My uncle, who was always a little weird, used to spend weekends at Warren Buffets hunting camp outside of Valentine. Over martinis, one evening,Warren saw a porcupine chewing on a wall, threw his glass at it, and said a lot of million dollar words. The critter ran off, and Warren shouted "GET that lousy prickly pig, Larry, get him!"
Uncle Larry jumped to his feet and scrambled into the lodge. Warren had a magnificent collection, safari grade to tiny flobert pistols, all lined up, loaded and locked, in fifty feet of custom cabinets. Now, normally, people line items in a right ascending sort, starting with the daisy on the left and the twelve gauge on the right, but everyone knows that Warren is a devoted contrarian. He started on the left with his custom brno single shot with his little buckaroo .22 on the right. Lawrence, of course, learned from the other college. He snapped up the first rifle in the cabinet and ran.
Off he went into the darkness, a ginned up college boy from eastern Nebraska, bloody eyed and howling for revenge. When Warren saw him run past, the fifteen pound rifle in his fist he shouted "NO, LARRY, THAT'S JUST FOR THE ELLERPHUNTS!" But it was too late. Uncle Larry was half a mile into the sage, gaining fast on the spiny little rodent.
It was only a moment later that he found that frightened little hedgehog type thing cowering in the bushes, wheezing and weeping. Larry himself was also run to the limit, but never going to say uncle. He belly flopped into a prone position, and pulled the trigger.
A monstrous fireball that was even seen in Hayes, Kansas, incinerated an acre of sage. The ranch hands found him the next morning; he recovered consciousness a day later. Larry never got that promotion. He had, however, learned two powerful lessons.
Look at the gun before you pull the trigger.
The .505 Gibbs is not a varmint round.
