Midnight, Where's My Gun?

 

Virus

Part 13 of 30

I may have touched on this theme -- my every other thought is on guns and my right to pack heat -- and it may come up again. Because we’re such a gun-happy society. If it threatens us, let’s shoot it, that kind of attitude. It’s long been my argument that we’re better off without so many guns, but, on the other hand, don't take mine. If I needed a gun and didn’t have one, that’d be bad. Even as it is, with the whole rack of guns in the back window of the truck, and those locked, it'd be hard to get one in the event of an actual shootout. But no matter, we had countless societies going back to the Garden of Eden when we didn’t have guns, so who knows. I can well imagine, though, in the old days everyone was a lot more trigger-happy, like back when continental drift was a big thing, they might’ve said, “Pa, the continent’s 5 foot farther out than it was yesterday, where’s the gun?”

With this virus scare, though, who knows? People get desperate and know you have a bottle of aspirin or paper towels or a couple garbage bags and they want it. You cry out, “I have no aspirin!” And one of the mob finds the receipt from yesterday in the garbage. You think fast, “I took them all!” Then they point out the side effects, you would’ve bled to death by now. So the jig’s up. You step out with the gun, your short wife holding you back. You even look at the gun and down at the wife and say something like, “I knew the gun was sawed off, but what happened to YOU?!” (Really, a little height would come in handy against the virus, since it’s my understanding that even germs are subject to gravity.)

Anyway, whether she’s of adequate height, there’s nothing you can do about that when the crisis is plum crazy. Whether she comes to your knees or the top of your shoes, it’s too late to worry about it now. She’s better than nothing, and maybe half the mob will trip over her, although their own lack of height could be such that you’ll both trip over them. The gun goes off and accidentally blows away their leader, they disperse and you’re both saved, which is about the best you can hope for.

They do know something, though, that the virus is no way to die, nothing anyone wants for themselves. And that’s the way it is today. Each one of us, holed away behind our door in our homes, knows that a crowd perplexed can go plain loco if they think you have an edge on survival that’s somehow escaped them. And one thing is certain when it comes to the human race, Without the good sense of some species, giving up when the jig’s up, mankind wants to hold on to survival against all odds, even if it means taking someone else out to do it. Is that the way I’d be? I’d like to say no, no, hell no! But probably, at least maybe. I’d try to do right by everyone, but, I guess so, I might rush your door and take a bullet through the head.

It’s nothing to brag about, naturally, but it’s better to try to save yourself than die like a dog, no offense to them.

Day 940, No One In Sight

Paranoia

Part 11 of 30

I don’t actually have a gun -- no guns at all -- but I probably should have. Packing heat could very well come in handy. I can certainly imagine all the scenarios, like hiding away in a cave for 940 days and it'd be tough without a gun. If nothing else, you could shoot fruit from a tree and with it bring into your precious system the building blocks of nutrition. Anything that helps me stagger across the finish line of Day 941 would be good, probably, although at some point I could start wondering what the point is. Then it becomes dangerous.

But 941 days, that’s pretty long. 365 days in a year, and multiply it out, it’s something under 10 years. Definitely a long time to hold out, being as it is -- wow! --  something under 10 years. How time flies when you’re in the midst of a standoff whether with yourself or others, and whatever else may be out there.

I’ll tell you right now, I’ve thought of this before, because I’ve been in a cave: A cave is a great natural shelter, meaning, Other animals have noticed the same thing. And if I’m in a cave very long, it won’t be long till the animals and their families start showing up for the night. Meaning, a cave is a terrible place to live unless you have some way of securing it (1), and some way of (2) of stilling your conscience about the idea of displacing animals. I don’t think I could do it. I’ve camped before, then the paranoia of animals becomes too much.

I was talking with a guy a couple years ago -- homeless dude, but the county gave him a tent and let him stay at the state park without paying -- who totally turned me off to the idea of camping, roughing it in the wild. He told me about raccoons continually tearing through the sides of his tent, looking for food or whatever. He said they have razor-sharp teeth and claws like a bear. He was on his third free tent, which started to sound to me more like a way for the county to kill off the riff-raff and blame it on raccoons!

