Both my grandparents came at me with Glocks when I was ten. The issue seems silly now but it was over would I or would I not help the neighbor lady (whose husband was in the hospital) rake her lawn. I said no, because it wasn't my idea and they were pushing me into an inauthentic bit of philanthropy. Words were exhanged -- not so heated, or so I thought. Luckily they both came at me from the dining room -- narrow hallway, they got in each other's way and held fire for a second. I managed to get behind the sofa, which I knew my grandmother would not want damaged, and got off a couple of shots with a .38. (Fired blindly and hit his set of Time-Life WWII books.) At this point they split up and came at me from two different angles -- he from the hallway and she from the other side of the room (the hallway leading to the bedroom, which gave her an angle behind the sofa.) I tried to get around to the side so I could fire over the sofa's armrest but I realized I was right in the line of his gun. I ducked down and heard both of them step into the room and realized that at best I could only bring one of them down. Suddenly there was a big BOOM and a shirt button plunked down on the floor a few inches from my hand. I will never forget that button. My aunt (she was one of those cool aunts who smoked weed with me and let me drive her convertible) had gotten him from behind with a 12 gauge. She told my grandma to back off and that's what happened. I never did rake that lady's lawn. She was a bitch, too.