Home Defense, Part 2 -- The Shotgun

by Ben Small

Assuming you've decided a home defense gun makes sense, what gun should you choose?

I don't think anyone argues with the notion that the best home defense weapon is a shotgun, but that begs the question. What type of shotgun, what size shell, what size ammo?

Shotgun gauges vary inversely to number progression. So the larger the gauge number, the smaller the bore. Doc Holliday carried a 10 gauge at the OK Corral, a cannon rarely seen today. For a guy as skinny as the sickly Doc, his shoulder must have been numb for days. A 12 gauge has a smaller bore diameter than a 10 gauge, and 16, 20, 28 and the .410 gauges have respective still smaller bores. The most popular shotgun gauge today remains the 12, however, anything larger than a .410 will provide ample home defense protection. While the Taurus Judge has made the .410 shell -- a round once believed to be mostly obsolete -- popular,  the .410 is generally not recommended for home defense. It's just not accurate beyond ten feet.

Choose your shotgun gauge by considering your size and age, not to mention level of comfort. The older you are, the less tolerant your shoulder will be. Any gauge other than a .410 is adequate for home defense. And choose the size of shells you're going to use bearing in mind the same considerations. Many shotguns these days will accommodate three different size shells, usually 2 1/2", 3" and 3 1/2". The latter two are often called "Magnum" and "Super Magnum" respectively. Trust me: You don't need a large shell to be effective for home defense. Stick with the smallest shell available for your shotgun's chamber.

Shotguns vary by type of feed, too. Some are single shot, some double barrel, some over-under, some semi-automatic, and my all time favorite, the pump. I highly recommend a pump shotgun for home defense. I don't think anyone doesn't understand what's behind that ominous click-clack. Pump that hummer, and you may not have to shoot.

Shotguns come in pistol-grips too, but I don't recommend one unless your name is Arnold and you were once governor of California. Anyone with osteo or rheumatoid arthritis certainly doesn't want to shoot one. I cringe even at the thought of it, but then again, such guns are usually pump actions, so the click-clack may make firing unnecessary. I've got one --  no, Ben's not a pseudonym and I've never run for office -- but I've never fired it. One ugly-scary looking beast. 

Ouch! Doesn't that look painful? Grip it tight or recoil may be a bop on the bean.

But let's assume you've determined your gauge and type of shotgun. What size ammo to use?

A slug is essentially just what you imagine: One big plug of steel or lead, usually fifty caliber. That's a lot of whammy, and will be the most painful to shoot at whatever gauge you've chosen. While slugs are good for deer or elk hunting, I don't recommend them for home defense. Besides, the only thing you're likely to hit may be your neighbor two houses over.

Before choosing your size of ammo, you need to understand why a shotgun is the best weapon for home defense: You don't need good aim. Flinch away. Because shotgun barrels -- except the Taurus Judge-style pistol -- aren't rifled, the pellets inside won't spin. So instead of a true and accurate spiral, like from a rifle or pistol barrel, the lead or steel pellets inside the shell spread. The spread will pattern outward. You can adjust the pattern spread by insertion of a muzzle-choke to squeeze your lead or steel shot any way you want, horizontal, vertical or any combination in between; but you don't need a choke. Expect about a two foot diameter spread twenty feet away without one.

Shot shells vary by size and number of BBs inside, again inversely to number progression. In other words, the larger shot shell number, the smaller the BBs and the more in number. See the following size scale:

The low number shot shells (OOO, OO, O, 1-4) are usually called "buckshot" or "buck". Consider that these are essentially 9mm bullets, which will penetrate bad guys, your walls and maybe your neighbor's, too. Again, while such rounds are good for killing deer or humans, I don't usually recommend them for home defense, unless loaded as a last resort after having already fired rounds of bird shot (shot shells 7-9). Some might disagree about using bird shot for home defense, but if the click-clack doesn't scare an intruder away, a body penetrated with up to seventy or more BBs from bird shot surely will. And close up, bird shot will devastate. Even with the Castle Doctrine -- now being considered in Florida in connection with the Trayvon Martin shooting -- your goal should be protection, not intent to kill. So for my home defense, I load my shotgun with bird shot first, buckshot last. Six rounds of escalating fire power.

The only downside to choosing a shotgun for home defense -- other than the owie-factor, of course -- is where will you keep it? Do you have children, for instance? Do you need to keep your shells separate from the gun? Do you have a safe to accommodate it? Can you access your gun and ammo, load and rack your slide in time?

I do not recommend flashlights attached to shotguns because the bad guy will see you first and your ambient night vision will be ruined. But others may disagree, and it's so tacti-cool to have one. If you just have to have one, get a bright one that strobes. As least both you and the bad guy will be blinded, and if you move as you stobe the bad guy may find drawing a bead problematic.

