Quite a few of the writers I enjoy were firearm fetishists. Hunter S. Thompson (pictured above) was well known for blowing shit up. Ernest Hemingway loved killing god’s creatures. William S. Burroughs carried a variety of odd calibered pistols as well as a cane sword.
As far as I know, Burroughs was the only one of the bunch who ever shot anyone (I’m not counting self inflicted wounds yet). Before he ever wrote anything substantial he put a bullet into his wife’s forehead playing a game of William Tell in Mexico. Drinking and pistols do not mix.
Hemingway and Thompson both ended their lives on their own terms with their own weapons. Thompson actually had his son clean the .45 for him in a very questionable final act of paternal bonding. Hemingway used a shotgun, which always seemed a bit dickish to me because of the mess they cause.