hat little blob of metal, so content in its metallic case, has been sent screaming down the barrel, spinning until it’s dizzier than a 2-year-old on sugar, sailing through the air faster than, well I was going to say a speeding bullet, but, it’s going pretty damned fast. Then, instantly, violently, the journey ends. At the gun range it just rips paper and meets its untimely demise in a sand bank or dirt berm. Perhaps it smashed through hide, bone and vital tissue, putting dinner on the table for a family all winter.
