Thanks for the input and links. I'm going to pick the thing up in a day or two, and I've got a line on a nice empty clay pit to burn through a few boxes of shells this weekend. So any HT types would do well to steer clear of the orange/purple routes.
Next question: I used to have a Wilson 'Ghost Ring' rear sight on my old 870, and I'm a fan. But I'm curious if anyone else has had good experiences with anything of the sort. Not that anything is a substitute for some serious practice-induced muscle memory, of course.
Now, some of you are wondering why I'm getting a new scattergun, and it involves an intruder story. A furry intruder. My little sister woke up one night, thinking she was petting the dog, only it wasn't the dog. When she turned on the light, the raccoon in her bed hissed at her and bolted. My (decidedly anti-gun) father's first reaction, of course, was to grab every firearm I owned, plus a pellet rifle, and burst into my sister's room like a Rambo wannabe. He searched the house, 1911 at the ready, until he gave up trying to find the thing. So, before going to bed (or putting my guns away), he decides to use the facilities. When he turns on the lights, lo-and-behold, there's Mr. Raccoon, chilling ON the wall and staring at pops. My dad decides to put the critter down, and points the barrel of my .30-06 right at our houseguest. Now, I might not agree with my dad's stance on gun laws, or even politics in general, but God bless him, he paused to consider the ramifications of his actions before squeezing off a round. ....And he realized that immediately on the other side of the flimsy, interior wall was the head of my sister's bed, which contained my little sister. So, he thought twice about it (Mr. Raccoon was polite enough to oblige him a small delay, and remained more or less in place), and he realized that he was left with only one viable option: The pellet rifle. So, my father proceeds to pump about 4-5 .177 pellets into this thing, cranking down on the cocking lever and fumbling a new pellet into the chamber each time. Mr. Raccoon, understandibly offended by his host's rudeness, makes his way into a corner by the door and prepares his last stand. Pretty soon after that, my dad realizes the tiny little projectiles aren't really doing much, so he whips the pellet rifle around and starts a little close combat action. A good 2 minutes later, all that's left is a furry pile of lumps, and more blood than he thought possible. (There's still some fur caught in the hinges, by the way.)
The next morning, I recieved an email, detailing the incedent and my mother's subsequent ultimatum: Get rid of the guns, now, or she will. Seeing as I was stuck at the boat school with no transportation (and no legal place to store them), the only option I was afforded was sale. ~sigh~