...Who's a lunatic enough to do it is my friend Terry.
Terry went out, just after they passed the law, here in Texas, and applied. Despite everything, he was issued a permit in the first 1000 (I'll have to check on the number). His reason?
"I've always wanted to carry an 1860 Cap-n-Ball."
And he does. He carries a reproduction 1860 Army (an Uberti) in a custom-made leather shoulder holster (did I mention that Terry is very TALL?!?). He carries (or carried, haven't asked him in a while) it with one empty chamber, two chambers loaded with nothing but powder and wadding, and three chambers loaded up with lead.
One night, we were down in Austin, walking down Guadalupe after hitting 6th, and this little punk comes around the corner of the Celtic store (there's bit of open space, there, so we'd seen him coming...but we were drunk, and didn't really think anything about it. Terry was REAL drunk. Red-in-the-face drunk.). He sticks his hand in the pocket of his jacket and thrusts it forward at me. Even drunk, I did what any little black duck would do. I slipped behind Terry. Unabashed, the kid pointed at Terry and demanded our wallets. Terry, drunk and belligerent, told him to go f*ck himself (actually, he described it more graphically, but let's not belabour the point). The exchange from there went something like this:
BG: Man, I'll blow your head off!
Terry: With what? *laughs*
BG: [Thrusts hand in pocket forward] I've got a gun, man! I'll put a cap in yo' fat a$$!
Terry: [color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color]. That finger wouldn't even get THROUGH the fat on my a$$! Why don't'cha get a REAL gun?!? [reaches into jacket]
BG: Man, I'm warning you! I'll blow you away!
Terry: Then do it! It's you or me... [pulls out "The Cannon"]
BG: HOLY [color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color]!!!! WHUT THE F*CK IS THAT?!?
Terry: Punk-a$$ insurance! [points it in the air as the kid turns to run]
BG: MOTHUHF*CKA!!!!
At this point, Terry squeezed off the first "BANG-BANG" chamber, with the resultant cloud of smoke and that low roar that BP makes. When the smoke cleared, Terry was on the ground laughing hysterically. The kid was nowhere to be seen. And me? I was sober. Totally, completely, and unquestioningly sober. Total time? About twelve seconds. If I could market stark terror, I'd be rich. It cures hangovers, lethargy, curiousity, and a HOST of other ailments, in my experience.
When he sobered up, Terry was aghast. He was like, "OH, [color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color][color=#FF0000]█[/color]!!! What if the cops had busted me drunk?!?" At no point had he even considered that the kid just MIGHT have had a real gun. It had never even entered his head--that he might have gotten shot and killed.
Haven't partied much with Terry in a few years...but I hear he's still a bit of a Heller. Kinda strange. He seems to get worse as he ages, instead of mellowing...
Kal