I put the shotgun in an Adidas bag and padded it out with four pairs of tennis socks, not my style at all, but that was what I was aiming for: If they think you’re crude, go technical; if they think you’re technical, go crude. I’m a very technical boy. So I decided to get as crude as possible. These days, thought, you have to be pretty technical before you can even aspire to crudeness. I’d had to turn both those twelve-gauge shells from brass stock, on the lathe, and then load then myself; I’d had to dig up an old microfiche with instructions for hand-loading cartridges; I’d had to build a lever-action press to seat the primers -all very tricky. But I knew they’d work.
What can I say I value my anonymity. I very rarely look for friends, I am loner and yes I did read Omni. After all Isaac Newton, Michelangelo, Barry Bonds & Haruki Murakami all belong to a subculture that will never join hands, a group whose voices, by nature, will never form a chorus. They are loners—and they have at least one thing in common: They keep to themselves. And they like it that way. Self-reliant, each loner swims alone through a social world—a world of teams, troops and groups—that scorns and misunderstands those who stand apart. Everywhere from newspapers to playgrounds, loners are accused of being crazy, cold, stuck-up, standoffish, selfish, sad, bad, secretive and lonely—and, of course, serial killers. Loners, however, know better than anyone how to entertain themselves—and how to contemplate and to create. They have a knack for imagination, concentration, inner discipline, and invention—a talent for not being bored.