During a grouse hunt in North Carolina two intrepid sportsmen were
blasting away at a clump of trees near a stone wall. Suddenly a red-face
country squire popped his head over the wall and shouted, "Hey, you almost
hit my wife."
"Did I?" cried one hunter, aghast. "Terribly sorry. Have a shot
at mine, over there."
Yeah, that's me, Tracer Bullet. I've got eight slugs in me. One's lead,
the rest bourbon. The drink packs a wallop, and I pack a revolver. I'm
a private eye.