Click-clack, I'll be back. In Home Defense, Part 3, I'll discuss home defense pistol options.

The Bullet and the Shell

By Mark W. Danielson

I recently read a mass-market paperback by a name-brand author who has eight other books out. It was an easy read until a glaring error shot out my eye. Though blinded, I couldn’t block this slip from my mind. I was tortured, like fingernails dragging across a blackboard. This blunder was so large that a baseball field tarp couldn’t cover it; so blatant, it sidetracked me from the story. A bungle important enough, I had to post a blog on it.

So, what is it that has my feathers ruffled? It’s a scene where the protagonist is staring down a shotgun barrel, the cold steel aimed at his head with no chance of escape. The author has made several references to this shotgun; then someone moves, the gun fires, and the bullet hits. Yes, I said bullet! How can a publisher allow such a mistake? If you’re going to write about guns, then know the difference between a shotgun and a rifle; a bullet and a shell.

Tactical shotguns are used for close-in combat because you don’t have to be terribly accurate to hit your target. Sport shotguns are ideal for bird hunting because they send up a swath of BBs called “shot” that increases the odds of hitting something. Shotgun barrels are smooth on the inside, and have large diameters to feed shells full of round shot. A wad keeps the shot in place until it exits the barrel where the barrel’s “choke” or shape, spreads the shot at a predetermined rate. The farther from the barrel, the more dispersed the shot. For deer hunting, a “slug” replaces the bird shot. Deer slugs and bird shot both have limited range.

Rifles are normally used for long distance; pistols for close-in shots. Both weapons use bullets and have barrel “rifling” on the inside, which makes a bullet spin. The moment a rifle or pistol is fired, its bullet bursts from its casing and starts spinning. This spinning maintains the bullet’s trajectory until it either hits its mark, or gravity and the atmosphere end its flight. Whether it’s a sixteen inch battleship gun or a .22 pistol, the principle is the same.

Ben Small has provided excellent information on guns in his blog posts, and I’ve previously written about the importance of getting the details right. Whenever glaring errors like this occur, the author loses instant credibility. To avoid situations like this, take the time to research areas you are not completely familiar with. Even if only one percent of the readers catch an error, that’s one percent too many.

The Judge Rules

by Ben Small

I'm often asked, "What's the best self defense gun?"

And I always answer, "A shotgun." Regardless of guage or load, the answer is always the same. Well, not always. What if that shotgun is a revolver...?

What a concept.

Enter The Judge, a revolver so-named because of the number of judges who want one. Well, not just judges... Seems this is the hottest handgun in its distinguished maker's history. Yes, Taurus, one of the biggies.

Why so special? Why such demand? Because this revolver shoots both .410 shotgun shells and .45 Long Colts, a load for every villain.

Consider the possibilities. Want to scare somebody half to death, cause them unbelievable pain, yet not hurt them permanently? Load a shell with rock salt and aim low. Rock salt in the eye ain't funny.

So that's the first shot.

For an encore, try bird shot. At close range this will do great damage. At ten feet or more, assuming no BBs in the eye, the damage with be painful but not deadly.

Still doesn't get the hint, go for a more of a cross between bird and buck. More damage here, devastating up close.

Still coming on? Give him a load of full buckshot, each pellet a nine millimeter missile. That can finish a guy off at twenty feet or more.

At greater distances, one might want to go the .45 Long Colt route, or maybe, if you can handle the recoil, a slug. These rounds can be used for hunting.

The Judge comes in stainless steel or black, in regular two-and-a-half inch shells or three inch magnums.

Is it any wonder this gun is so popular with judges? A judge subject to a wild-eyed charge by an enraged party or the party's obnoxious lawyer, can apply variable and increased force, fend off the attack and instill abject fear in everyone watching the proceedings.

This is not a delicate gun. It does not go bang discretely.

Imagine the recoil when a shotgun shell goes off in a handgun with a three inch barrel.

Ouch. Shake that thing out.

But in truth, the perceived recoil is less than expected. That's because Taurus has applied a soft rubber grip to the revolver, and because the thing is heavy. In a pinch, this gun makes a good club.

And to make this cannon even more fearsome, consider that it's also available in its Tracker version, which is the same thing, just longer. A barrel six-and-a-half inches long. Carry that baby on the trail, and you'll get attention. But really, I don't see much reason for the longer barrel. Sure you get slightly better accuracy and less recoil, but how do you lift the thing?


These handguns are so popular that Federal, one of the largest ammo makers, has come out with a Premium line of shotgun shells... just for these guns. Now if you know your market theory, know about the costs of research and development, you know you must sell gobs of product to cover your costs and grow. These guns have been out for about four years, the three inch magnum versions less than a year. But already Federal is making special shells for them.

