titusnowl: (L4D hunter)
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have Patient Zero.

So this dude in Metairie is gardening and a complete stranger approaches him and TRIES TO EAT HIM.  When he's fended off he makes no attempt to run away; he just wanders off aimlessly.  It's revealed that the attacker had just been released from the hospital, where he had been treated for an unspecified finger injury.  (Possibly a bite from someone else?)

I suggest we keep an eye on the Times-Picayune web site for the next couple of weeks in case further cases emerge.

DO YOU HAVE YOUR ZOMBIE PLAN READY?
titusnowl: (Great War)
Not this power-armored pansy:


This Tim-Curry-lookin' Kraut is my emperor:


George "V" Saxe-Coburg-Gotha Windsor of the British Empire, back in the ol' sun-never-sets days. Specifically, 1910 to 1936.

For a bit in the middle of that, there was only war.

But you already knew that. Click here for a celebration of Enfield arms and Wilkinson steel. )
titusnowl: (me with flintlock)
It has very nice braidwork.  It's a bit too long, so we'll have to shorten it.  I couldn't find anything that would show me what the actual English WWI officers' pistol-lanyards looked like, so we just did something that looked nice.

two pictures )
titusnowl: (Great War)
Today we went to a little military surplus store in Garland.  It's a tiny hole in the wall, and every nook, cranny and crevice is full of dust and ancient army hardware.  I found and purchased a WWI tin-pot helmet for $20.  They probably had a tunic back in there somewhere, but the odds of finding one in my size are extremely slim, so I'll have to buy a reproduction one that's tailored to fit my measurements (although it'll have to be my measurements with my breasts banded down with surplus puttee-bandage).

When and where will I ever wear a Great War uniform? I  don't know.  The terrible thing is I want to have TWO - one officer's and one enlisted's - so I have a persona for each of my guns (with the Webley I am a lieutenant; with the Enfield a sergeant; I've actually developed a very rudimentary sort of role-playing personality for each, because I'm insane like that).

I mean, the holster - I've asked for a WWI-era holster for the revolver for my birthday, and I don't mind whether I get a reproduction or an original war-issue - that I can, will and intend to wear at the range whenever I go shooting.  The enlisted man's tunic I would wear with jeans because I think it's cool-looking.  The officer's jacket... slightly less cool-looking, but I'd wear it anyway.  The pants with the standard infantry uniform are decent trousers, but I'd never EVER wear the officer's khaki breeches of my own volition.  And the whole getup, all at once - well, when would I ever have a chance to do WWI reenactment?  The only stuff around here is Civil War and precious little of that.

I have a terrible urge to dig a trench out in the parking lot and sit in it for photo ops with my new helmet and the Webley.

This photograph is wrong many times over - there's no chin-strap on the helmet so it goes all sideways, my horribly loud modern shirt-collar is visible, the jacket is from WWII in Sweden of all places, and since I have the gun with me I ought to be saluting WITH THE GUN instead of just holding the gun at my side and saluting with my hand - but I'm going to post it anyway.

titusnowl: (me with flintlock)
We went shooting yesterday with about a dozen people we know from the Internet.  I used my bayonet (affixed to the Enfield) to roast a hotdog over the fire. 

This is such an awesome photo.  I look so maniacally gleeful.

I ate the hotdog, too.  Somebody said something about it and I said "Why not?  This blade hasn't been stuck in a Frankfurter in ninety years."

titusnowl: (such a lot of guns around)
In Stargate: Atlantis, which I have recently been turned on to by an Internet friend, they have P90s, which do not look like real guns to me.  They look like pew pew space guns.  I can't imagine them firing bullets; they must fire laser beams.  It is a fact.

"Did I tell you," I said to Justin, "that they make P90 BB guns?"

"Yeah," he replied.  "But, like, real BBs?"

"Yeah, actual BBs."

"Because I know they make airsoft P90s."

"What exactly is airsoft?" I inquired.

"Little plastic BBs.  So you can shoot at each other."

For a long moment there was silence, as we looked at each other from across the room, slight smiles playing at the corners of our mouths.

Then we dove for our guns (in Justin's case, literally diving over the coffee table).

We grabbed the guns and went flying to opposite corners of the room for cover, firing all the while.  I took refuge inside the dogleg entryway, sticking my head out far enough to draw his fire so that his suction-cup darts would stick to the mirror and the metal door, for easy retrieval when I needed to reload.  He hid in the dining room behind the liquor cabinet.

At one point his gun jammed, and I ventured into the living room.  As soon as I had a line of sight around the bar, I shot him.  It clipped his ear, and startled him so that he fell backward and struck his head on the wall and fell over on his side, dropping his gun (which slowly rotated on the kitchen's tile floor, rather melodramatically).

Laughing, and realizing he was out of ammunition now, he asked "How many more do you have?" expecting me to help him reload.

Instead, I shot him point-blank in the head.

We then declared a truce and returned to our desks.  A few minutes later, I looked over at him.  He was reading about airplanes and had his gun loose in his lap.  I very slowly and quietly racked the slide and shot him RIGHT FUCKING CENTER IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD, so that the dart RICOCHETED OFF INTO THE KITCHEN.  I win at headshots from across the room.

He turned around, gun instantly at the ready; I held mine level, already re-cocked; we held eye contact for a moment, at a standoff, then slowly and simultaneously lowered our guns to the floor - still not breaking eye contact - and had a show of hands once they were down.

A few minutes later he fired at me again, the dart striking me in the forearm.  I grabbed my revolver from the ground beside me and emptied the cylinder at him:  six headshots, good and true.  One almost hit him in the eye.  He keeps his yellow shooting-glasses hanging from a bit of wire on his desk; he should wear them.  His own gun had jammed, so that I emerged from the latest skirmish completely unscathed.

I'm considering getting another one and mounting it under my desk for easy access, like a pulp fiction private eye.

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titus n. owl

February 2015

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