You’re not serving others, you’re serving your ego because real good deeds don’t require an audience.
And your videos are almost as annoying as ‘Then THIS happens!’ click bait.
Just a random, irritating thought.
AR15s – Buy them. Buy them now.
From this thread at TheFalFiles: AR Pistol? Tempted by PSA Pricing
I saw this comment below in response to the quoted question and had to put it on the blog. This gentleman hits the nail on the head. AR’s have never been cheaper, and most likely, will never be more expensive then after Trump leaves office.
***
Quote:
|
Originally Posted by aquaman
 I’ve recently become curious about AR pistols or short barrel rifles. I’ve never shot one nor do i particularly have a use for one. Anyone care to explain why I should scratch this itch? Or am I better to just ignore this particular temptation? |
When has “having a use for one” ever been a prerequisite? Why should you scratch this itch, you ask?
AR’s right now, from PSA anyway (and you can get them cheaper, a little, if you’re willing to do chicom stuff) are selling for pretty much what they were in the mid/late 1980’s. Maybe 1990, but whatever. From the time when minimum wage was $3.35 an hour and it would have cost you two and a half weeks worth of pay to get one. These ARE the good old days of ARdom. PSA’s offerings are the $89 Imbel kits of today. TAPCO $1 aluminum metric mags. Century $.05 cent a round delivered Indian x51 with a free CETME bayonet. Burns Brothers $129 M39’s. $59 Albanian SKS’s from AIM. $150 Ballestar Rigaud’s from whoever the hell sold them. Get what I’m saying here?
Buy one. Buy one today. Don’t wait, don’t cry later because you didn’t and now you can’t. If you have a good FFL that does multiple transfers for one fee, buy a few lowers at once when they’re $30 a pop and split the cost of the transfer. Other places usually have better deals on the receivers when you factor in shipping. Buy a $259 or $269 kit when PSA runs their deals, and they almost always have a sub $300 pistol kit on their daily deal. Put it together, no special tools required as long as you have some sort of $3 punch and the back side of a drill bit to help hold a detent or two in place. Order a $22 red dot from Amazon. Put a couple drops of oil on the bolt and along the charging handle slot and go turn some money into noise at the local range.
If you hate it, you can sell it and be out almost nothing for your effort. If you like it, and I bet you will, you can get a better dot/optic after you read some reviews/think about what you’re willing to spend on something you don’t really have a use for. My guess, actually my hope, is the only real use you’ll ever have for it is to put high speed holes in paper or pop cans or balloons or film canisters filled with flour or punkins/watermelons, or ping steel plates. But that’s use enough for me, even if one usually does ride around with me just in case.
***
That post is fantastically written.
At MINIMUM you should be snapping up lower receivers to build future AR’s off. Anderson Lowers are extremely nice and going for $40 a pop pretty much everywhere. I built the Wife’s AR Pistol off one and it was superb. $200 bucks will get you five of them.
But don’t forget the magazines. PSA(Palmetto State Armory) has a lot of deals on Magpul PMAGS which are also fantastic and set the bar for gun magazines. A lot of times you can buy an optic or ammo and get ten magazines for next to nothing. The last Vortex Optic I bought was a Strikefire II, it came with ten magazines for less than $200 bucks. Since the Optic usually goes for $180, I got ten mags for $2 each. That’s a steal when they go for $12 normally. Oh, and that was with free shipping.
Praise Jesus and Pew Pew!
Once upon a time we hunted Mammoths…
Once upon a time “manliness” was measured by trophies. Whether it was saber tooth fangs, bear claws, pelts, sports trophies, or war medals. It was how many pieces of precious stones or metals one could afford. It was cheered for in the Colosseum. You couldn’t see a Crusader or Native American without them showing some form of loot, be it pagan gold, a weapon, or scalp taken from a defeated foe. Even the Samurai wore intricate armors and used masterfully crafted weapons to distinguish their greatness.
Every nation, every country, every culture had a measure of manliness that others could see, measure, and respect.
What happened?
Because now tens of thousands of men tweet about how oppressed they are, how their feelings are hurt, or how society has done them wrong.
What a bunch of whiny little babies.
It’s as if thousands of beta-males/females are playing “Woe Is Me”, and whoever can play the biggest, or most, victim cards wins. Everyone is ‘one-upping’ each other over stupidity.
And if you were dealt the ‘worst hand’ of the game, which is apparently, being born a white male… you’ve got to grovel into the ground about how you are the worst of the worst. Then you’ve got to seek out forgiveness for existing. (You people are the most pathetic of the entire bunch.)
