Iron Curtain Call weapons: eleven guns, zero manners

Ten pellets and one strongly worded opening statement. Reloaded by hand, one shell at a time, because the previous owner lost the rest of the manual. Along with most of himself.

That's the Diplomat. Our last shotgun. The previous owner lost it. Along with most of himself.

Hold to fire. The drum is swapped by hand and the bolt gets pulled when it runs dry. Highly recommended for correspondence with large crowds of tin soldiers.

The Typewriter. Writes strongly worded letters at nine hundred words per minute.

A bazooka wrapped in a red ribbon. A fresh rocket gets pushed into the muzzle after every shot. Point it away from your face.

The Care Package. Special delivery, no signature required. Point it away from your face.

A telegraph sounder fused to a Tesla coil. The bolt jumps from robot to robot and sets off every Tick-Tock it touches. Ignores shields. Bills by the word.

A six barrel gun bolted to a lectern, with a microphone. The longer you keep talking, the harder it hits. Recommended for people who cannot be interrupted.

A revolver with a judge's gavel for a hammer. Six shots, then reload. The last round in the cylinder hits double and pierces everything in its path.

The Veto. Six shots, then reload. The last one overrules everything. Democracy in action.

A red bakelite desk telephone bolted to a grenade tube. The rotary dial is the cylinder: six finger holes, a ringing grenade in each. Hold it quiet for a while and the phone rings. Pick up. Somebody is always on the line.

That's the Party Line. Grenades on a rotary dial. And Corporal? It's a party line. Everybody listens in.

A cash register turned launcher. Its bags of money stick to a robot, everybody nearby stops fighting to stare at the cash, and then the bag bursts. Its Encore puts the whole room on the payroll.

The Lobbyist. A cash register that fires bags of money. They stick, and everyone stops to look. Everyone has a price, Corporal. Find out theirs.

A dishonourable discharge, folded into a three bladed boomerang in the brig. It cuts through every robot on the way out and again on the way back, splits shields in half and always comes home. No ammo. Just paperwork.

A scoped bolt action rifle with a police whistle on the muzzle and a pea rattling inside it. Every shot blows the whistle, goes through three robots and marks them EXPOSED. Loaded by stripper clip, five rounds at a time.

The Whistleblower. Loud. Accurate. Unpopular. It goes through three robots, and everyone hears it. Everyone.

A bank vault cannon with a printing press for a breech. The press thumps, the drum spins up and a slow orb of printed money rolls out, bails out the small robots in its way and goes off for 1,200 damage across ten metres.

The Bailout. Too big to fail, too big to aim. One very slow, very large ball of public money. Spend it on someone who deserves it.