Here's a real horror story and a true one that I posted it in the wrong forum:

Like most male kids, I was obsessed with firearms.  Although I'd been given a rifle (.22 Remington Targetmaster) for my 11th birthday, handguns were more interesting.  Around this time (late 'fifties) "zip guns" were often mentioned in books and movies.  The idea seemed pretty cool to me, although I'd never seen one or even heard a reliable report that they functioned.

Being handy with tools but not real bright, I decided to make my own so I could carry it to school and show my buddies.  Looking around the house, I scrounged up some likely looking parts and started working.  The "barrel" was a short piece of aluminum tube from an old coffee percolator, one end of which I plugged with a sheet metal screw.

I found a cheap cigarette lighter, sort of chiseled it apart and then mounted the spark wheel + flint so sparks would be thrown toward the "barrel".  The "barrel" was mounted to the "handle" temporarily and a touch hole marked.  After drilling the touch hole, I put everything back together.  I already knew what I was going to load the thing with.

I snitched one of Dad's 12 gauge turkey loads and carefully cut it open.  I poured some of the powder down the "barrel" - no attempt at measuring.  I stuffed a little wad of Kleenex on top of the charge and dropped one of the shots (number 3 or whatever whatever Dad was using at the time) on top, followed by another Kleenex "wad'.

I was really pumped by this time, the thing actually looked functional and my seventh grade engineering skills pronounced the design completely safe, based on my comprehensive firearm design experience, LOL.  So I took the thing out behind the barn (we lived on a farm in Tennessee) for proof testing.

Holding it in my left hand at arm's length, I spun the little cigarette lighter wheel with my right forefinger (I remember all of this vividly).  Nothing happened so I repeated the process.  I'm not sure that I actually heard anything but my face went numb immediately.  As craftily as I could, I made my way into the house and into the bathroom so that I could see the damage.

Staring at my face in the mirror, there was a screw parked in the bridge of my nose, point imbedded firmly.  I jerked it out with a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet.  I have no recollection of what I told my parents and when I think of that incident, I still get cold from the thought, "one inch to the left or one inch to the right".