That's demand.

Me, I've got the "smaller" version, the two-and-a-half inch chamber version with the three inch barrel. I'm giving that revolver to my brother-in-law, a judge. He hearts it bigtime. And I'm buying the three inch chambered version. Not the longer Tracker, though. That's overkill.

Statistics show that most gun fights occur at close range. You may be outnumbered, and you will have to make quick decisions. The Judge gives you a number of options, progressive ones, selective self defense.

Or you can take it hunting. The Judge's got that covered, too.

Take this gun on the trail, or put it in your car -- assuming your laws permit. The Judge makes short work of car-jackers. Just don't select The Judge for everyday concealed carry... unless you're putting it on wheels.

For a video about The Judge, check out this: Taurus Judge

Or watch Kevin Bacon wheel The Judge in Death Sentence. Steel bathroom doors? They stand no chance.

Better yet, give this gun to your perp or protag in your next novel.

Invaded

by Ben Small

It was the last days of winter, 1997, and I was sprawled out on the couch, just a month away from the back surgery that would once again make me whole. Deadened by heavy doses of Vicodin and Naproxin, I could walk, but just barely. My pain was constant, like that from a knife wedged in my lower lumbar vertebrae slowly twisting, sending off currents of agony down my legs. Sleep came in spurts and in strange positions, usually curled around or on top of pillows, with my legs flopped over or around one of those large sitting pillows with arms.

At my feet sat my wife, watching me carefully, hurting from watching me suffer, helping by comforting me and periodically refreshing my ice pack.

We were watching a movie… or trying to.

My twenty—one year old son walked in with a date trailing behind him. Three large young men followed them in. I turned from the movie and waved.

“Dad,” my son said. “I think we have a problem.” My son was still walking, and was beginning to look like he and his date were being chased.

Somehow, I twisted around and sat up. You forget pain when you have to. My wife scooted over to give me room, and so she could see what was happening.

“Dad,” my son said, his tone more urgent. “We got a problem.”

The lead man, a youth in his early twenties, huge, probably my size but bigger ala a steroidal Charles Atlas, stayed hot on my son’s trail. My son was hurrying into the living room, trying to shield his date from the onrushing Bluto.

I saw fear in my son’s face, something I’d not seen before. I started to rise.

“Sit down, old man,” said the brute. His tone was deep, threatening. And for effect, he stopped and gave me a hard stare. Meanwhile, his two buddies closed the gap behind him.

Instinct, anger and the need to protect my wife and firstborn drove me up, through the fog of pain, fully to my feet. Adrenalin pumped through my system, flushing me with attitude and action.

Time moves in slow motion during an adrenalin flush. Alternatives flashed through my head. Our only conventional weapons were some knives in the kitchen, more in a bedroom drawer, my father’s unloaded snub-nose .38 under the bedroom laundry basket, and an unloaded shotgun in the mudroom closet. I could fashion a make-shift weapon, perhaps, from maybe a piece of steel artwork or a busted up chair, but I’d never be able to overcome all three of these guys. The two companions of the lead brute didn’t have his size ― few people do ― but they looked as if they may have played high school football some years ago.

All three goons were drunk. They were shouting slurred curses and threats against my son and me, and their movements were wobbly.

I got between my son and Bluto where the living room met the kitchen, and as I moved forward, Bluto had a choice: stand still and take me on when I got too close, or move backwards into the kitchen. I closed to where I could smell the stale beer on Bluto’s breath before he budged.

But he moved backward.

I followed Bluto and his buddies into the kitchen, and motioned my wife to take care of my son’s date and to grab our two monstrous dogs. Two hundred pound Chesapeake Bay Retrievers, the hardiest and strongest of the Retriever family. Strangely, the dogs hadn’t sensed a threat. But I worried they soon would. Snarling, barking monster dogs wouldn’t ease raw tensions.

As my wife rushed to corral the date and the dogs, I whispered to my son to stay behind me, and when he saw an opportunity, to grab the phone and dial 911. As my son tucked behind me, I pushed forward, driving Bluto and his buddies back, issuing a steady stream of threats as I moved. “You know I’m a lawyer, don’t you?” I said. “I know criminal law, a lot better than you idiots do. Lemme see, you’re currently guilty of trespass, assault and home invasion, misdemeanors, which means you may not go to jail for much beyond six months. But you or your buddies touch one hair on my head or anybody else in this house, and battery is added to the offenses, they all become felonies, and you will spend ten to twenty years in jail being raped by your cellmates.”

One of Bluto’s buddies grabbed him by the shoulder, but Bluto shrugged him off. He took a swing at my son, who’d picked up the phone and was dialing, but I managed to shove him and throw off his aim. He caught air. Once more, I moved between Bluto and my son.

