There's probably a missing set here for "oddball."
I remember being out at the range with my buddy, we are sharing a bench because it's crowded. Guy at the next bench leaves--no big deal. Dude in Corvette zooms up to the line (the rest of us park about 10 yards back). He pulls up so much, I was rorried he was going to hit the chair I'm sitting on. Dude gets out carrying a honking big revolver, saunters up to the empty spot, eyeballs the left-over targets, presents his six shooter and "Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!" dumps the brass, gets in his 'vette and drives away.
Score: One in dirt about 6 yards out; one in dirt 22 yards out; possibly one on the 25 yard target; next two into the clouds; sixth round through the double-v drip overhead.
Mind, I've probably been the oddball a time or two. The dude at the end of the rifle line where everyone else is shooting AR with what look to be telephoto stalker lensed scopes, and I'm the one with a 1917 or 1903 using iron sights on the 300 yard line.
Or the day I'm on my way home and I'm driving past the range anyway, and it's eraly enough to blow off some steam, so I go on in. Only other person on the line is Old Fudd, who is fireforming some sort of cartridge, and cleaning the barrell after every other shot, because, That's What You Do!. Apparently, my double tapping is interfering which the harmony of his spheres and he wanders about the back of the line while muttering about "para militiary" this and that tut-tutting away. This is all passive-aggressive, none of this is to my face, just to the winds and the otherwise empty range. I get annoyed, and out of ammo. So, I go back to the ride, grab a couple new boxes, then don my blouse and cover. Seeing railroad tracks, causes Fudd to recall his days as a Cpl, and he takes a passably good brace, shuts up and goes back to his own knitting.