John Marston was an outlaw who had spent most of his younger days on the dusty trails of the Wild West. But times were changing, and Marston knew that he needed to adapt to survive. So when he heard about the growing popularity of gunslinging competitions in the big cities of the East, he saw an opportunity to share his skills and make a living at the same time.

Marston had heard that Detroit was a bustling metropolis full of people looking for adventure, and he knew that it was the perfect place to start his shooting range. He readied his horse, packed up his revolver, his saddlebags, and his dreams, and set out for the Motor City.

Once he arrived in Detroit, Marston set about finding a suitable location for his shooting range. He scouted out a plot of land on the outskirts of town, where there was plenty of space to build his range and to ensure the safety of his customers and the citizens of Detroit. He knew that he needed to hire a construction firm to build the range, as he was not skilled in that area.

Marston searched for a reliable construction firm, and after much consideration, he settled on a company that had a good reputation and a proven track record of making high-quality structural repairs. He met with the foreman, a gruff but friendly man named Bob, and explained his vision for the shooting range.

Bob was skeptical at first, his usual work was mostly fixing things, but Marston's enthusiasm and knowledge of gunslinging soon won him over. Bob donned his yellow hard-hat and his crew set to work, digging foundations, pouring concrete, and erecting the wooden walls and targets that would form the heart of the shooting range.

Marston spent his days overseeing the construction and his evenings practicing his own shooting skills. He knew that he needed to hone and polish his skills as a gunslinger if he was going to teach others the art of shooting.

Finally, after a few months of hard work from Bob and his crew, and their “Yes we can!” attitude, the shooting range was complete. The final thing to do was put up a sign above the door. Marston guided the builders as they raised the wooden sign and straightened it above the door, before screwing it in place. He looked up, proud of what he had accomplished, ‘DEADSHOT’S DEN’ was finally open for business in Detroit.

Marston opened the doors to the public, and people came from all over Detroit to hone their shooting skills and compete in friendly competitions...

You would never expect a nun to walk into a shooting range. But one did today. She is currently at one of the firing points, letting a civilian-model 1911 fly. At 15 yards, she hits consistently center, with about two or three bullseye. It is just to pass the time. Her scythe, an old heirloom, is leaning against the steel countertop next to her.

Ian had heard about the new shooting range in Detroit and decided to check it out. As he entered the Deadshot’s Den, he was impressed by the layout and design of the range. He took a quick glance around, seeing a few people practicing and others preparing for competitions.

Ian approached Marston, the owner, with a friendly smile, "Howdy there, partner. I couldn't help but notice your shooting range, and I must say, it's mighty impressive. You've done a fine job here. I'm here for some practice, but I wouldn't mind signing up for a competition too. It's been a while since I've had a good challenge."

Ian walked over to the range and took out his trusted revolver. He began practicing his aim, taking his time with each shot, and making sure he hit his target with precision.

Sister Friede was a surprise customer at Marston's shooting range. Marston had never seen a nun with such precise aim before, and he was impressed by her skill with the Colt 1911.

As Sister Friede was packing up her gear, Marston approached her and struck up a conversation. He complimented her on her shooting skills and suggested that she might be able to handle a heavier weapon.

"I have a Smith & Wesson revolver that I think you might enjoy, It's got a bit more kick to it, but I think you can handle it."

Sister Friede was initially hesitant, as she had never fired a revolver with that kind of power before. But Marston's enthusiasm and confidence convinced her to give it a try. Marston retrieved the Smith & Wesson from his personal collection and handed it to Sister Friede. She held it with a steady hand, feeling the weight of the gun in her palm. She took a deep breath, and aimed it back down the range...

As Ian walked onto the range, Marston observed him closely. He noticed that Ian was holding his revolver tightly, and there was a slight flinch in anticipation of the recoil every time he fired. After watching him shoot for a few minutes, Marston approached Ian and struck up a conversation.

"I can see you're a little hesitant when you fire your revolver, you're flinching very slightly, and that's affecting your accuracy."

Ian looked at Marston, surprised that the old outlaw had picked it up, and Marston smiled knowingly.

"It's a common mistake, but there's an easy fix. Just relax your grip a little, and don't anticipate the recoil. Let the gun do the work for you."

Ian was skeptical, but Marston's confidence and years of experience convinced him to give it a try. He took a deep breath, relaxed his grip, and fired. The result was immediate. Ian's shot was more accurate, and he didn't flinch as much when the gun fired. He repeated the process a few more times, and with each shot, his aim improved. Ian continued to practice, his shots becoming more and more accurate with each passing moment. Marston watched from the sidelines, pleased to see that his advice had helped Ian improve his shooting skills.

