At least they do if you know how to shoot them. With that in mind, I went down to the range with a couple of black guns and an eye towards some remedial target practice.
A natural gas pipeline is being put through the fields behind the range’s berm and it felt strange to see a bit of country I’d enjoyed being torn up. Everything seemed smaller, somehow.
I clambered over the earthworks to speak with one of the pipeliners, who was sitting in a Ranger, and asked if it was OK to shoot. He said sure, as long as I shot away from the work. “Hell! I’ve already been shot once already!” he said, holding up his left hand, which was missing all its fingers except the thumb, and a bit of that was gone too. 
“Man!” I exclaimed, promising to shoot safely, and asked where the pipeline was going. “From Whitney to Teague,” said my new friend, and I told him that was “quite a thing,” which it is.
Conversation over, I blazed away at some improvised targets, going for speed with the .45 and accuracy with the carbine. I have to say, the more I shoot the Glock 21 the more I like it; that pistol’s right on the money. The AR worked well too, a proper little blaster.
Shoot over, I drove into the golden void like a warrior, on the edge of time.
Gun rights,