I repeated my message over and over, adding to it that the police had just been notified and were now on their way. “Time’s running out,” I said. “Get on it, or get out. But remember, you touch one hair, and it’s felonies all round. Most of your lives in jail.”

I stepped forward, my movement something of a dare. I wanted them on defense.

“Hey, man,” one of Bluto’s pals said. “Come on, we didn’t bargain for this. Let’s go back to her place. C’mon, this isn’t worth it. She’s hot; we’ll have more fun there.

I didn’t know who “her” was and didn’t particularly care, except that any diversion was certainly welcome.

“Yeah, tough guy,” I said. “The cops will be here any second. Maybe you better go back and tell your girlfriend how tough you were to break into a stranger’s house and threaten him, his wife and his son.”

Bluto was still talking tough, pointing his finger at my son, threatening him, pointing at me, threatening, starting forward like to charge, then stepping back. But his progress was backward, a retreat into the mudroom and then the garage.

I followed them, repeating the trouble they were in, their need to get away quickly.

And my son followed me, ignoring my hand signals to get back, to shut the mud room door and lock it. He wasn’t going to leave me alone with three drunken brutes.

As I passed the mud room closet, I reached inside and pulled my shotgun. Empty, but our invaders didn’t know that. And besides, even without shells, the Browning made a good club.

The invaders’ eyes went wide, and Bluto’s two buddies tugged harder on him, one of them grabbing him by the belt, one by the shoulders.

They passed into the garage, and that’s when I saw someone I knew: my son’s former girlfriend. They’d broken up two weeks prior. Sally looked a bit worse for wear, rumpled, like from a rollicking sexual marathon, drunk, so bombed she could barely stand. And she was bawling.

“Sally,” I said. “What have you done?”

She was so upset she couldn’t talk.

Bluto had been trying to climb into the front seat of Sally’s car, but when he saw me talking to her, he charged out and ran at me. CIack, clack, I racked the shotgun’s slide, and pointed the gun at him. Bluto tried to slap the barrel away, and as he did, I swung the butt around and drove it toward his head.

Both of us missed.

Bluto’s two buddies managed to grab him and pull him back to the car. He resisted, but they succeeded in pushing him into the back seat. My son handed me a couple twelve gauge shells, but I slipped them into my pocket rather than up the tube.

One of Bluto’s pals held up his hands. “Look,” he said, “we’re sorry. Sally got us drunk and promised us sex if we hurt your son. We’re leaving now, and we won’t be back. Just let us go.”

I lowered the shotgun, and Sally, still bawling, managed to slip behind the wheel. Her engine roared, and her tires spun. She fish-tailed as she turned the corner. I heard the car rocket down the street.

About an hour later, a sheriff’s deputy showed up. They’d caught the invaders and arrested them. He wanted statements from all of us.

As he readied himself to leave, the deputy turned to me. “Oh, one more thing...”

“Yes, officer,” I said.

“The kids said you pulled a shotgun on them, racked the slide and pointed it at them. They remember that shotgun very well.”

“Yes. It wasn’t loaded, but they didn’t know that.”

The deputy stared at me.

“Officer, what would you do if three guys that size invaded your house and said they wanted to hurt your family?”

“I’d have loaded the shotgun,” he said.

Years have gone by since that incident, but it still looms large in my memory. An event like a home invasion is a shock to the system, an unsettling cause for great reflection. There’s the vulnerability, the parental and spousal protection instincts, the male ego… Over the years, I’ve broken down this event second by second, wondering if there was anything else I should have done, or could have done. This time, everybody survived, and the matter ended well. Nobody was hurt, and the bad guys were caught.

But what about next time?

We no longer leave our doors open. We once felt safe in the wilderness boonies of rural Wisconsin, yet we were victims, at the mercy of three drunk guys with an agenda. Now we live in Tucson, with an illegals problem so bad, our city is among the leaders in home invasions.

I vowed that Wisconsin night that we would never again suffer a home invasion. And we haven’t. We hear about them on the news every night, and they’re on the increase, but we’re better prepared now. We now have complex security systems, and I’ve got small finger-pad gun safes in the rooms we usually occupy. I read recently in a police magazine that a victim of a typical home invasion has approximately eight to twenty seconds to react. I can open my safes in three seconds. The magazine also said that if the victims aren’t immediately killed, they’re often stashed in the master bedroom closet. So I’ve got a shotgun hidden there, and shells nearby. There are no kids in my house, so I don’t worry about them finding the shotgun. Besides, when children do visit, the shotgun goes into the master safe, the one bolted to the floor in my garage.

Call me paranoid if you want, but my wife and I have lived through a home invasion.

We refuse to be anybody’s victim.