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Old 11-21-2013, 05:48 AM
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I was CO RECT on the calling card (reaches around to give an enthusiastic selfie pat on the back)

Back in the Jurassic I got a psychology degree but really really hate psycho babble. I can just see the pedantic lenin looking twerp pace and drone with fingers folded together except the two index fingers forming a spike thoughtfully tapping his soup stained goatee.

of course the mandatory reader roar of MOAR!!
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Old 11-21-2013, 06:11 AM
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ravinglawyer13 ravinglawyer13 is offline
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I dated a girl back in college who was a psych major...it didn't work out. I'm pretty sure I was to regressive for her. I think I may have been born two generations too late...

TO ALL: I appreciate your kind words and encouragement. I wish I could write faster, because we haven't even gotten to a major plot twist yet. We are still in the foundational part of the story that is still providing a backdrop and background info for what is to come. The "Raylan's ****ing crazy" scale is still at about a 2 out of 10. Have a little patience with my sore fingers...
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Old 11-21-2013, 07:09 AM
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Thanks for your effort and sorry for the rush but you bring this on yourself you write to dam good . We as always appreciate the writers work ,thanks again.
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Old 11-21-2013, 09:53 AM
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ms word has voice recognition software.

Thanks for the story I am enjoying it very much.
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Old 11-21-2013, 12:25 PM
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Great job, thanks!
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Old 11-21-2013, 03:06 PM
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ravinglawyer13 wrote, in relevant part:
"I appreciate the comparison. Having said that, the current roller coaster Raylan may be coming to an end, who knows. People are only thinking in 2D here."


My reply:
Oh, I wouldn't necessarily think of it as "2D" thinking....one NEVER voices everything one thinks. In our current political climate almost anything could go in any direction with extreme rapidity.
<sigh> I hope we never have to suffer a FLOTUS like the current liberal crop of wannabees.
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Old 11-21-2013, 04:55 PM
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There have been a few books that have started out as internet storys, and published. "Lights Out" by David Crawford is one of them. That is a Great Read.


Semper Fi
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Old 11-22-2013, 04:34 AM
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Excellent story, thanks for sharing.
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Old 11-23-2013, 11:48 AM
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lovin' this story so far. keep up the great work!
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Old 11-23-2013, 02:20 PM
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CHAPTER 10

The Department of Homeland Security Lynchburg field office had guaranteed Jerod that he would be safe. Some had thrown around that this was a potential hate crime, and that Jerod shouldn't be concerned about some "racist, redneck homophobe." Despite the blustering of his coworkers, the only place that Jerod felt safe was in the confines of the field office. He was around other agents, most armed, and the Field Director had assured him that she had a "five-hundred yard secure perimeter around the building with overwatch." Jerod had no idea what that meant, but he knew five-hundred yards was a long ways and trusted the cocky men in black fatigues carrying plastic gun cases up to the roof that he was the "most protected man in Virginia." The part that scared Jerod the most was the reports, largely ignored by the media, that federal agents in Texas were now beginning to disappear. If rumors were to be believed, DHS was “transitioning their personnel” out of the state altogether. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the current stalemate between the President, Congress and Texas was beginning to resolve itself. Subconsciously Jerod was recognizing a paradigm shift, though he didn’t know it. All he was concerned about was the increasing realization that a badge no longer meant you were above ordinary citizens, one of the “others.” His badge felt more and more like a bulls-eye each passing day. At the insistence of Amaal, Jerod was given a Kevlar vest he was to wear at all times outside the building. She had assured him that it would stop “practically any bullet that could be fired from a gun” as long as it hit the vest. Jerod hated wearing the thing, it was hot, and made him look like the Michelin Man when he wore it under his shirt. Nevertheless, it was a small price to pay for safety from bullets.

