I keep a blunderbuss for personal protection, because that's what our forefathers envisioned! Three scoundrels dare to trespass on my property. "Egad!" I exclaim, seizing my tricorn hat and reaching for my blunderbuss. I load a fistful of nails, broken glass, and silver coins into the muzzle. Aim at the first rogue—pull the trigger—and BOOM! Half my living room is gone, and the man's reduced to dust.

The second fiend charges, so I draw my dueling pistol. The flintlock jams, so I give him a hearty smack with the handle, sending him reeling into the fireplace. He catches fire and runs screaming from the house. But alas! A third knave dares approach, so I wheel around to my prized possession: the swivel gun mounted on the dining room table. I crank it towards him, load it with a fistful of marbles and nails, and let loose a thunderous blast. Shards of shrapnel tear through the house, and the miscreant is sent sprawling out the front door, clattering down the cobblestone path.

With a flourish, I pick up my fencing sword, raising it high, and bellow, “For honor and liberty!” as I chase the last brigand down the street. He escapes, but not without a nasty cut to remind him: there's no messing with a man’s domain in a free land.

Ah, yes—just as our noble forefathers intended.

You see, when n*****s are scared, that’s when white folks are safe. So I made him strip down. Then, I made him walk, naked, barefoot, in the snow. And as he lay there, dyin’, he begged me for a blanket... I showed him my gun, and then I put my big black Johnson right down his ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ throat. And it was fulla blood, so it was warm.

You see I never did give your boy that blanket. Even after all he did, and he did everything I asked. No blanket. That blanket was just a heart breakin’ liar’s promise. Sorta’ like when the union issued those colored troopers uniforms….that you chose not to acknowledge.

Own a musket for home defence, since that's what the founding fathers intended. Four ruffians break into my house. "What the devil?" As I grab my powdered wig and Kentucky rifle. Blow a golf ball sized hole through the first man, he's dead on the spot. Draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely because it's smoothbore and nails the neighbours dog. I have to resort to the cannon mounted at the top of the stairs loaded with grape shot, "Tally ho lads" the grape shot shreds two men in the blast, the sound and extra shrapnel set off car alarms. Fix bayonet and charge the last terrified rapscallion. He Bleeds out waiting on the police to arrive since triangular bayonet wounds are impossible to stitch up. Just as the founding fathers intended.