When I was young, I lived next door to a guy unfortunately named Roebuck Newhart. He was a few years older than me. What impressed me about him was the cut of his jib, as the old-timers liked to say. He was flamboyant--and I mean flamboyant like a Mazda Miata, or "homasensual," as my other neighbor, Ed Corn, used to say. Roebuck liked to wear very loud sports jackets (at a time when very loud sports jackets were all the rage, although Roebuck used to wear even louder than the norm.) He also sported ascot ties, as well as pointy-toed dress shoes, back when the only people wearing pointy-toed footwear lived in Melrose Park and ate a lot of garlic.
Anyway, Roebuck worked nights at the Cock Robin restaurant on First Avenue, and one evening a bunch of Hell's Angels rode in. And there was Roebuck Newhart, wearing a stupid Cock Robin apron and an ascot, and they decided to get all up in Roebuck's ass, so to speak. Unfortunately for the Hell's Angels, Roebuck happened to be carrying a Colt Commander .45, and happened also to be a crack shot. So when the first Hell's Angel jumped the counter to fuck him up, Roebuck took him down with a head shot, and then dispatched the other three, with perfectly aimed double taps, speed-changing the magazine like James Caan in Thief somewhere inbetween. The Maywood PD charged Roebuck with an illegal weapons beef, but naturally, with four dead Hell's Angels on the floor, nobody really gave a shit, and Roebuck walked. The last I heard of Roebuck, he had invented the Astra A2000 automatic espresso machine, and hung up his Colt Commander.
My little brain can't even comprehend how deep that is.
--beefsupreme, commenting on his super rare Deep Blue wartche