After four days of observation, Rob and I had found out where Jerod was being secreted back and forth to. I'm sure he had been told it was a "safe house." The fact of the matter was they relied too much on concealment, and no one even watched the door. I absent-mindedly wondered if they really didn't care about their agents, or they simply didn't have the manpower, or were that incompetent here. Perhaps a combination of all three. Decades of hiring people for ideological reasons and not competence were bound to have consequences. We had used Rob's truck on the first day and tailed the vehicle for a few miles. Using burner phones, Rob and I had coordinated tailing them progressively further on the route, never following them for more than a few miles at a time, lest it be suspicious to an alert agent. The greatest weakness was the consistent use of a single route to their location. Every day, they took the same route. Failing to learn any lessons from our excursions in the Middle East, like Riley Michaels their predictability was going to get Jerod killed.

I could see how tired Jerod was when he came out that evening. Dark rings circled his eyes and he had the stumbling, uncoordinated shuffle of someone who is on the verge of exhaustion. Squinting through my scope, a blood-red circle ringed his head like a halo. Breathe in, breathe out, hold steady… I suddenly heard a car pull up, and a woman exited, probably some type of protection detail. She was speaking to Jerod, but I couldn't hear what was being said. Jerod went inside, and, I sighed as she appeared to leave. ****! I thought, as she walked to the car only to grab a windbreaker out of the back seat. Behind the hotel, there was a bowling alley. While it was open, I could here the loud music and raucous laughter from where I was hiding. A large wooded gully separated the back parking lot of the hotel from the bowling alley. I had elected to make my hide there, in the shadows of the few sodium lights that did exist in either parking lot. I had taken my ghillie poncho and arranged it over dark, but normal-looking street clothes. Thank you, Johnny Cash. People underestimate how effective shadows are at camouflaging the human figure. Unless a person decided to wander into the gully and wait for their eyes to adjust to the dark, I would not be seen. Still, as the agent walked around the hotel, I was holding my breath. Things got even more nerve racking when she pulled out her flashlight. As slowly as I could, I began squirming to put a decent sized oak between myself and her. I resisted the adrenalin telling me to shoot and run. My continued existence was a crucial part to any and all plans made, and being involved in a gunfight or federal manhunt was not conducive to that goal. I slowly realized that my plan was fundamentally flawed, and shooting a person who is suspecting you is exponentially more difficult that I had anticipated. A soon as she climbed in her car to leave, I began retreating to my vehicle. It was exhausting. I had not anticipated stalking would be as physically demanding as it is, and the slowness of my progress was agonizing. Controlling every movement of your body for twenty or thirty minutes, only to have moved fifty yards is a learned skill. The only problem , my learning curve was steep…and unforgiving.

Rob was incensed when I told him later than day about my initial plan. "You've got to be kidding me Raylan, that's amateur **** man. Don't be THAT Oswald, be the man on the grassy knoll. What, you decided to just waltz up there and do a single man hit without mentioning it to me?!" I retorted,"Look man, you've got a wife and I didn't want to get you involved in this any more than you already are. Tailing is one thing, it's plausible deniability. Being there is another." He angrily replied,"Cute Raylan. Not only is my wife nagging and looking out for me, now I've got Raylan on the Rob Safety Patrol too. Outstanding. First of all, I was there for the first one Raylan. You know this Mr. Lawyer, is there any more obvious example of a co-conspirator? Second, probable cause is a foreign concept to DHS. Those guys don't care, what probable cause was there at GreatNation? Those guys couldn't give a damn about probable cause and it's been that way for the last ten years. I'm asking you one, as a friend who cares about your ugly ass staying alive, and two, to keep you from getting me and mine killed by your rank incompetence and poor judgment to include me in all future adventures." I could feel the anger roiling off of me, “Oh, here it is. It’s finally out in the open. Team America here is ****ed because I would have the gall to do something without his permission. Forgive me mom. To a cynical person, it might look like you’re little man parts are feeling threatened because someone had the sand to do what you WOULDN’T…COULDN’T.” Silence. I had crossed a line, and I knew it. I was so angry I didn’t care. Rob’s eyes narrowed down to a squint, I braced for the rumble I was sure was coming. “****. You. Raylan. Get out. ..now. You’ve got some gall saying that. Maybe you are insane. You’ve lost perspective man. You are toxic to me and everyone else around you right now. Best of luck on your own little jihad.” I stormed out, furious at myself and at Rob. The doorframe shook as I slammed it as hard as I could. I could hear the neighbor dogs barking as I pulled away.
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Old 11-23-2013, 08:04 PM
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Great story, can't wait for more.
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Old 11-24-2013, 10:25 AM
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Please, keep more of "Plata o plomo?" coming.
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Old 11-24-2013, 12:44 PM
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Chapter 11

