I showed it to my brother a prison guard and he scoffed at it, but wanted to look at it. I still recommend Hikuta. Then he barely mailed them to me, he said something about the middle man or some excuse. Search Dragon Door Site. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs.

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In all fairness to William, two of them were accidental discharges by other people. Broken glass, smoke, ringing ears, shock, yelling, etc.

Udo is a classy guy and he understands that discharging firearms indoors when visiting people in their homes is surely the apex of rudeness. In most households anyway. In this instance they sat down to a nice home-cooked dinner after the smoke had cleared. The other culprit was Wayne [Propst], supposedly. This was the gun William carried at all times, and slept with under his pillow. The gun he was buried with, in fact. Blew a hole in the bedroom wall and through the bathroom ceiling.

I have always suspected that William knew full well it was loaded, and I think Wayne knew on some level, too. In my mind, that incident was a clear-cut case of a couple guys impulsively deciding to liven up the evening. The third bullet hole is in the jamb of the opening separating the two front rooms. It just kind of appeared one day. My theory, based on the available forensic and circumstantial evidence, is this: One night he shot it with a big gun.

I asked how, wondering if the gun was jammed or misfired or what. What they do when they want to shoot someone, I have no idea. However, after James drew a diagram showing where the shooter was and where the furniture was in relation to the where the bullet hole is, it became apparent we were talking about two different bullet holes.

The Englishman shot a hole in the east wall in the front room, about three feet beyond the jamb. This newly revealed information brings our bullet-hole tally up to four. Everything considered, there were lots and lots of rounds spent in that house. It was a ten-foot-long tube made of chicken wire and fiberglass insulation mounted horizontally on a stand.

It was pretty effective. Just stick the gun in it and blast away at a target on the other end of the basement. They used to shoot relatively large-caliber handguns in the basement while people had drinks and conversation, unbothered, at the kitchen table directly above. There were also countless tiny puncture marks in the front door, walls and trim from the blowgun. It shot three-inch steel darts at about mph.

Likewise, to this day the evidence of the knife-throwing range is also evident. I never got in on that, but the dozens of BB pocks in the plaster are unmistakable hallmarks of fun. Not to say that people were getting wrecked while shooting as a general rule, but there were occasions… One guy accidentally discharged a twelve-gauge shotgun into the ground and scared the shit out everybody, himself most of all. And William once got hit in the face with some rock shards.

Not a good idea to use a rock wall as a backstop. Live and learn. They failed to take into account the wind direction or possibility of back-blast, and came staggering blindly into the kitchen, red-faced and disoriented. Two of the greatest literary minds of the twentieth century maced themselves out there by the garage.

Michael accompanied William to things like doctor visits, barbershops and things like that, places where people could not help but notice that this old man was wearing a pistol on his belt. After a couple of uncomfortable encounters Michael — who, I should point out, was himself not above drunkenly shooting handguns in his back yard on the Fourth of July — insisted William not wear his piece in public, at least not in situations where it would freak people out.

William, of course, objected to such constraints. It got to the point where Michael would have to frisk William before going out. This is when William got his derringers, which could get by the pat-down. It ended up being an uneasy compromise. William owned 28 guns and 43 knives. The guns ran the gamut from derringers to shotguns to flare guns to a.

It was a thoughtful gift from Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, fellow writer and firearms enthusiast. The rounds cost a dollar each, and would go a mile. One mile, baby. But accuracy was not the important consideration when shooting that gun. There were frequent instructional demonstrations, of course. And he loved getting packages in the mail because it gave him an excuse to slash open the box with some nasty knife.

It was a little bit nerve-wracking watching him. He had the rest of them stashed all over the house, in desk drawers, bookshelves, mixed in with the Main Knife Cache, all over. It was a weapon-rich environment. It seemed normal at the time. But in addition to his huge arsenal, William considered many everyday household items as deadly weapons. He ordered a self-defense manual out of the back of a magazine that instructed the reader in Hikuta: The Art of Controlled Violence.

According to the author and Grandmaster of Hikuta, he, using the techniques outlined in his manual, was thrown naked into a pit with twelve Dobermans and killed them all. Kinky, but impressive. For a time William would jump at any opportunity to explain the Art of Controlled Violence to people, always with demonstrations.

He developed some moves. And, like a kid, he loved to play with his weapons. He insisted on cleaning all the guns himself after a shooting expedition. He liked the feel of steel in his hands. He also entertained with weapons. Visitors always seemed to get a kick out of it when William, sometimes deep in his cups, would whip out a huge knife and demonstrate, for instance, how the Thuggees , hash-crazed Indian assassins of yore, would kill and gut people.

William would also animatedly-drunkenly wave loaded guns around, sweeping everyone in the room over and over. Generally speaking, visitors loved the floor show. I sought cover. William was a dangerous guy, in lots of ways. Woe to anyone who fucked with him. Sometimes he was spoiling for a fight.

He was pushing eighty at the time. And in retrospect, I believe that these were all valid threats, except maybe the dogs. He had a thing about dogs. So late one night when a big, drunk Native American dude burst through his front door yelling angry gibberish, the smart money would not have had him walking back out. The exact wrong house. No ballpoint pens in the eyeballs, no bullets in the kill-zone, no pepper spray in the pie-hole.

No nothing. William, in the clutch, assessed that this guy meant him no harm, and so treated him with what bordered on gentleness when you consider the alternatives. He picked his fights rather than let them pick him. He fought them through his work. Tooth and nail. In this regard, his shotgun paintings are famous, or infamous, depending. Like William, I tend to see art in terms of magical talismans.

He had a lot of fun with his paintings. It was a gas. And things would appear in front of your eyes. The paint splatters would reveal little scenes just the same way that clouds do if you stare at them hard enough. And once something recognizable came into view, its significance was felt right away. Looking at art with William was more like reading tea leaves or cloud-gazing than anything resembling an academic or aesthetic process.

He was casting spells. She was always present, if only faintly, hanging in the air like smoke. William had his heart attack while journaling. Bent over in his writing chair in his green army jacket, grimacing and groaning, clutching his chest like a gut-shot cowboy, he removed the holster and gun from his belt to stash under his pillow, and then they took him away. Things have been a little quieter around here ever since.






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