"This gun you have let me try is a beauty." She lets the bullets fly, the target being peppered with holes. Friede has to resist the urge to whoop like those cowboys in those Western she watched when she was young. "The recoil, the look... it's like I'm holding something out of those old Western films I watched when I was young..."

She loads another target, and she starts fanning the damn revolver. Her accuracy falls short, and only three of the six actually make contact. "Yeah... let's not fan a revolver for now..." She chuckles, sure she looked like a fool in front of John.

Marston approached Sister Friede again, noticing her disappointment.

"Fanning is a tricky technique, it takes a lot of practice to get it right, but don't worry. I can show you how to do it accurately."

He took the revolver from Sister Friede's hand and demonstrated the proper way to fan the revolver. He showed her how to position her hand and how to control the speed of the shots, making sure they were accurate and on target. Sister Friede watched closely, absorbing every detail. Then, Marston handed the revolver back for her to try again.

"Try it a bit slower this time, trying not to knock your aim at all when you hit that hammer"

"Huh." She shadows Marston for a moment, and she mimics his hand movements. As she is handed the revolver, she grins. "I think I have it down..." She loads up another target, and fans it. This time five of six hit, two of them hitting near the center. "I did better. You're a good teacher, Mister Marston. God bless you and your guns. May your bullets fly straight and true."

Marston clapped Sister Friede on the back, smiling proudly.

"You did it, you've got the technique down. Keep practicing, and you'll be a pro in no time."

Marston was pleased to see that his customers were making progress in their shooting skills. As they continued to practice, the targets placed out were left in ruins, riddled with bullet holes. It was a sign of progress, but he needed to keep the range well-stocked with fresh targets to ensure that future customers could practice their shooting skills too. He gathered up the destroyed targets and replaced them with fresh ones, ready for the next batch of customers who would come to hone their skills.

Slade found himself in Detroit and knowing that his good friend Marston has a range opened up here, he had to stop by and check it out. Being a former assassin and man of many talents, he felt his trigger finger was getting a little rusty and could use some practice. 
 

Hey there Marston, you got anything fun hiding behind that desk I can get out here and try to handle? It has been awhile since I pulled the trigger, but it has to be like riding a bike does it not? 
 

While he waits, he wanders around looking at all the dangerous toys in the building, curious as to what Marston may pull out of the back for him to shoot

Marston looked Slade up and down, sizing him up. He could tell from the way he carried himself that Slade had experience with firearms.

"Well, I've got a couple of powerful revolvers that you might be interested in, I have the new Smith & Wesson Model 27 that takes .357 magnums, or I have a customised black powder Colt Walker."

Slade's eyes lit up at the mention of the Colt Walker.

"I've always been partial to the classics..."

Marston nodded and handed Slade the two revolvers. Slade examined them both, admiring the craftsmanship and the weight of each weapon. He loaded each revolver with precision, his movements practiced and efficient. He took aim at the targets, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the task at hand. Slade fired off several rounds from each revolver, the sound of the shots echoing through the range. The Colt Walker was a beast of a gun, the recoil sending vibrations through Slade's arms with each shot. Slade handled it with relative ease, his movements fluid and practiced. He hit his targets with precision, the bullets tearing through the paper with deadly accuracy.

Marston watched with admiration, impressed by Slade's skill and precision. He could tell that this man had handled a gun before, he had little to correct him on, and he was glad to see him enjoying the range and the weapons he had to offer. When Slade finished, he handed the revolvers back to Marston with a childish grin on his face.

"Thanks for letting me try these out, I'll definitely be back."

Marston nodded, a smile spreading across his weathered face.

"If you'd like to order any of these weapons, I have associates that can get them... And off the books if that's what you require?"

When you go back to the nun, you see her going ham with the Smith & Wesson, she was fucking twirling the damn revolver like some Billy the Kid copycat. She's whooping, and every bullet she fired hit dead center. "WHOO!" Friede was smiling under her veil. "That was fun." She chuckles, putting down the revolver on the table.

CBF had heard of his friend marston owning an adventurous venue in the motor city and had been planning to visit for a while now, but somehow he was a little scared, must have been something in his nature or something.  As he fluttered to the address he got, he wondered what it could be, could it be something with weapons, or exploration or some survival skills training. CBF would need all of it, but then again he was unsure how he'd handle a big weapon, his little chicken fingers weren't all that strong...

