Vetterli 71 Karabiner Silencer

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER SILENCER. (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER) The Vetterli's precision coupled with the slight profile of the Karabiner length made it an ideal weapon for mobile sharpshooters, who favored its compromise between accuracy, transportability, and stopping power. As such, it was well suited tacticallyto the attachment of a suppressor, which made it extremely effective for sharpshooters to out maneuver and keep the advantage with no muzzle flash; however, the use of black powder was still a liability.

Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (..), 8.5in x 11in
2/3

But as I said, Lower DeSalle was dying already. Papa did what he could to keep it going - selling cures and ointments, anything for the sick. But it wasn't enough, this was something that no tonic could fix. This was something spiritual. A silence was settling on the soul.

You saw it first in the piano man. We all loved his playing, he was one of the few musicians in town, and it seemed otherworldly to us. He was a big draw to the saloon. Especially when out-of-towners passed through, with their own instruments, and he would greet them cheerily, and invite them to play, and the stage came alive with the sense of something fleeting

But then something changed, some years ago. The strangers stopped bringing instruments, started bringing guns. The piano man, too, hardened. Then became listless and lifeless, every song jarring and staccato. He was grinding his teeth, growing gaunt, staring into distances unfathomable. One day didn't show. I asked the barman, but he stood swirling his dirty rag round a dirty glass, didn't say a word. Hadn't even noticed. The silence had settled in

I asked after him for a while. Then forgot as the corruption hit, Papa died that February, and the quiet fell thick and heavy like the snow. It was all new: the grief, the death and the snow.

I saw him again, the piano man. After. Still walking the street in front of the saloon. Staring ahead, that same vacant way. But the rot was clear - he was gone, he was puppetted by whatever it is that preys on us.

Normally I wouldn't waste a bullet, but I took pity on him. I aimed Leander s Vetterli and the muffled shot hardly echoed on the empty street. The piano man crumpled, and the silence of Lower DeSalle thickened.