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Four ruffians break into my home.
"What the devil?"
I grab my powdered wig and Kentucky Rifle, blowing a golf ball sized hole through the first man.
He dies on the spot.
I then draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely because it's smoothbore, and nail the neighbor's dog.
My last resort is the cannon I've loaded with grapeshot and mounted at the top of the stairs.
"Tally Ho, lads."
The grapeshot shreds two men in the blast, and the sound and shrapnel set off car alarms in the distance.
I then affixed my bayonet, and charged the last terrified rapscallion.
He bleeds out as I wait on the police to arrive, the triangular bayonet wounds being impossible to stitch up, you see.
Just as the Founding Fathers intended.