Two days went by without either of us talking to the other. I knew I had been an *******. I was also a proud *******. I hated admitting I was wrong, even thought far more than pride was at stake. I doubted Rob would go to the authorities, but if he was angry enough…no, I knew him better than that. I ran, I did calisthenics and generally tried to purge the nagging guilt with bodily exertion. I obsessed over the problem of Jerod Trent. I heard tires crunching in the driveway, and immediately went into panic mode. I grabbed my go kit and was around the back of the barn, ready to bolt, when I saw a familiar gray Tundra. With regret I realized, I was not the bigger man. Rob got out, and we awkwardly stood there, neither saying anything. I looked ridiculous with a huge ruck pack and my AR dangling from a single point sling. “Going somewhere Raylan?” He asked. “Nah man, just wasn’t sure who you were.” “Look man, I’m sor-“ Rob interrupted me with a wave of his hand “Nah, forget about it” “No” I said, “I was out of line. This whole thing is driving me nuts. The pressure, the constant drain on your mind. I spend every waking moment knowing there is an entire government agency that wants my head. I don’t know how to deal with that. I have trouble sleeping, I’m having trouble eating. I’m not James Bond man, this **** is getting to me.” He looked at me, “Look man, you’re not alone. I’m here and so is Brad. Plus, I was an ******* too. Maybe I did feel threatened that you were taking point on this. You don’t need my permission to do something, and despite what I said, you’re a damn good shot. I’ve seen you stalk deer, and at this point you I’ve pretty much taught you everything I know about sniping, stalking and concealment. You know what I know. I showed a serious lack of trust and questioned your judgment and professionalism without cause. I was out of line too.” He grinned, “Now that we’ve had our Oprah moment, let’s quit standing here getting all mushy like a bunch of fairies in the Navy and get to work.” Rob was back, and we were in business.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the night discussing possible scenarios and contingency plans. I was uncomfortable having to work around unknown variables and the lack of information bothered me. I didn't like being at the behest of Mr. Trent, and resolved to end it as soon as possible. Brad approached the scenario from a completely different angle than I had initially. His plan had the potential for massive exposure, and probably a painful death, if something went wrong, but that was also the brilliance of it. War colleges around the world preached it, men like Genghis Kahn, Sun Tzu and Clausewitz had written about it...be in your enemies blind spot. The DHS would guard against the probable, not the extremely unlikely or what they considered impossible. Their normalcy bias would all but ensure our route would be clear. Both days I spent out in the woods scanning for agents had come up empty. If a route had never crossed your mind as an option for ingress, why guard it? Thus far, they were operating in an intelligence vacuum, largely unaware of their enemy’s capabilities, weaponry, numbers or skill. We would use that vacuum against them.

Fall had begun its work, and the foliage was thinning by the day. Ever so slowly we crept toward our goal; we had budgeted several hours to work approximately a half a mile to our hide. The DHS building had been fenced in when it had been built. Labeled a “secure facility,” the access to the grounds was controlled via a ten foot chain link fence topped with concertina wire. The lone road into the facility was littered with anti-vehicle barriers on either side of a small guard house. The entire complex was perhaps twenty acres, and not a single tree existed within the fence. I had to admit that it was nice property. Oak forests that were so prevalent here nestled the property on all four sides, and the James River provided a natural barrier about of a mile north. It was very quiet, and very private. “Well,” I thought, “let’s make some noise then.”

