There is a club devoted exclusively to gangsta hip-hop music located in our fair city.
It is currently part of the turf owned by one set of Latino gangers who are feuding pretty seriously with another pack.
Small, dark, mota- reeking little place. My buddy Reno and I did some bouncing for spending money there for a couple of years when an African-American gang still owned that side; it was a brutal little dive then and it darned sure hasn't got any better.
Local PD won't go in there with less than four officers, and they usually have the tac-team do their walk-throughs.
Anyhoo, one night a while back there is a call for an ambulance, Rescue, the tac-team, and any available officers Code Three to the club.
Everybody and their grandma shows up. Several tons worth of officers show up, and muscle their way through the patrons to find a 19-year-old hispanic male laying on his side on the dance floor, completely unresponsive.
Everyone really, really wants to know just what the hell has happened here, his vatos are going bugnuts, and the only thing that anyone can learn is that the other gang has "done shot him".
This is Not Good. This is So Not Good.
Visions of a full-blown gang war dancing in their heads, the tac-team starts heaving bodies out into the road while the detectives snatch two of the biggest-mouthed eses and start trying to put together a sequence of what the hell just happened here.
Turns out that about eight Kings walked into the club sometime prior to the incident and started dancing with Lords gals.
Young Eduardo De La Dancefloor decided that this was, indeed, an insult too great to be borne so he allegedly pulled out what seems to have been a chromed Raven Arms .25ACP, pointed it at the Kings, and engaged in what must have been a truly inspired Alpha Male Display.
The Kings chose (for once) the better part of valour and hauled butt out the side door of the club.
Young Eduardo then turned in triumph to his little pack, and in a manner calculated to cause swooning in any brainless girl-child desperate (or stupid) enough to hang out with Mexicano gangsters, whirls the little silver auto around his shootin' finger, flips it back the other way, then back again, and proceeds to, err ... manfully ... thrust it home into the front of his waistband.
Gentle Readers, the Four Rules of Shooting are not just Rules, they are a damned fine idea. Let us ponder, in this case, the wisdom of: "Don't Point The Barrel At Anything You're Not Willing To Destroy" and "Keep Your Booger Hook Off Of The Bang Switch".
Yeah. Whoo. I believe that my readers of the male persuasion probably have an inkling of what happened.
My friends, I have seen the impossible. I have proof of a one shot stop utilizing a single, lonesome .25ACP FMJ.
Sweet Shivering Shiva.
Ahem. Anyhoo, apparently the finale of this testosterone preen involved Young Eduardo staggering back a step, raising a paw to his buddies, stumbling a bit and then according to eyewitnesses, his eyes just "kinda rolled back" and Eddie ploughed nose first into the parquet dancefloor.
I shall never sniff disdainfully at those who choose to carry a .25 ACP again.
Apparently he blew the left one into hamburger, air-conditioned Mr. Happy, and the combination of muzzle-flash and hydrostatic shock(?!) bruised the right one to the point that it's probably "not going to be viable". Medically speaking.
Oh, and the the round drilled into his left thigh and snuggled in contentedly about an inch or so from the femur.
Jut another day in Law Enforcement, folks. You can't make this stuff up.