I know what that meant, but I sniggered the first time I read it

I can give you two examples of it happening in my games. The first is if the characters went to the poor gunsmith in Gnome Town who makes most of his equipment from scratch. I may do a second at the high tech Weapons' World store, if you like the first.

[IC]
"Well, well, well. Look who's back so soon... I know nothing's wrong with the gun, is there? You're happy with it, yes?" The little hobbit waddles over to you and takes the SMG. Examining it like a precious stone, his cybereye audibly zooming in and out, the smith nods and then says, "I see you've used it twice already, and not just at the range... Well, what is it then?"

"I'd like to get a custom grip to help with the recoil. My wrist gets sore after just a few bursts."

"That's what you get for using that suppressor instead of a vent, but the grip is no problem... Let's see here..." Pulling a length of string from his beard, the little man takes your hand in his. Despite the thick fingers, he manages to deftly tie the string around each finger. "There we go," he says, removing the string without undoing the knots. "I think we have enough gel crap... Now, I'll be right back," and he hobbles off into the back. You hear loud clanking and banging followed by an even louder, "Mother of Chri- Ahh... Ares... Colt... Styre... Ah ha! Heckler..." More loud shuffling and the clatter of spilt magazines can be heard. Then a rusty drawer squeals as it slides open. "No... No... Yes, this will do."

Returning with a grin, the dwarf holds what looks like a SMG grip. Welded to it are what appears to be keys of an antique typing machine and a miniature ferris wheel. Slapping the thing into you hand he instructs you to hold it like the gun. "Fuh, put you thumb like this. Ack, who taught you to hold a gun, girl? It's no wonder your danty little wrist hurts. Good, alright. Ready? Here we go."

He flicks a little switch on the ferris wheel and it starts to spin, slow at first and then faster and faster until the handle is shaking your hand like a pack of Awakened jumping beans. "Hold it steady, girl. Come on, is that all you got?" the little fucker says, his grin now ear to ear. Suddenly the keys click inwards and something very much like a bee stings your palm.

A yelp escapes your lips (failed Willpower roll). The ferris wheel winds down and the smith takes the grip from you. A slip of paper spools from the bottom, and the dwarf reads aloud the little markings on it, "Seven, three, four, two, seven." He looks you up and down before saying, "Interesting, you're stronger than you look." Taking the grip thing to the back he adds, "Bring the gun back in a week or so. The gel takes some time to harden after I build the mold. We may need to shave some off, but that's not a problem."

"OK, then what do I owe you?"

"Humm, I'll tell you what. I'm almost out of gel, but I know where you can get a ton of it real easy. If you pick me up a barrel of the gel... looks like this one," he says kicking an old metal barrel about the size of a Mountain Dew six liter, "I'll give you the grip and mabe a magazine of that explosive ammo your always asking for. What'd ya say?"

I would like to applaud you for admitting that you're not qualified to talk about this. MOST of the firearms arguments i see are being held by people who've not only never fired one, but have only really ever seen them while playing HALO. So... kudos. Everyone, be more like Arethusa. If you don't know what you're talking about, don't talk about it.

I'm going to disagree with this. With the questions he's raising it's perfect for role playing-"Sure mr Street Samurai, just hold this mold for 15 seconds."
"Hey those are my finger prints pressed into the mold!"
"Don't worry about it, those get smoothed away on the final casting."

I'm not sure how it would be doine in RL, I'm left handed with small hands so I pretty much get stuck with generic grips but in game terms, go for it.

[IC]
Logging on to the Weapons' World host only takes a second as the chrome and steel planet materializes before you. A flow of molten metal streams upwards from the planet to form a suit and tie wearing humanoid. Solidified, the icon smiles and cheerfully says, "Hello and welcome to Weapons' World! The place where all your dreams become cold steel reality! ...You're account is currently :active: and you have :zero: outstanding balances. Welcome back :Joe Doe:; what can we do for you?"

You breathe a sigh of relief as the ID is verified and say, "I'm looking for a grip on the pistol I just bought. My friend told me I could get better performance, but I want to see the stats."

Cocking its shiny head, the icon listens intently. After a moment's pause, it says, "Customized hand grips for the :Ares Predator: come in multiple levels of functionality. By far, the interlaced Ares Five Point Responder Grip with NEW Reactive Gel and time tested Krynac Vamac Ethylene Acrylic core provides the most superior comfort control. By easing muscle fatigue, the Five Point Responder improves target acquisitions after sustained semiautomatic, burst, or even fully automatic fire. Field-testing indicates an 8.15% increase in successful contact. Furthermore, the reduction in wear and tear on your ligaments and wrist prevents carpel-tunnel syndrome and can ease the pains of arthritis.” A dazzling display of multicolor grips dance behind the icon showing the various schemes of the Responder. When you point at one, the price appears hovering next to it. Several of the more expensive models claim resistance to finger printing. At your request, the list of reviews by previous buyers bubble out of those models, and a thousand voices argue and exalt the various features.

“This one,” you say finally, pointing at the simple black model. A beautiful Predator fades into the grip and begins to rotate before you. The metallic icon pulls a rubber hand from inside its suit and holds it out to you. Reaching for it activates the sim feed, and suddenly you can feel the hand. It reaches out for the gun and grips it tightly. Your hand fits perfectly. The gun points off into the blackness beyond the chrome planet where a gun range slowly materializes. You instinctively fire several shots at the targets as they spring up. If it works like the feed, you’re sold on the performance. “I’ll take it.”