As he approached and saw the sign of it being a shooting range he pacoooked and was fighting the urge to flutter away, damn his cowardice. Well in he went

Hello old buddy, is there anything lightweight enough for me around here?

Ian was impressed with Marston's keen observation and expert advice. He had been struggling with his shooting accuracy for a while, and Marston's guidance had made a significant difference. He felt grateful and thanked the old outlaw for his help.

"Thanks, Marston, I didn't realize I was anticipating the recoil. Your advice really helped me to relax my grip and shoot with more accuracy," he said.

Ian continued to practice, taking Marston's advice to heart. He soon began to notice a significant improvement in his shooting accuracy. He felt more confident and in control when firing his revolver, and his shots hit their targets with deadly precision.

Marston looked up as the strange figure entered the gun range. He had seen some odd sights in his time, but a man dressed as a chicken was definitely a new one. The small man approached the counter, his fake feathers ruffling with each step. Marston couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, but he maintained his professionalism as he greeted the customer.

The man in the chicken suit said something to Marston, but all Marston heard was a series of clucks and chirps, and he was momentarily taken aback. But he quickly composed himself and tried again.

"Can I get you a revolver to use on the range?" 

The chicken man nodded eagerly, flapping his wings with excitement. Marston rummaged through his collection of firearms, searching for something that would be appropriate for the little weirdo. He finally found a very tiny snub-nosed revolver that would be just the right size. He handed it over to the chicken man, who examined it with interest. The chicken man loaded the revolver with some difficulty, his wings getting in the way. Marston watched with amusement as the small man took aim at the targets, his feathered head bobbing up and down as he fired.

To Marston's surprise, the chicken man was actually a very good shot. The tiny revolver packed a punch, and he was able to hit his targets with accuracy. Marston couldn't help but smile as he watched the strange sight, the chicken man firing off rounds with his tiny revolver. He knew that he had seen it all now, but he was glad to have been able to provide the customer with a firearm that he could use on the range. He approached the little guy to see if he was content...

"How did you find that matey?"

Marston sat at his desk, reading through the morning newspaper. As he flipped through the pages, he came across the obituaries section, and his heart sank as he saw one of his first few customers name's listed among the deceased. He remembered the hesitant way Ian had held his revolver at the range, and he couldn't help but wonder if it had cost him his life.

He resolved to do even better in his training of future customers and make sure that everyone who came to his gun range was given the proper instruction and guidance they needed to handle firearms effectively and do his part to ensure that his customers were confident in their abilities. With a heavy heart, Marston folded away the newspaper and turned his attention back to the gun range. He knew that he had a job to do, and he was determined to do it to the best of his abilities.

Sarcasm hoped to avoid the fate of the earlier customer, but being a wee little baby gangster - he knew he had to learn how to use the rooty tooty point and shooty - otherwise - someone who had learned was eventually going to get to use their marksmanship skills on his cranium.  

Sarcasm picked up a gun and held it in his hand as he stared at it for a long second.  Eventually he raised the barrel to his eye and tried to stare down it....

"Is this thing loaded??"

Sister Friede heads to Detroit, if only to see Marston and his shooting range. Her old boss was one of the earlier customers. She walks in to see Marston, a scythe on her shoulder and her pistol on her hip. She was dressed still in her nun's habit as she went to a firing spot.

As Marston headed back to the range he spotted a young man holding a revolver to his face staring straight into the barrel...

"WHAT IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

The young man quickly placed the revolver down where he had found it and looks embarrassed as the other customers peer over to see who had caused Marston to raise his voice. Marston stomps over and grabs the revolver placing it out of reach.

"Safety here is paramount young friend! And you just broke one of the golden rules!"

He points towards a sign and clearly it states 'The barrel of a loaded and ready pistol should only ever point towards the bottom of your holster, the ground, or your intended target'

"You need to read and understand these before we can progress, let me know when you're ready to continue..."

CBF had been popping rounds like a pro as he obviously was trained for by the man who raised him under his wing.

When he saw his friend Marston stand in awe he clucked and chuckled for he knew each person seeing him in his costume always underestimated him massively. The disguise of village idiot had worked more than a dozen times and made him escape harmful situations due to his cunning, humor and fast gunmanship.

He turned to the man and said:

Alright this was practice, gimme something bigger like a colt 14 if you have one, i think i warmed up the good old wingtip muscles enough!