
Before Molly Goodman asked her 23-year-old son-in-law to nail up some loose molding in her hallway, she should have asked herself if the lad was qualified. We don’t mean qualified as a carpenter, we mean, like, qualified to walk, chew gum and breathe without coaching.
Lacking a hammer and maybe a few IQ points, young Richard Gardner produced a .25 caliber pistol and commenced to rapping tacks with it. A few seconds later, a tack rapped back.
Gardner’s tool-of-choice discharged, sending a round through his hand and into the abdomen of his 21-year-old wife, Mary Ann. Fortunately, both were treated and released from a local Lancaster, S.C. hospital. Note: We’ve never known a .25 caliber pistol you could call a “tack-driver.”
Two Items Short
Kevin Stanley Stokes was only short two items on his robbery list — guns, car keys, wallet and brains — when he hit a grocery store in Cadiz, Ky. He parked the getaway car outside in a handy location, packed his gun into the store for a bout of barrel-waving and threat-making, then fled with a paper bag holding about $170.
Stokes must have known there were thieves in the area because he had carefully locked his car doors. Must have left his brains in his other pants; he locked the keys in the car!
As Kevin stared at his keys on the seat, those sirens kept getting louder … and closer. Lots of witnesses around. Lots of empty pavement and clear sky. Lots and lots of adrenaline-pumped, heavily-armed cops converging on his narrow butt. He laid down the roscoe and went, according to Chief Ray White, “without incident.”
Witnesses to Kevin’s arrival at his locked car quoted him later. He is reported to have said, “Whoops!” We believe it.
Wrong Place, Time
On almost any other night, Z’s Sports Tap would have been a much better target for a robbery attempt. The popular downtown Chicago bar does a landslide evening business, and the till gets pretty pumped.
The two stickup men who waltzed in through a side door on a recent Tuesday night were probably dreaming of the stuffed cash register, overflowing with proceeds from the party in the main room.
When they confronted employee Tammy Bertucci, she politely explained she’d have to fetch their loot from the party room.
Confident or brain-damaged, they sent after the cash. She simply reported the robbery to the party-goers and let them handle it. After all, over 100 of them were Chicago cops, there for a retirement bash.
“Our two rocket scientists,” as police spokesman Pat Camden called them, went to jail after a scene reminiscent of the climax in “Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid.”
On the one hand, they can brag to the boys in the Big House that they’ve had more guns pointed at ’em than Davey Crockett at the Alamo. On the other, we don’t envy them their nightmares.
Armed Robbery 101: Don’t Rob A Bank In Front Of A Police Officer!
Several less-than-brilliant bunglers vie for our title of “Waste Of A Good Gene” this time, but for our bucks, William Bratcher takes the cake — and a dozen jelly-filled donuts to boot.
Just imagine a would-be bank robber so lacking in perception he fails to notice the bank’s only customer is a uniformed cop!
Okay, so the officer wasn’t in your traditional patrol-cop threads. But, as Billy-boy approached the front doors of the credit union in Northglenn, Colo., he just might have noticed the mountain bike parked outside was marked “POLICE.”
If not that, he should have noticed the sole customer in the bank was wearing a rather military-looking biking outfit, complete with badge, patch, radio and gunbelt. Instead, he entered, walked past the cop, leaped over the counter, pulled an auto pistol and began the usual “everybody down on the floor” speech.
Officer Jim May declined the invitation and produced his own bullet-launching hardware. Bratcher stuttered, stalled, and pointed his gun at May. Rude, huh?
May thought so too and promptly popped a cap in the area of the 10-ring, taking Bratcher to a) the floor, b) the hospital, and c) eventually to the slammer.
We assume that, by now, Bratcher has either learned the truth of the matter or gained a healthy respect for cyclists.
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Mark Moritz hung up his satirical spurs last issue to a collective sigh of relief from America’s gunwriters whom he had lampooned in “Friendly Fire” for two long, painful years. The 10 Ring is written by Commander Gilmore, a retired San Diego police officer who bases his humor, like Mark did, on actual occurrences. All the incidents described by the Commander are true.