The icon glistens, obviously happy, and cocks its head again. “Confirmed monetary resources... Confirmed stock... Our records indicate you have not previously been measured for pistol grips. The earliest appointment is :one week: from today at :1011 North Wells Street: at :11 o’clock in the AM:. Would you like to confirm this appointment, or schedule a more convenient time?” The icon floats patiently now holding a thick chrome appointment book.

“Fine, fine,” you say. And a week passes...

Dressing nice for your appearance downtown, you arrive nearly on time. The automatic tax delivers you to the mall, and deposits you at the East entrance, by far the closest to Weapons’ World. Climbing a few flights of stairs for the exercise, you take an elevator the other sixty flights. The store occupies most of the floor with a small space for children and another for a Buddhist shrine.

The outer glass doors open as you wave the credstick over the eye. The statuesque guards stand silent in foyer, but you can feel their sensors searching your body. It seems like every camera in the world must be on you right now, but you walk towards the service girl.

“Ah, Mister Joe Doe? We’ve been expecting you!” she says positively making you sick with her wave of pleasantries. “Weapons’ World associate Kyle Thurostrome will be right with you,” she beams and then leans towards you to add, “He’s the best, don’t worry,” as if it were some secret. You shake off the sent of perfume that drenched your body as she returns to watching a hidden monitor.

“Mister Doe?” inquires a male voice. Striding to you, a tall suit reaches out to shake your hand. “I’m Mister Thurostrome, but you can call me Kyle. Wonderful to have you in our store again, sir. Right this way, won’t you?” Is the British accent your imagination? The two of you stroll down an isle, each side displaying the latest weapons from Ares, Steyr, Heckler and Kotch. Opening the door to a spacious white office, the man asks, “May I have the pistol, Mister Doe? Ah, yes, thank you.” He takes the gun to a machine in the corner. A frightening array of screwdrivers and probes descend on the pistol dismantling it faster than you thought possible. The look of horror on your face must be apparent, because Kyle says, “Don’t worry, sir. The Gizmo can put it back together just as fast. Plus, you’ve got the Weapons’ World Lifetime Guarantee.” You suppose the smile is meant to be reassuring.

“Now, if you would just grab hold of the cylinder on this stand here. There we are.” The cylinder rests inside a grid of IR laser beams, and Kyle adjusts the stand’s height as you take hold of it. Once positioned in the most comfortable spot, he activates a display screen. The screen begins to build a three-dimensional model of your hand: the muscles, the bone, and down to the filaments of hair and scar tissue. The cylinder gently rocks as numbers cascade across the screen. “Just act natural, Mister Doe. The machine measures innate responses to pressure and momentum. It will build the perfect combination of hardness and spring to counter the Predator’s brutal kick. Once in the database, we can build a custom grip for any gun you purchase; even if you order online. While I have you here, did you wish to have the left done as well?”

You shake your head, more out of impatience than anything. “Um, how long? I mean how long do you keep the information of file?” You ask, suddenly nervous about the amount of data being displayed. Kyle glances at you slyly, but quickly returns to the screen.

“Indefinitely. Sometimes records get lost, or course, but the norm is until customer death...” Kyle makes a point of not looking at you before adding, “Weapons’ World also allows you to donate to any world charity - except the World Wildlife Foundation. I’ve been know to handle such transactions personally, to insure full customer satisfaction.” The display flashes, and Kyle directs your attention to a small glass window in the office wall. Looking into some kind of chamber, the window shows a robotic arm with some form of hose and nozzle attached to the end. White plastic spews from the nozzle has the robotic arm quickly builds a gun grip. “That’s the wax; it uses the 3-D model to create a CAD file. Now watch this...” Kyle narrates as the robotic arm retreats and a whirlwind of sand fills the chamber.

“It’s making a sand-cast of the outer shape. Over here,” he says pointing to a tinted window, “the machine is building the inner core.” Inside that window, a rubber cylinder is spinning rapidly as a diamond tool shaves down the sides. “Now that the sand-cast is finished, the machine melts the wax before it pours in the gel. It uses a laser to keep the inside soft, and the sand is then permeated with liquid nitrogen to instantly freeze the outside to the correct shape.”

Water, or something like water, begins washing the sand away, leaving a hollow black grip. “The inner core is already being put on the gun,” Kyle says, pointing at the so-called Gizmo. Indeed, the mechanical arms seem almost to finesse the core onto the partially assembled weapon. After one last washing, the outer grip finishes with a ding. Kyle opens the window and takes out the grip. By the time he reaches the Gizmo, a space of a meter or two, the Predator is waiting upside down. He slides the outer grip on with surprising ease, presses a button on the machine, and smiles at you as a dryer blasts hot air onto the grip.

Taking the finished gun from the contraption, Kyle hands it to you. It feels strange at first, and Kyle seems to read your mind by saying, “You’ll get used to it after the first few days. Then, you’ll never want another gun without the grip.”

“You mentioned interest in the charity program... How much shall I put you down for?” he asks, smiling at you with bright white teeth.

I forgot the rangefinder! Damn it.

And it started out so simple: a little black box, just put your hand inside... what happened?

Just now figured out what you meant, Hooray for forever edit!

No, you see, substitute that word for, you know, cherry, and...because it's a gun context...and...uh...

That joke fell flat on its' face, didn't it?

Seriously, that's pretty cool work right work. I have a few ideas of my own now. Thanks for sharing/showing off