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shooting lanes. Electric target retrievers allow the shooter to pick any distance he or she desires.
    â€œHey, Dix,” calls Benny as I make my way to the gun bar. “Frank’s inside, lane 6. I booked you on 5.”
    Benny, a pug-nosed veteran who likes to wear crisp military green T-shirts even though the color doesn’t suit his complexion, is the owner. If he listened to me he’d switch to navy blue to highlight his eyes, but he doesn’t, so green it stays.
    Reaching the glass display case, I’m surprised he hasn’t already pulled out the Glock 19 and smaller Glock 26 that I’ve been renting.
    Benny reads my face. “I know you’re enjoying the Glocks,” he says. “But I’m thinking there’s something missing.”
    I smile. “And what’s that?”
    â€œThey’re too plain. Lacking that bit of pizazz to get your teeth watering, am I right?”
    I shrug. “It’s a gun, Benny. Not a fashion accessory.”
    â€œYou kiddin’ me?” His cheeks balloon in mirth. “You think these guys don’t brag on their hardware? I don’t know about fashion, but the kinda gun you shoot is definitely a statement.”
    â€œOK, what you got?”
    â€œYou’ve tried the automatics,” he begins. “And you made a nice, safe choice with the Glocks, but I’m still a fan of a good six-shot revolver. Easy to clean and maintain, always reliable, and there’s more of a connection between you and the gun. In my humble opinion, it just feels better in the hand. And for personal defense, who needs seventeen bullets? Keep a level head and one does the trick.”
    My lips twitch in amusement. “You’re kinda sexy when you go all gun geek, Benny.”
    He flushes. “Don’t fool with an old man,” he warns. “Our hearts can’t take it.”
    â€œSo what do you recommend?” I ask.
    From under the counter, he produces a matte-black revolver that’s about eight and a half inches from tip to tail and lays it on the glass.
    â€œI’m liking this Smith & Wesson Governor that you can load with .45 ACP or Long Colt, plus .410 shotgun shells. This gives you great stopping power with the buckshot loads for close-quarter confrontations, and the .45s for a longer, cleaner shot. It’s a few ounces heavier than what you’re used to with the Glock, but I got a feeling you’ll actually like the added heft.”
    I pick up the revolver and move into a two-handed stance. It is slightly heavier, but Benny’s right, it feels good.
    I smile again. “I’m liking it.”
    Benny nods. “Thought you might.”
    â€œCan I take it for a spin?”
    He slides the blue plastic gun case over, plus a box of .45 ACP ammo and a handful of two-and-a-half-inch .410 shells.
    â€œLane 5 is waiting.”

    You don’t get much talking done on the actual range unless you’re looking for monosyllabic grunts and head shakes. So while I gain an intimate knowledge of the Governor, Frank is showing what a few decades of practice can do to a paper silhouette that done did him wrong.
    Frank doesn’t shoot fancy or try any tricks. He’s strictly a heart and lungs kind of guy, with every shot finding its mark. As he lectured when I first asked for his help: “Remember, TV is bullshit. You never shoot to injure, always to kill. Aim for a leg or an arm and you’ll put a ricochet through some unlucky civilian before the perp puts you down. Always aim for the chest, center mass. If the first bullet doesn’t stop him, it’ll at least slow him down. Keep hitting that mark and he’ll eventually stop moving and lay down to die.”
    I load two shotgun shells and fill the remaining four chambers with .45s. Shooting is like yoga, except noisier. I control my breath, balance my stance, aim, and fire.
    The silhouette doesn’t stand a chance as the first shell