B.F.G. can mean, and has come to stand for, a great many things. For those fortunate enough to live in a wealthy nation in a stable version of 20th or 21st century Earth, they might think of the Big Friendly Giant, a book by Roald Dahl. Any Canadians into the punk rock scene might think about a band.
When Alexander Tolby, one of his crew, or just about any English-speaker from Gaia uttered the letters in the following order, B.F.G., which just so happens to be alphabetic order, they had no thought of a pint-sized but well-natured giant, nor self-conscious rockers, but a Big F***ing Gun.
When you saw a Big ****ing Gun, you looked it in the eye and called its owner "Sir." It just so happens Captain Tolby carries a .577 (that means it shoots bullets nearly six-tenths of an inch in diameter) break-action single-shot hand cannon and has a more or less excellent relationship with his respectful and obedient crew.
Okay, so their dynamic is atypical and dysfunctional and not especially heirarchical, and they put up with his womanizing and tequila-drinking and trouble-starting for God knows what reasons - most of them probably to do with profit - but each one of them can feel a lot safer when Tolby's got the Hand Cannon pointed at would-be foes.
The load was originally designed to kill elephants. It can put a hole in a wall and probably literally blow a man's head off.
And yet he has never felt comfortable calling the Hand Cannon a Big ****ing Gun. So one day in January, he gets to work...
...and one day in February, he has himself a (more or less) functional prototype.
It has the same dark beauty as heavy industry, made entirely of black steel evocative of Victorian factories except for a polished wooden stock and wooden and additionally padded butt. It is the same size as the .50-caliber rifles that in one world and timeline dot rooftops in Fallujah, but just in front of the trigger is a cylinder that holds eight .60-caliber bullets.
That's not nearly six tenths of an inch in diameter. That's a full six tenths. Guns don't kill people; people kill people. But this unholy weapon injects raw, maniacal fear into any gunbattle.
Never mind a shot of aether with each squeeze of the trigger, which reacts with the antimagic in the primer of each cartridge to spit bullets at terrific as well as terrifying velocities.
Tolby is polishing the bipod of the Big ****ing Gun, because that's what it deserves to be called, when Boris approaches his captain's work bench. He knows the captain's been hard at work on something, but as Alex is too A.D.D. to see most of his mechanical projects through to completion, he hadn't concerned himself with it at all. Until now.
All he can do for a long moment is stare. It takes Tolby a while to notice. He looks up with a grin. "Howzit goin', big guy." He rolls out the cylinder and starts loading in bullets.
"What in the endless skies is that thing?"
"My late Christmas presen'. Ta m'self." His expression is disturbingly pleasant and cheery while he loads in the last bullet, slaps the cylinder back into place, and with some struggle, shoulders the rifle/cannon. "You can call her the Big Frackin' Gun. I'ma go find somethin' ta frack up. Ta."
His captain is nearly out the door when Boris' jaw stops working wordlessly and he works out what Tolby just said. "Hey, hold on now!" he cries, and hurries out after him.
When Alexander Tolby, one of his crew, or just about any English-speaker from Gaia uttered the letters in the following order, B.F.G., which just so happens to be alphabetic order, they had no thought of a pint-sized but well-natured giant, nor self-conscious rockers, but a Big F***ing Gun.
When you saw a Big ****ing Gun, you looked it in the eye and called its owner "Sir." It just so happens Captain Tolby carries a .577 (that means it shoots bullets nearly six-tenths of an inch in diameter) break-action single-shot hand cannon and has a more or less excellent relationship with his respectful and obedient crew.
Okay, so their dynamic is atypical and dysfunctional and not especially heirarchical, and they put up with his womanizing and tequila-drinking and trouble-starting for God knows what reasons - most of them probably to do with profit - but each one of them can feel a lot safer when Tolby's got the Hand Cannon pointed at would-be foes.
The load was originally designed to kill elephants. It can put a hole in a wall and probably literally blow a man's head off.
And yet he has never felt comfortable calling the Hand Cannon a Big ****ing Gun. So one day in January, he gets to work...
...and one day in February, he has himself a (more or less) functional prototype.
It has the same dark beauty as heavy industry, made entirely of black steel evocative of Victorian factories except for a polished wooden stock and wooden and additionally padded butt. It is the same size as the .50-caliber rifles that in one world and timeline dot rooftops in Fallujah, but just in front of the trigger is a cylinder that holds eight .60-caliber bullets.
That's not nearly six tenths of an inch in diameter. That's a full six tenths. Guns don't kill people; people kill people. But this unholy weapon injects raw, maniacal fear into any gunbattle.
Never mind a shot of aether with each squeeze of the trigger, which reacts with the antimagic in the primer of each cartridge to spit bullets at terrific as well as terrifying velocities.
Tolby is polishing the bipod of the Big ****ing Gun, because that's what it deserves to be called, when Boris approaches his captain's work bench. He knows the captain's been hard at work on something, but as Alex is too A.D.D. to see most of his mechanical projects through to completion, he hadn't concerned himself with it at all. Until now.
All he can do for a long moment is stare. It takes Tolby a while to notice. He looks up with a grin. "Howzit goin', big guy." He rolls out the cylinder and starts loading in bullets.
"What in the endless skies is that thing?"
"My late Christmas presen'. Ta m'self." His expression is disturbingly pleasant and cheery while he loads in the last bullet, slaps the cylinder back into place, and with some struggle, shoulders the rifle/cannon. "You can call her the Big Frackin' Gun. I'ma go find somethin' ta frack up. Ta."
His captain is nearly out the door when Boris' jaw stops working wordlessly and he works out what Tolby just said. "Hey, hold on now!" he cries, and hurries out after him.