My great, great, grandfather lived in a
small western town. Each year there was a shooting competition. On the day of
the competition, the air was still, and the crowed watched in anticipation, as
he stared down the barrel of the gun looking at the target. He slowly squeezed
the trigger. Then the most shocking thing happened, the bullet ricocheted off
the target and straight back at him, it hit the gun bending the barrel upwards. He
was lucky to be alive. He won the competition and later a statue was made of
his gun with the barrel tied in a knot, to signify that he never shot the gun
again.