As I took the scene in with Rob’s spotting scope, I was relieved to notice the lack of anything more than cursory perimeter security. A patrol every twenty or thirty minutes was about the extent of it. Furthermore, there were no security lights or cameras that were anywhere near the fence. All of them either circled the parking lot or the actual building. The biggest problem with this plan was transportation. There was not another business within three miles of here. I hate running, and I’m severely allergic to dying, so initially I had rejected out of hand the idea of meeting Mr. Trent at work. Rob had floated the idea of using the river. It was fall, and people don’t go in the river when it’s fall here. The James River is cold and fast. Did I mention cold? I had been convinced on the merits of the plan, so I went ahead and purchased some wetsuits after much searching on Craigslist.

I dropped Rob and all our gear off on the northern shore, about two miles upstream from the facility, and then drove about four miles down the road. While not ideal, the northern side of the James River had nature trails and bike paths with parking lots. I parked Rob’s truck in one that had a few vehicles in the lot and unloaded my mountain bike from the back. No one would look twice at me riding a bike around here, and it was much, much faster than walking. By the time Rob and I were doing our best impersonations of Scuba Steve, it was already mid-morning. The swim sucked. While later this feat would become a major selling point in what a hard-ass he-man I was, don’t believe it. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t stop cussing it was so cold. I thought I would get used to the cold, just like the pool, right? Wrong. I had a new found respect about halfway across the river for the people who had swam across the English Channel.

On the other side, we quickly changed into clothes and started our stalk. We had floated downstream a little farther that I had planned, so the distance to the building was shorter than expected. We move quickly, but quietly through the woods gently gaining elevation as we went. Using a topographical map of the area, Rob had discovered a ridge to the east of the DHS parking lot that sat about thirty feet higher than the surrounding area. According to the rangefinder, a hundred and two yards separated the ridge from the fence line and another three hundred and twelve yards lay between the fence line and the parking lot. We crept up to the military crest of the ridge at an excruciatingly slow pace. I checked my watch, it was one o'clock in the afternoon. I knew from tailing him earlier that Jerod got off work at around four, unless it had changed. Given his hotel hours it still seemed right, but it had been a few days since we had done any checking on his schedule. I didn’t even want to think about swimming across that damn river twice for nothing.

Rob was to my immediate right with a sixty-five power spotting scope. We both lay prone, I under my ghillie poncho and Rob in his ghillie suit. Both of us had taken time to snip some foliage in the forest to attach to them. In the end, both of us wound up throwing several handfuls of leaves on ourselves since the entire forest floor was covered in them. I was unimpressed by the setup, but Rob had assured me that a superior shooting position trumped ingenious camouflage. A superior shooting position WAS the camouflage. Not being seen is better than being seen but mistakenly identified. We waited. Waiting is the hardest part. No matter how amped up you are at the beginning, inevitably your mind will begin to wonder or aches will develop. Among my generation, mental focus and attention span is usually measured in minutes, if not seconds. We waited for hours. It was easier than last time, but it still took much effort to concentrate on the real estate several hundred yards away.

The entrance we had seen Jerod consistently use was exactly four hundred and ninety-two yards, from the front of my barrel. We had checked it in triplicate. From timing other people as they walked to their cars, I knew the path from the car lot to the door took roughly seven seconds at a normal pace. What I didn't know is when, or if, Jerod was coming through that door. As if in answer to my question, an dark skinned man emerged from the building, walking quickly. “Is that him, is that him?” I whispered urgently. “Umm. Yes, yes. Positive ID…send it.” I attempted to compensate for the millisecond the round would be in flight, but overcompensated in my haste. The crosshairs steadied, and then began tracking him again. I was shooting through over a hundred yards of forest, after he blew through my tiny shooting window it was difficult to find another. He was going to make it to the car. "Shot's off Raylan, just watch which car he goes to." We had no idea which car was his, since he had been using a department car for the past few days and all were equally black and all the same general make and model.

