In my former life I used to visit the local police range quite often. It wasn't far away, I had the key, and I liked to drop over and shoot a practice session on the turning targets or just enjoy an hour or so of creative noise-making.
One day I pulled in to discover that a local department had just finished their semi-annual qualifying course. This was good news as there were often quantities of discarded cartridge cases here and there. When someone else is paying the bills there seems no hesitation among the unafflicted to simply toss perfectly good once-fired brass into the trash cans. Shameful, but good for me.
On this particular day I went straight to the range shack and saw that there were no fresh cases in the plastic buckets provided for that purpose. That meant the 55-gallon trash barrels were next on the inspection list. Since I had the place to myself there was no shame in upending myself over these worthies and seeing what they had to offer. I picked out the crumpled B-27 targets and there, sprinkled across the bottom, beckoned a bright array of .38 and .357 cases. Pay dirt! I slithered in and began to rake 'em in.
Too late I saw the other cases. Long, aluminum, slightly crusty. CS canisters! Then the burning started in my eyes, moved quickly to my nose, then the throat. It was over an hour until I could see well enough to drive home. But I had at least recovered many of the precious cases. What price orichaphilia!
Had I learned my lesson? What do you think?