The only thing that happens when you get your sawed-off shotgun is that you'll sit there in the closet, nearly in a fetal position, testicular sac retracted maximally in your greatest fear, as the nogs rummage through your house lookin' for stuff to resell for crack. Eventually they will tire of jackin' your shit, and with a final smash of the mirrors and windows and other trappings of Whitelife, they will leave the premises, rappin' nonsense to each other as they plan their next crackhit. And you'll still be a-tremblin' there in your closet, tears rollin' down your pale face, strokin' your shotgun for reassurance, but never daring to venture forth to confront your assailants. No, THAT WOULD TAKE COURAGE, which Whitey doesn't have.