.

What a perfect maroon.

I simply gotta have some of them there Explosive Entry Fragmentables!