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JLF
Even a genius like John Browning can have a bad day. The day he dreamed up
the Winchester mod. 11 auto shotgun has to have been one of his worst. The thing
has no operating handle on the bolt. It is cycled by grasping a knurled section
of the barrel, since it is recoil operated. Rain, sweat, etc. can make this
difficult, so over the years, hunters would put the muzzle against various body
parts to operate the thing, and it became known through the years as the
Winchester Widowmaker. Now the worst possible thing anyone can do to one of
these guns to make it even more dangerous, is to cut the barrel off to 18" for a
riot gun. Needless to say, I did that straight way with one I picked up at a gun
show.
Vernie Myers was another one of those banty rooster types, and for that reason,
we dubbed him "Little Vernie Myers". He showed up at the glass shop looking for
used windshields one day, and managed to irritate everybody in the building
before he left. He prowled the messoplex in a clabberty old truck selling and
installing used windshields to tote-the-note car lots, and poor folks. He would
come around once a month or so, and Powell would save him a few windshields for
some unreported mad money that he shared with us.
I went out one Sunday to Powell's home place to put the new riot gun through
it's paces. We would put the muzzle against a fencepost to chamber a round, and
then rock and roll. It was my turn, and I fired off a few, and then the bolt
stuck about half closed after ejecting the empty. Well, I did what I did with
every other shotgun I ever owned, and put my thumb in there to clear the jamb. I
did, and the bolt closed, taking my thumb into the chamber with it...except that
there was no operating handle to draw back the bolt with, and remove the
chambered digit. I let out a howl, and Powell came over to save me.
Powell, of course, being an expert in the operation of the Winchester mod. 11
shotgun, grabbed the barrel and gave it a backward shove. I let out an even
louder howl, and called him a good half-dozen choice names, followed by a quick
physics lesson about a thumb not being part of the chain of operating parts in
the function of a Winchester mod. 11 shotgun. The bolt was still open, just
about the width of a mashed thumb. Ham-handed Powell was useless at this point.
I could get my pinky finger in the opening, but couldn't get enough of a
purchase to move the bolt back against the strong recoil spring. Shoving the
hand with the mashed thumb back against the bolt was out of the question.
Yanking the thumb out would have clearly left me with a thumb bone, and not much
else.
All this happened in less time than it tales to tell it, of course, but the
final analysis of two seasoned gun experts was that I was screwed without tools,
and my thumb had become really unhappy with the circumstances I had put it in. I
said "screwdriver!", and Powell sprinted for the house, while I sat down and
tried not to move the shotgun too much. Powell returned with a screwdriver,
stuck it in the opening, and retracted the bolt enough for me to remove my
thumb. The first thing I did was grab the shotgun by the barrel, and with a
couple of spins like an olympic hammer-thrower, launched the shotgun down into
the pasture. Then I stomped off toward the house. Powell quietly retrieved the
shotgun, none the worse for wear, and followed along. Other than a thumb with a
home-done bandage that looked like one of those cartoon deals, things returned
to normal. Powell and I solved a few world crises, and I went home.
Nothing more was said about the mod. 11, and life hummed along for a few weeks.
Then up to the shop one day drives Little Vernie Myers. He comes in just going
on something awful about how he knows us boys fiddle with guns, and how somebody
had tried to rob him, and how he needs a gun but he ain't got much money, and he
just knew we boys were the place to come to, and could we help him out? Powell
considered all this for about a nano-second, and then smilingly assured Little
Vernie Myers that he had come to the right place. Out to his truck, and back he
comes with the the mod. 11. I just gulped once, and took off for the back of the
shop, figuring God would forgive me if I wasn't an actual eye witness.
In a few minutes, Little Vernie Myers clattered off in his old truck. Powell
comes back into the shop with a cheesy grin. I had given $75 for the shotgun.
Powell walks up, and says "Here's $75 for you, and $10 for me.
We never saw Little Vernie Myers again. After enough time had passed, we
officially changed his name to "Little Dead Vernie Myers", since "Little MIA
Vernie Myers" didn't have the right ring to it. In the ensuing decades, when
story telling sessions would break out, sooner or later Little Dead Vernie Myers
would always make an appearance. As we matured some, Powell and I both admitted
to each other that it really wasn't a very smart/nice thing to do, since Little
Dead Vernie Myers didn't know the first thing about guns, and we had graced him
with the Winchester Widowmaker. At this late date, I can only hope that on
Judgment Day, God will tell me that Little Vernie Myers went on to invent a
computer program that made him a wealthy man, and that he lived a long, happy,
and prosperous life.
JLF
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