Quotes About Gun

When you were a teenager in Colorado, the way to be a punk rocker was to rip on Reagan and Bush and what they were doing and talk about how everyone in Colorado's a redneck with a gun and all this stuff.

I found myself in the middle of a race riot when I was about 14 years old, and I found someone pointing a gun at me and telling me to run or they'd shoot me.

We wonder at good things, are appalled by evil. What's wondering got in common with being appalled? That strange combination, that surprise duet of disbelief and acknowledgement. You can't believe that any human being would open up with an assault gun in a trolley, but look over there--right there!--there's somebody doing it.

No. Wait. I hear a rider coming. Do you have your pistol?" He drew one of his own out from under his great coat and cocked it. "No, Father. I don't carry one. 'He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.' " "And he who lives by the gun shall last longer than the other fellow.

at Bodine, who pulled out the Winchester rifle as Jess slid his

Keep your voice down!' I warned. 'The house is asleep.' 'Come quick,' he repeated, though in a lower tone. 'And bring gun.' 'Why?

to catch his breath again, he merely said 'gun', and it was then that I took note of the stain on the drooping folds of the pareu wrapped around his waist. In the moonlight, it had at first appeared to be dirt or perhaps red wine—though the Samoans have no taste for wine—but its crust and gleam now revealed it to be dried blood. A sight that you and I, my friend, know all too well.

With more than a million Texans licensed to carry handguns, the state is actually far behind Florida, with 1.7 million. I'm EMBARRASSED, Governor Greg Abbott tweeted in 2015; Texas #2 in nation for new gun purchases, behind CALIFORNIA. Let's pick up the pace Texans. @NRA

California, Reacher thought. There was a sedan at the curb. It had been waiting there for them. A big car, black, expensive. The driver was leaning across and behind the front passenger seat. He was stretching over to pop the rear door. The guy opposite Reacher motioned with his gun again. Reacher didn't move. He glanced left and right. He figured he had about another second and a half to make some kind

Reacher prowled the hallway, his gun stiff-armed way out in front of him, his torso jerking violently left and right from the hips, like a crazy disco dance. The house-storming shuffle.

The guy froze for an imperceptible period, just a blink of time, thinking as fast as he was about to act, and then he swooped down, twisting, his right hand whipping through a long arc, aiming to snatch up the gun and grab it tight and whirl it away to safety.

The driver was closer, which was good, because he had seemed to be the take-charge guy. The senior figure. He would have the key. In his suit coat pocket, probably. On the left. Because he was right-handed. He would have held his gun in his right and blipped the fob with his left.

Each of which was no doubt occupied by a made man with a gun in his pocket and a spare in a drawer.

Evidently the Albanian guy thought the same way. His right hand snaked into view and gripped the stair rail. No gun. His left hand followed. No gun. But they were big hands. Smooth and hard, broad and discolored, thick blunt fingers, with what looked like a manicure done by a steak mallet.

It was a Ruger Mark II. A sneaky little .22-caliber automatic. Fitted with a fat silencer. It was a gun for a killer who enjoys getting close.

Seventeen rounds to a magazine, hence the name.

yards ahead of him, his gun in his right

was dead. He had taken the Winchester's

In this man's smile was all the unfairness of the world in its thuggish seduction. "Just come with me. We'll take care of you." "No, you won't." Taylor stroked the man's cheek. She reached her arms up to cradle the back of his head and, with the skill of a champion, she broke his neck. Then she dragged him into the bushes, took his gun and walkie-talkie, and kept moving.

Mr. Babcock pats my shoulder. He smiles, and the caterpillar mustache — the envy of state troopers everywhere, I'm sure — straightens out again. I hear that on the weekends, he's a part-time security guard with mirrored sunglasses and a gun. He probably poses in front of his bathroom mirror to see how he looks saying Freeze!

Americans have a warrior's mentality, most of them. That's how this society was built. The fact that you own a gun and shoot to defend your life is a very American way of thinking.

Cooper was also glad to see McCrae didn't feel the need to resort to some kind of macho game of whose handshake is the firmest to prove who would control their little meeting. But then, he did have a gun strapped to his hip, Cooper noted, so possibly that was simply unnecessary.

FDR's solicitor general said the Second Amendment had nothing to do with an individual right to own a gun; it had to do with the common defense. The court agreed, unanimously.2

A detective touched it. "Is this what you saw?" he asked. "No," she said. "No. I saw the gun. I saw a gun.