At that time I was living in a camper and I was paranoid enough about a camper. The wind rocks it. You hear rain like metal pellets. The furnace is hard to turn off. There’s no easy access points to it if you had to do emergency maintenance. Half your stuff’s outside, a easy mark for predators, including other people. But I considered myself lucky because another guy had an animal trailer he lived in. Which looked very cramped. He and I never spoke. I wasn't sure about him. Probably had seen a lot of stuff in his life.

Then there’s the mosquitoes, and ticks, and every godforsaken creature of the night, mostly raccoons clawing at that guy’s place. Which is actually only one step up from a cave -- because no creature of the wild has ever missed an entire cave. A cave wouldn't be good enough for me. They'd storm it and drive me out with fire.

The Championship Belt Returned

Part 19 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo 

It was good news to learn that the championship belt, secreted away in a bank vault with the rodeo having financial troubles, was quickly returned. The exact details of its return are still sketchy, but according to the little bit I know, the bank and the rodeo came to a mutually beneficial agreement.

The terms ran something like this: 1) The bank wanted to be paid back. 2) But revenues are always down when there’s something going on with the championship belt. The fans are more interested when there's a championship belt at stake. To them the whole rodeo is basically summed up in the questions, “Who’s in the running for the belt? Will the champ keep it? What is he willing to do to keep it? Isn’t he getting a little flabby? Is he ripe for someone to pick off? I will definitely pay good money to see how he manages it. But if the championship belt somehow slips away it'll be a nightmare situation, the doomsday scenario itself, the end of days. What on earth will we do if it somehow slips away?”

One year they advertised it in similar dire terms, which turned out scarier than expected. Supposed assassins were in the rafters to guard against any chicanery. Any shooting would be at their discretion. The assassins were masked, wearing atypical clothing, dresses from thrift stores, etc., so they couldn't be identified by their usual garb. If I had been consulted on the promotion I would’ve told them, “Please, no live ammo,” but I was away taking my driving test because my driver’s license had expired about a week before then -- damn the luck! -- and the corrupt police were just itching to nail me for driving without a valid license.

Well, that year showed us some of the folly in allowing live ammo in any promotion. It turned out worse than I feared. Three guys were shot, two of them winged and one guy got a hole right straight through his bicep. The doctors had to go in and restitch his muscles into place. Which worked out well for him, because before restitching it his bicep was weak as a kitten, but with the restitching he was strong as a tiger. You might remember him from a health insurance commercial, the testimonial where the rodeo guy praises his great coverage and successful bicep restitching. That was him.

Anyway, everything can have a happy ending if we help it along. Including the centerpiece of this post, the centerpiece of every competition, the championship belt. There's no substitute for it! Either it’s there or it’s not. And if it’s not, very few people want to be there either. Was there gun-play involved in getting it back? I’m not at liberty to say anything about the details. But I can reassure anyone concerned about how the operation went down, there was absolutely no call for any restitching of biceps, midsections, legs, or heads. It was a happy ending all the way.

Maelstrom: Uncle Dingy's Regrets

Part 9 of 31

They Found Another Body

This was a relative of mine, Uncle Clarence aka Uncle Dingy, who actually died before I was born. Once upon a time something happened and Dingy went a little rancid, wormy in the head. These days it might’ve been called a mental breakdown, because he was definitely under the weather where it counted. He had several close calls with death. He saw more than a man of his limited mental capabilities should see. Involving someone else's wife, likely from the neck down in full display. And he ended up dying of natural causes, some say murder. There was a prolonged vigil, rattling the cages and storming heaven's gate but it didn’t do any good.