I’m a white male, and I make no apologizes for my genetic make-up because I didn’t choose it. I also make no apologizes for whatever my ancestors may or may not have done. (And being Vikings they probably did some bad shit at some point.) Because guess what? They did it. Not me.
Personally – The only thing I plunder and ravage are those Brazilian Steak Houses. (I ate four species of animals in a slaughterhouse of flavor last night.) I’m sorry I ate all your delicious meats and only left the cinnamon tainted bananas for the other guests.
But honestly – If anything, I ought to thank my ancestors. Because if it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be here.
Think about it.
We’re all the result of survivors. Maybe not victors, but survivors. Maybe not descended from noble blue blooded lines of men who charged fields as Knights or Kings or what have you… maybe our ancestors were the guys who crawled over the battlefield slitting wounded throats and stealing boots… who knows?
But they were survivors. And considering that most of world history is full of tyranny, misery, filth, suffering, oppression, and folks barely eeking out a meager existence – that counts for something. They went through the real ringer. They experienced REAL hardships. I’m not talking about someone giving you a dirty look on a bus or cat calling after you as you walk down the street. Or about how Trump’s words on Twitter hurt you.
But REAL misery and suffering. Real hardships. The kind that made the life expectancy in the low 30’s IF you were wealthy. The kind of life where warfare, strife, rape, death, disease, famine, and plague were every day expectations or concerns.
Now you bitch when your latte doesn’t have the right amount of soy milk in it. Or about how the ‘white male patriarchy’ is keeping you down. Or how no one is supporting your transgender lifestyle.
Stop wasting your ancestors sacrifice and struggles to whine about how your thin skin feelings have been deeply wounded by mere looks, words, or thoughts. It’s unbecoming.
If you live in America, you’ve got it better than 99.9999999999% of the entire human race that has ever existed. And you’re wasting that golden, uber-rare opportunity, by whining about everything and everyone instead of thriving.
Suck it up buttercup. No one owes you shit. No one is stopping you from doing whatever it is you want. (Unless it’s mass murder, than it’s “Hello Mr. Glock.” Pew Pew!)
If you can’t make it in America today, you never would have made it anywhere in the world at any previous point in time.
P.S. I didn’t get drawn to hunt a Maine Moose this year. Sad face. It’s my second attempt, so I’m starting to wrack up some ‘extra points’ to carry over each year I apply. The only reason I mention this is because, A. I just thought of it and checked. B. You don’t have to be a hunter to be an Alpha, but there’s nothing wrong with washing animal blood off your hands once in a while and collecting ritualistic trophies.
I also put in for a bison and a big horn ram in Wyoming Super Raffle. (Because my Painted Desert Ram needs company.) Chances of getting drawn are about as good as being smacked in the groin by a meteor, but it’s relatively inexpensive to play. I think $20 to pick two animals. So I entered myself and my dad. I think he picked a bison and an elk… maybe? The drawing is at the end of the month. I’m pretty sure my odds are between nope and nada.
P.P.S. I feel like now is a great time to plug an old post I did called No, Women aren’t equal to Men. That one got pretty popular.
An excerpt:
Did you know in ancient Sparta, the only Spartans who were allowed markers on their graves were men who fell in battle or women who died in child birth?
They held giving birth on the same level as dying in battle. The equality of the creation of life and the taking of life.
If something about that isn’t romantically poetic – I don’t know poetry. (I don’t know poetry)
There’s a joke that goes like this: What’s worse to go through – child birth or a kick to the groin? Answer – Kick to the groin, because a woman will think about having another child but no man will consider another kick.
Women will go through 9 months of misery followed by hours of intense suffering, all to bring an innocent little life into this world. During this time, men will fetch them oddities for their cravings and try to make them comfortable enough to avoid their justifiable wrath at what we’ve done to them.
That’s pretty awesome. We should celebrate the heck out of what you go through. This is further proof of your superiority.
But modern feminism, has taken this push for ‘equality’ to far.
Anyways. Here’s a link.
Help-help!
This is where I ask for your help.
If you’ve enjoyed reading the first five excerpts, and would like to be contacted when West of Prehistoric becomes published, please use the Contact Me page(click here) and send me your name and email to be added to my email list.
Here’s why – The goal of publishers is to sell books and they are leery of first time authors because we don’t have a reader base yet. It’s a financial risk. But, when I can brag about having x,xxx number of people on an email list, who can be contacted once the book is published – it helps ease their fears that taking me on will be a losing proposition. Because I’m bringing more than a manuscript to the table, I’m bringing readers.
