How about the little old fella that showed up at the range with the 500 A-Square . . . . . . pistol !

NOTE: This is the no chit truth. I was present and I am relating this to the best of my memory.

An old friend of mine and I were out at the French Creek PA public range about 8 years ago. French Creek was (is?) a pretty nice range with about 12 100yard lanes, a 25 yard pistol range, and an area to shoot clays. We were both working over our Glock 23's and our hunting rifles . . . deer season was only a month away and all of us know that it takes at least 3000 rounds for an ARFCommer to get "ready" for the hunting season. At the time my main hunting rifle was a 1943 Enfield No4 Mk1 that I had purchased at Boscov's for $40 . . . man those were the good old days .

It was getting later in the afternoon and we were getting reay to pack our stuff up. The range was getting crowded and we both had our Ruger MkII's in the Jeep - we were getting ready to head out to our private hunting reserve and bust some small game. Then, about three lanes to our left, a little older fella starts bringing forward his rifle cases and stacking them up at his station. When he finished, he started unpacking his stuff and lo and behold - the first case had what I remember to be an LAR Grizzly or some sort of single shot .50 cal. At this point, all shooting on the range had ceased - this rifle had pretty much grabbed the full attention of everyone on the range.

Before I go any furthur, let me describe this "little old fella". He was about 5' 4" and weighted perhaps 120 pounds soaking wet before a good crap. He appeared to be in his late sixties. He had that particular hunched over stance that told of a life spent working hard outdoors with his hands. The top of his sunburned head was completely bald, but there was a fringe of wild 2-3 inch long hair sticking out at the base of his skull and at his temples . . . kind of a Woody Allen meets Friar Tuck sort of thing. His clothes probably would have stood up by themselves if he had taken them off . . . hygiene was definitely not on this guys list of priorities. He had money (the new Range Rover and expensive weaponry gave it away) but it was completely obvious to everyone assembled that this guy was a real, all-American, true blue psycho. Perhaps the clothes didn't denote insanity, but his constant stream-of-consciousness conversation with himself just gave it away. Here's a sample from memory:

HEHEHEHeeee . . . easy now . . . eeeeeasy . . . it's just a little punch and all the work's done . . . *snicker**snicker* . . . slowly . . don't let little ol' me down . . . squeeze . . . fork... . . . little more . . . . BBBBAAAARRROOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! (sound of .50 cutting loose) YOU SONOFAMOTHERFUCKINSHITBIRDWHORE!!!! A BULLET THE SIZE OF MY MOTHERFUCKIN THUMB AND YOU MISS (slaps rifle and scope) WHY YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKINASSLICKINWHOREMONGERING PIECE OF chit I'm TRADING YOU FOR A SACKOFSHIT MARLIN!!! (throws spent casing at target)

After a couple of rounds of this, he finally gave up and set the .50 aside. He pulled out a slightly smaller case and noticing that we were standing right behind him, signalled for us to step up and check out what was in the case. Lying in the case, nestled in foam, was the most insane pistol that I had ever seen.

After talking to him for a few minutes we realized that this guy was absolutely fixiated with owning and firing the most gonzo crazy assed pistols that money and insanity could buy. 500 Linebaugh wouldn't even get a rise out of him . . . if it was designed for a pistol it was by definition boring. The Thompson - Center was initially appreciated, but soon lost its luster. Then suddenly, while crushing .338 caliber bullets into a supermax load for one of his SSK anti-aircraft pistols, he had the idea for the ultimate pistol that would lay it all to rest. Forever. He immediately called his gunsmith (SSK??) and asked if they would build him a .50 BMG pistol. They said (and I qoute) fork NO. No one could shoot it and or even hold it up to fire it . . . they simple wouldn't even consider doing it. The man he spoke to on the phone JOKINGLY said that he should "limit himself to rounds that can fit into a Weatherby magnum action". He was joking, but the little old fella took him at his word.

Research soon showed him that the nastiest, most impressive, and dick stiffening round that could fit into the mammoth Weatherby action was the 500 A Square - - - a .460 Weatherby Magnum necked up to take .50 BMG bullets. He called back his gunsmith and related his new plan. The gunsmith (who by now had probably picked up in the fact that this guy was a loon), told him that he would not build it because no one would or could shoot it. No one (the gunsmith stated) could fire such a device without permanent injury. The little old fella promised proof and hung up the phone,

The next day, he said, he visited his local gunsmith and ordered a braked .460 Weatherby magnum and 20 rounds of ammo. When it arrived, he said that he promptly whacked off the stock right after the pistol grip. Donning a football helmet and a PAST shooting glove, he proceeded to video tape himself cranking off 10 rounds from the bench with this beast. With his hand and elbow still numb (I'm guessing) he proceeded to mail the video to his gunsmith, reiterating his idea for a 500 A Square pistol.

Six months later his local gunsmith called and said that he had received a package. Upon inspection, the package turned out to be a 500 A Square bolt action pistol. It had a 16 inch long bull barrel with an integral brake in all stainless. The black fiberglass stock was reminiscent of the old Remington XP-100 with the pistol grip near the center of gravity so that you could actually hold it up. With the Leupold, it had to weigh at least 10 pounds. It was a single shot . . . you had to pull the bolt out of the rear to load it.

In the shipping box was a note. The gunsmith stated that if received videotape proof of the weapon being actually fired from a standing off-hand position, the gun was free. Otherwise, there were instructions to contact him for billing. The little old fella had never had the nerve to fire it yet and wanted to crank off a couple of rounds from the bench before he broke out the video camera. We were his first audience.

So here we were on a gorgeous fall day, all staring at this beast. The ammo came in a nice plastic box . . . I really didn't believe the old guy until I saw those rounds. It looked like something out of a freakin' A-10. He carefully pulled the bolt out and dropped a round in. He slid the bolt home and applied the safety.

He tried to get situated on the bench, but it was too short for him to get into a position that he was comfortable with. He was obviously completely pant-shitting terrified of this weapon. He knew that it was going to kick his ass into a new dimension of hurt, but it's hard to back out with 25 folks stand around eagerly awaiting your imminent demise.

I donated my field jacket for him to fold up under his elbow and one of the other folks present found a five gallon bucket for him to sit on to get far enough back from the bench. With the front of the stock resting on a couple of shot bags, he took his position behind the monster.

AWFUCKAWFUCKAWFUCK . . . ITS GONNA HURT LIKE chit . . . easyeasy . . . <quiver in voice>. . . forkin crazy ass gunsmiths . . . slow . . slow . . . awwwwwwwwwwww (finger tightening) WWWWWWWWWWW . . . .

BAAARROOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!

Fire totally obscured the target and I could feel a punch from the shockwave from behind the old guy. chit was blow off of benches for two or three lanes on both sides of that massive brake. The old fella was pushed clear off of the bucket and has lying on his back with the pistol in the dirt held in both hands above his head. As the echoes of that shot were still ringing through the trees we all could hear the little old fella say . . .

". . . fork that. I'm paying for this biatch."

Everyone on the range nearly chit themselves laughing.. We laughed so hard that we couldn't even help the little old fella load up his Range Rover. It was a solid hour before we trusted ourselves to drive.

For years after that all one of us had to do was say "fork that" in that little old fella tone of voice to send us into gales of laughter. Sometimes the truth is MUCH stranger than fiction.