One summer day, my cousin and I were sitting in the ol' tree fort putting strike anywhere matches down the barrel of his Daisy pump pellet gun. If you got them at just the right angle you could get them to ignite in the road. We wen't down to take a potty break, and while I'm in the John, he finds a pellet. I walk out and he hands me the gun, "pump this". I shook the barrel to make sure there was no match, and began to pump. He took a sweet forever, and that thing was pumping really hard. As he walks out the door, I say "freeze or I'll blow your balls off!" He didn't freeze, and I put a pellet next to the bone in his thigh. He was bleeding pretty profusely, but all I could see is my dad saying "always treat a gun as if it is loaded", expecting my untimely demise, I asked him if he wouldn't tell. Not a popular idea. The police offered him the opportunity to press charges. Fortunately he did not. I didn't return home for another two weeks, and my uncle handled the situation with my dad. Somehow that meant I didn't get thrashed. I didn't see a gun again until I was about 17, but it was a good trade off. He is lucky I have bad aim.
There are others that I cannot reveal, because they remain mysteries as to who the culprit is. Like a certain copy machine with shattered glass from attempting the old photo copy the a$$ trick. It was one of those machines where the top moved. Geez, what a dope.