And readers equal dollars.
Now – I do promise to only contact you in regards to this book or follow up books. I won’t sell or give your email to anyone, because that’s a dick move and I hate spammers with a passion. (There’s a special place reserved in hell for them and people who talk on cell phones in movie theaters.)
So if you liked what I’ve written, want to read the rest, and want to support me as a first time author – get on my email list. 🙂
RAWR! Pew! Pew! Part FIVE!
The previous story portions:
RAWR! Pew! Pew! Pew-Part Three!
RAWR! Pew! Pew! Pew-Part FOUR!
The saga of blazing guns, ferocious dinosaurs, and hairy barbaric savagery continues with Part FIVE.
(Honestly, at this rate, I’m going to post the entire book online before I get published. But that’s what happens when you write something, you want to share it.)
Here. We. Go.
***
A pair of apes on trikes caught the corner of my eye as they splashed through the river into the canyon.
I turned the telescope on them. Large birds, identical to the ones chased earlier by the big-headed dinosaur, were draped across the backs of the mounts. Brown feathered bodies bounced with the heavy steps of the trike until they stopped before the caves. Leaping down, apes untied the birds and effortlessly hoisted them across their shoulders. Carrying the corpses, they moved along the base of the cliff towards a small stand of trees.
A distant chirping drifted to me, intensifying as the apes entered the trees with their load. Peering through the gaps of leaves and branches, I could make out an outcropping of rock jutting from the canyon wall, creating a natural overhang. Beneath it was a large cage woven from thick branches that reached from the ground to the bottom of the bulge, with a gate near the center. Small black claws reached through the woven gaps, grabbing and shaking the cage as the things inside tried to get out.
One of the apes leaned a makeshift ladder against the fence and climbed to the top of the overhang, carefully avoiding the grasping claws. He opened a portion of the fence as the other passed the dead birds up. The chirps hit a feverish pitch as the bird’s bodies were shoved through.
Apparently, trikes weren’t the only tamed creatures in the canyon.
I watched the apes feeding the unknown animals for a few moments longer before deciding I’d seen enough. I needed to get back to town and let the Sheriff know, and figure out just what in the hell we were going to do about the tunnel.
I began to push back away from the edge, then stopped as an odd thumping noise reached my ears. Unnoticed, a pair of apes had moved beside the large slab of obsidian rock and were beating their chests with a fist. Others noticed and stood, copying the motion while facing the rock formation, adding to the dull thudding. Within moments the entire canyon was reverberating with the rhythmic pounding as it spread through all the apes.
The two that started the beating, stopped abruptly followed by the rest.
All the apes began moving to the strange rock formation. The ones wrestling threw tanned skins over their nakedness, while others stacked spears and lay down bows, and the apes cooking pulled meat away from the fire.
More of the apes poured from the caves in a steady stream. There was well over two hundred of them now standing around the circle of stone. But none of them stood inside the towering slabs of granite, leaving the area around the raised rock platform clear. I watched them through the telescope, in awe at the sheer number of them. Far more than I would have expected, and more were coming from the cave still.
A giant black-haired ape stepped from one of the cave entrances. Sensing something different about this one, I turned my glass on him.
He stood a head taller than the scattering of apes that hurried around him. The right side of his face was hideously scarred. The wound ran from chin to temple and twisted the side of his face into a grimace that exposed a large canine in a half snarl. He wore a simple waist belt and loincloth with a black handled knife tucked into a sheath. As he stepped forward, apes quickly parted before him.
Reaching the stone platform below the altar, he motioned towards the caves.
I swore viciously as a pair of apes stepped out with an Indian held tightly between them. The apes began hooting and calling in deep, rough voices. No doubt calling out insults to the captive.
The man’s chest was bloodied. His long black hair stringy and hanging over his face. He was naked, but he still had fight in him. Kicking and struggling he tried to pull away, and one of his guards slugged him in the stomach with a large fist. He convulsed and legs pulled up as he tried to double over against their grips. Vomit dribbled from his mouth. The apes dragged him through the crowd. Surrounding apes slapped and punched him about the head and body as he passed by.
The sound of their jeering joy and laughter at the man’s torment drifted to me. His feet dragged as he was hauled limply up the stone platform. I felt my face flush hot in anger.
Then I watched, horrified, as the guards dumped him on top of the obsidian slab. The crowd’s hooting grew louder as he thrashed weakly against the two stronger apes. With an almost dispassionate interest, they stretched his arms apart and lashed him down horizontally to the rock with leather cords. Their task finished, the guards stepped off the stone platform and disappeared into the crowd.