He paused at a car, and his left shoulder slumped as one hand searched for keys in his pocket. I hastily centered and pulled the trigger. Rob was as surprised as Jerod at the violently loud report. Had I been thinking, I would have whispered “splash” as I began to squeeze, not pull, the trigger. A car window shattered and I re-centered the scope where it had been. I saw nothing. My heart sank, thinking I had seriously blown it. As I chambered another round out of sheer habit, Rob whispered “front tire, driver’s side.” Then I saw motion, and saw a man on his knees pressed up against the car. Jerod was crouched on the wrong side of the car! I didn't care what the man was thinking, but maybe the gods of marksmanship would be with me this time. I desperately tried to steady my breathing. The crosshairs were dancing like marionettes, my eye relief was horrendous, and for some reason the Staples "Easy" button kept floating into my minds eye. I stopped breathing, jerked my cheek tighter to the stock, and in the momentary stillness of it all, I squeezed the trigger. At 3 lb. of pressure the polished sear disengaged and the striker flung itself against the primer. The dented primer ignited and triggered a rapidly-burning fire as the gunpowder was lit in the casing of the round. A millisecond later, the 150 grain Hornady slipped off the tip of the casing, and within twenty-two inches accelerated to 3400 feet-per-second...2,300+ mph. A blindingly loud clap, and the noise gave way to a sharp pain and decidedly blurry vision in my right eye.

Rather than attempt a shot approaching the maximum range of an AR-15, I had dragged my second most prized possession through the woods for this moment in time. Use the right tool for the job, I had been told. Somehow I doubted my father anticipated me taking his advice this way. What seemed like a lifetime ago, A young Raylan had avidly hunted deer in the Texas panhandle. It was flat, nearly devoid of trees and hunting meant being able to shoot and kill well past a hundred yards. To be honest, I don’t know why I bought my Remington 700 chambered in .300 Winchester Magnum. The most common round among those I hunted with was .30-06 and 7mm. Perhaps it was because it was fast, or maybe it was the Texas influence. Go big or go home. Whatever the case, I came to love it. I was a .30 caliber bullet on top of a massive casing, making the round resemble a Saturn V rocket. It shot flat, but beat the shooter to death. While it was more than possible to make hits at the 1,000 yard mark, I had never been that good. My personal best had been almost 200 yards shy. The added benefit of all that extra powder was a commonly available round that still approached warp speed when it left the barrel. That translated into a much higher velocity when your express mail reached its intended recipient. In the words of a wise man, "Asking what the best round is...is like asking how hot you want your wife to be. Pick the one that's as hot and fast as you can handle, but no more."

I could feel Rob tapping me on the shoulder urgently, half gesturing, half pulling me in the direction we entered the forest. Our exit was rapid, but far from calm or tactical. We quickly walked through the forest, looking strikingly similar to heavily armed, camouflaged power-walkers. Had we not been federal fugitives, the entire event would have been hilarious. Richard Simmons: Domestic Terrorist Edition. Neither of us said a word as we quickly stripped, and threw what little gear we brought into Rob’s pack. We heard sirens as we waded into the water, my 700 slung across my back. Damn, the water was cold. We floated vertical in the river and let the current take us downstream rather than risk making noise by swimming. As we low crawled to the crest of the river bank, I was waiting for the police to be surrounding Rob’s truck. I envisioned a hail of bullets and me choking on blood and lung matter next to the cold water. In a wetsuit. What a way to go, I thought. As we drove away, I wondered intently what the outcome of this was. Rob had been too anxious to get out of there after the second shot to confirm anything. I pulled down the visor and as I gently poked my swelling right eye, I asked myself just how far down the rabbit hole this was going to go…
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Old 11-24-2013, 01:06 PM
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ah man. i guess i will have to wait before i start humming 'another one bites the dust'.
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Old 11-24-2013, 01:22 PM
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Originally Posted by real wowwee View Post
ah man. i guess i will have to wait before i start humming 'another one bites the dust'.
Oh, come on now. Everybody dies sometime. Take the long view. Or...you could figure out the energy of a 150 grain GR GMX Hornady Superformance in 300WM @ 500 yds. (Hint: BC=.415; Sec.Den. = .226) Then go look up the NIJ specs for IIA kevlar. Do some math. Voila! Now you know if it's possible.

