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But the rejection of brutish destiny had been the gunsling-er's work all his life-it had been his ka, if you pleased-and so he came forward without even thinking, acting with reflexes so deep they had nearly become instincts.
I love that release, picture Michael Redd's release with LESS gunsling.
I was thoroughly content watching Tom Brady, I mean Matt Cassel, gunsling his way to 400 yards passing and three touchdowns, when a commercial interrupted my dreams of Super Bowl glory.
Without thought, with the simple resolve that had made him the last of them all, the last to continue marching on and on long after Cuthbert and the others had died or given up, committed suicide or treachery or simply recanted the whole idea of the Tower; with the single-minded and incurious resolve that had driven him across the desert and all the years before the desert in the wake of the man in black, the gunsling-er stepped through the doorway.
Hey gunsling - do us all a favor: pick the glock off your desk, put the barrel in your mouth and squeeze off a round you fucking racist.