The black scarred ape stepped before the Indian captive.
A guttural chant began, followed by single clenched fists once again beating in unison. I felt it within my chest, as my heart seemed to pound in rhythm.
Sweat dripped from my brow, and the glass fogged. Quickly, I wiped the eye piece clear and looked back through the telescope.
Someone in the teeming mass of hairy apes was passing up a misshapen bowl. Green smoke wafted from whatever crazy stuff burned inside. The black ape accepted the bowl and laid it carefully beside the squirming man on the slab.
The scar-faced ape drew the blade from the sheath at his waist. It was obsidian, with a dark handle. The Indian hocked a wad of spit at him in defiance. In return, the ape casually palmed the man’s face and slammed his head backward against the stone. His body went limp.
My jaw clenched, and I ground my teeth so hard I thought they might crack.
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t know what I could do.
***
Laying the knife gently on the black altar, the scarred ape cupped his hands around the smoldering bowl and raised it into the air as the chanting and pounding ceased.
The canyon was eerily quiet as he lowered the bowl and breathed in the green smoke.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then the bowl dropped from the ape’s hands, shattering on rock. The black ape shuddered and braced himself against the altar. He twitched, violently, jerking his head from side to side. Knees bent and wobbled, threatening to collapse underneath him.
Whatever was in that bowl wasn’t your ordinary peyote.
Suddenly the giant ape threw himself upright, thrusting out his chest and raising clenched fists at the sky. He roared, an ugly, harsh, inhuman sound as the other apes joined in. The thumping noise of hammering fists against chests began again with a fevered violence. The pounding was louder and harsher this time. There was no rhythm. Just a mass of noise that echoed and assaulted my senses.
The Indian awoke. Bewildered and groggy, he twisted and turned on the black rock.
The scar faced ape scooped up the knife and plunged it into the man’s belly.
I wasn’t prepared for the sudden violence and almost dropped the telescope as a high-pitched scream of agony pierced the air. The chipped obsidian knife slid upwards easily and stopped once it reached his rib cage. The man kept screaming in horror, staring wide eyed at his gaping wound along his stomach. The savage ape set the knife down and reached into the cut, amongst the vitals, and under the rib cage. The shrieking ended with a twist and rip, as the ape pulled out the man’s heart.
Raising the organ in his fist for all the apes to see, blood ran down the ape’s black fur arm and splattered onto the altar.
Hundreds of throats roared in satisfaction.
The scarred black ape savagely took a bite out of the heart. Blood oozed from his mouth. Swallowing, he hurled the remains into the crowd.
Apes pushed and shoved each other for it. One hairy monkey began pummeling another to the ground with both fists as others kicked and fought to get the chunk of human flesh.
A hand suddenly held it aloft victoriously above the thrashing apes, a bloody chunk of raw meat coated with dirt. Roaring, he bit off a chunk and hurled it across the crowd where the scene was repeated, again and again, until there was nothing left but apes fighting each other around the circle of stones while the scarred ape leader watched on in satisfaction.
Saying I was in shock was an understatement. Horrified was more like it. But furious…. absolutely.
Slamming the telescope shut, I slid my rifle before me and braced it into my shoulder. I found the black scarred ape at the altar and guessed the distance.
Common sense told me that my position would be given away once I fired, but I didn’t care. Every single one of these hairy men-monkeys needed to die. But I’d satisfy myself with just taking their leader’s life.
Carbine stamped softly from the tree line, but I tuned him out and slowed my breathing. Concentrating on the gentle rise and fall of the sights, I began taking up the slack in the trigger.
I was about to smite a giant, evil monkey with 350 grains of cast lead and vengeance.
Hell yeah.
Carbine snorted loudly, interrupting my concentration.
Annoyed, I rolled to the side to see what he was upset about.
A spear point shattered on the sweat soaked rock where I’d lain a moment before.
The ape stood towering over me. His large brow furrowed in frustration at his missed stab. Another monkey grabbed Carbine’s reins and was rewarded a vicious bite to his shoulder by my horse. He screamed, and Carbine twisted, kicking the ape in the chest and sending him sprawling.
I bet that hurt, but not as much as this.
With my freehand, I drew the Colt and shot the ape standing over me. He didn’t give in to the wound as the bullet punched through his belly, instead jerking the spear back and preparing to thrust with its shattered tip.
This time, I shot him through the center of the chest where his heart should have been, and he collapsed in a twitching heap.