BTW, that thing has a 6 MOA drop (~30") at FIVE HUNDRED FREAKING YARDS! And we're not talking about some little 50-60 grain deal here. It's a good size round. Too bad I can't afford the $3/round to shoot the damn thing anymore. /Hornady commercial
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Old 11-24-2013, 06:04 PM
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Originally Posted by ravinglawyer13 View Post
Oh, come on now. Everybody dies sometime. Take the long view. Or...you could figure out the energy of a 150 grain GR GMX Hornady Superformance in 300WM @ 500 yds. (Hint: BC=.415; Sec.Den. = .226) Then go look up the NIJ specs for IIA kevlar. Do some math. Voila! Now you know if it's possible.

BTW, that thing has a 6 MOA drop (~30") at FIVE HUNDRED FREAKING YARDS! And we're not talking about some little 50-60 grain deal here. It's a good size round. Too bad I can't afford the $3/round to shoot the damn thing anymore. /Hornady commercial
Check out Underwood Ammo. They have a 150 gr. SST @ 3400 fps out of the 300 WM that is just under $35/box.

Even though I live close to them and love their products, I won't buy any more Hornady products due to how too many of their people feel about gun control (they are actually for it). Steve's mother, who is the vice president of the company, supported a VERY anti-gun candidate for Senate last year. That's just the most glaring example.
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Old 11-24-2013, 07:09 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Supermag View Post
Check out Underwood Ammo. They have a 150 gr. SST @ 3400 fps out of the 300 WM that is just under $35/box.

Even though I live close to them and love their products, I won't buy any more Hornady products due to how too many of their people feel about gun control (they are actually for it). Steve's mother, who is the vice president of the company, supported a VERY anti-gun candidate for Senate last year. That's just the most glaring example.
might as well cut your own throat ,what idiots.
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Old 11-24-2013, 10:56 PM
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That is why I reload. Makes a 300 WM almost reasonable to play with.
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Old 11-24-2013, 11:04 PM
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I had no idea Hornady held that position. God knows how much money I've spent on their ammo. In the grand scheme of things, I'm not much to their bottom line, but I guarantee they need customers like me. I spend a hundredfold of what the average hunter does on ammo. Way more than a box once or twice a year. They kill off that segment of their customer base and it would hurt. Thanks for the heads up on Underwood, I'll definitely check them out. IMHO Hornady and Black Hills are the two with the most consistent loads from box to box. I'm not that picky except for feeding my bolt gun. It makes a difference out past 300-400 yards. I'll have to do some more research on them, see what I can find. If you've got names or anything, feel free to share them. If the company truly feels that way, people need to know. I'm tired of people getting fat of my dime and then ****ting in the hand that feeds them.
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Old 11-25-2013, 08:16 AM
Supermag Supermag is offline
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Here's a link that shows the donations: http://dir.groups.yahoo.com/neo/grou...ns/topics/5328

BTW, Bob Kerrey was a moderate democrat, former NE governor that got elected to the Senate and then went full liberal during the Clinton years and is very anti-gun. He resigned his presidency at the New School university in New York and quickly moved back to NE (his address was listed as his sister's guest house) to try and get Ben "Cornhusker Kickback" Nelson's seat for the Dems. When he lost, he was back in New York before December.

The other examples aren't as glaring but they're there. There is a Hornady production manager that has said on FB that he's for gun control, I've heard that during tours some of the employees joke about how good Obama is for business, and there's Steve's comments about the ammo shortage that kind of rub me the wrong way for some reason ( ).
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