Gunnish

Jane . . . who was she but mere decoration as he proved his gunnish manhood . . . ? Jane loved his guns.

Rafi's fingers knew about loading that gun the way you know the particular push and pull of your own house keys in the door. I shoved cold hands back in his pockets and touched the metal thing I had felt before. A bullet, of course. "All right." He held the gun toward me. A very gunnish gun, black with a long barrel. "This is a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. I own quite a few firearms. This one I love. Now, I'm going to fire, then you will."

It was a rifle. Sort of. It was a pistol. Sort of. It was in between a rifle and a handgun, but it didn't look quite like anything Clint Eastwood ever waved around. It had some long tanklike cylinder sticking out from the handle like an exhaust pipe, and as Gunnar's redrimmed eyes focused—sort of—on me, he was attaching some kind of canvas balloon to another pipe sticking up out of the barrel. The more familiar gunnish qualities of the thing were: It was long and black and steely ...