As the other ape painfully crawled onto all fours, I carefully put a bullet through his skull and dropped him.
So much for the element of surprise.
Flipping back over, I realized the canyon had gone quiet. The multitude of apes had stopped beating their chests, and were staring at my position. I felt hundreds of eyes upon me.
Surprise monkeys, I have weapons of fire, thunder and lead. Fear me.
Scar-face pointed a thick, blood coated finger in my direction and bellowed a command.
The crowd went wild as apes began pushing, shoving, and running in different directions. Some ran back into the caves, others towards stacks of weapons, and most rushed towards the cliff below me.
Swearing, I yanked the rifle up and quickly shot at the ape leader as he turned away. The bullet missed and hit the Indian’s corpse instead. The evil black ape disappeared among the frantic swarming mass of his followers.
There went my chance at killing their leader. But at least the Indian was already dead. He probably would have forgiven me anyways, all things considered.
If there was any doubt as to where my position was before, the gun powder smoke from the Sharps that drifted over the canyon made it abundantly clear. But I figured I could slay a few more of them before I needed to get out of dodge.
Working the action on the rifle, I randomly selected an ape splashing through the stream in my direction and pulled the trigger. The rifle boomed again satisfyingly, and the ape pitched forward and thrashed in the water as another puff of gun smoke blew out to join the other.
I grinned evilly.
This was like shooting monkeys in a barrel.
Rising to a knee for a better field of fire, I fired into a small band of apes headed for the trikes. Another boom, and this time an ape dropped while the one beside it screamed and fell, clutching her side.
One bullet, two wounds. My sort of math.
The herd of trikes, stirred up by the gunfire and excitement, were proving hard for the apes to throw harnesses and saddles on. Dust stirred as the dinosaurs shuffled in confusion, making it harder for me to pick out targets. But the two trikes that rode in earlier were still harnessed and ready to go. As an ape tried mounting one of them, I fired. The shot was low, and hit the trike. It bellowed in pain and side stepped, shaking its horns and knocking the would-be rider off.
Apes were running for the canyon entrance now, trying to circle around and catch me from the rear. I ignored them. I’d be long gone by the time they reached my location.
An arrow zipped by, fired from an ape standing in the stream, and landing somewhere in the forest behind me. My aim was off, and I put a bullet through his leg as a large, hairy hand slapped the top of the edge.
Shocked that one of the apes reached me so quickly, I frantically worked the outdated reloading mechanism of the Sharps.
The big female monkey pulled herself over the edge. I cocked the hammer back and fired from the hip, the muzzle mere inches away from her face. Unsupported, the recoil of the rifle almost knocked it out of my hands. I managed to hang on to the gun as the bullet punched through the ape’s throat with a spray of blood.
At such a short distance, her flat face was filled with sparks of burning powder. Blinded and wounded, the ape clawed at her face and throat before toppling backwards and falling, yellowed canines bared in a silent scream.
Peeking over the edge, I saw her body twisted and broken amongst the rocks and a multitude of others clinging to the rocks below. Some stopped and stared at the corpse, others climbed faster. None of them looked happy.
From the canyon floor, more apes picked up bows and arrows whistled by me, thudding into the trees and ground nearby. One hit beside me, shattering the shaft on the rock and pelting me with splinters. It was time to go.
I ducked and scrambled away from the cliff edge. Reaching Carbine, I slammed the telescope shut and into the saddle bags before leaping into the saddle. From behind came grunts and hoots as apes began reaching the top of the cliff. Smacking his flanks with the barrel of my rifle, I let him lead as I twisted in the saddle and fired at the apes behind me. I managed to make one duck before losing sight of them as Carbine charged amongst the thick trees.
Within seconds, we were lost in the forest.
***
To be continued…
This is where I ask for your help. If you’ve enjoyed reading these excerpts and would like to be contacted when West of Prehistoric becomes published, please use the Contact Me page(click here) and send me your name and email to be added to my email list.
Here’s why – The goal of publishers is to sell books and they are leery of first time authors because we don’t have a reader base yet. It’s a financial risk taking one on. But, when I can brag about having x,xxx number of people on an email list, who can be contacted once the book is published – it helps ease their fears that taking me on will be a losing proposition.
I do promise to only contact you in regards to this book or follow up books. I won’t sell or give your email to anyone, because that’s a dick move and I hate spam.
So if you liked what I’ve written, want to read the rest, and want to support me as a first time author – get on my email list. 🙂
Gunpowder and Ink! 