I’m kind of glad it all went down before I was born. I have the space to stand back semi-detached and judge from a distance: “What happened to you, Dingy, that you couldn’t make it to old age like the rest of the brood? Did you forget every teaching they taught you, not to get involved in the affairs of people of such low character, with more on their mind than citizenship, patriotism, and doing good? You know the family, right, Dingy? We wisely stand back when the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket. Where others wilt in the face of temptation, we stand tall. So what happened to you? Was she that hot?

Ouch, that might burn, I got a little too close to the truth, which I wasn’t going to touch. But there was a jealous husband, jealous to the point of taking it out on Dingy, it being a firearm, a pistol to be precise, waving it about, about to fire it in that room of sin, with red wallpaper and nude paintings, the works, after backing Dingy to the headboard, who strained his neck something fierce when there was nowhere else to crawl. Bang!

His last word was “Maelstrom! Maelstrom!” I’ve heard of that, but I had to look it up to get a fuller understanding. The dictionary says, “A powerful whirlpool in the sea or a river.” And “a situation or state of confused movement or violent turmoil.” My first thought is that Dingy was out of his mind and randomly remembering something maelstromesque. But I ran it by a friend and he said Dingy likely was likening his experience with the woman and her jilted lover/murderer to a maelstrom, something he wished would’ve never happened, and if he had it to do over, he wouldn’t have. Or would've taken her to a different town.

That’s pretty smart reflection. ‘I did something, I’m sorry I did, and if I could do it over again, I wouldn’t have, or would've gone farther.’ But then he was in a maelstrom, a whirlpool of consequences, sucked down, dragged inexorably toward a fitful though regrettable conclusion, death.

What could he have said to call off the dogs? If a word like maelstrom didn’t call them off, probably nothing would have. “I’m sorry, it was a one-time thing, nothing we’ll repeat, I’ll make it up to you somehow…” “Make it up to me, huh? There’s no unsullying her good name and honor!” Bang, bang!

Ambush's Panic, Two Gunshots

Chapter 22 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Strategy

Up de Graff and the explorers had to move at once. Being at the mercy of the infuriated -- wildly inflamed -- Huambizas was clearly bad policy. Either push upstream or backtrack, go somewhere. But to go upstream would a hard fight; their equipment was too heavy for the five men to cope with. They'd be easy targets for a surprise attack. And they were still desiring to trade the Jivaros out of their shrunken heads.

The explorers decided to follow them downstream where they were sure to be curing the heads. They might be able to make a good deal with them. But between now and then there were still security concerns. A number of battle-heated savages were still around and in a nasty temper. Some were trying to "borrow" rifles, with threatening spears in hand. One especially persistent guy was hit by Jack in the chest with the butt-end of his Winchester. The explorers were losing their self-control, but just wanting to avoid another massacre. And I have to confess, impending massacres always give me the jitters.

You might remember the crewman called Ambusha. He's the guy Up de Graff kept his eye on most, for his excess drinking of rum, reading up on anarchism, having an oily manner, being shifty and a known liar, cleaning his rifle too much, etc., and how he was relieved of his duties as cook. They put him in the middle of the column of boats as the fleet started moving.

They had one last look at the grinning skulls of the shrunken heads with their bulging eyeballs and "dry tongues lolling in a mute farewell." In an hour they stopped at a sandbar for the night. They were separated by a safe distance from their native "allies." But they still could tell what they were doing, sitting around the fires and putting the finishing touches to the heads. There's a little intrigue. All along the head of the Jivaros, Tuhuimpui was hanging around with ideas of his own, even helping guide the formation of boats together with Up de Graff.

Now as they were traveling, Tuhuimpui steered Up de Graff's canoe. Tuhuimpui had received Up de Graff's orders -- this particular boat was not to move up from its place in the rear, and they were to take no risks. In quick succession, then, two shots from downstream roused them. Immediately, Up de Graff swung his rifle to the right and fired it into Tuhuimpui's stomach. The chief wilted and slid into the bilge-water. Other shots were made and the native canoes sped up in panic. These two shots by Up de Graff weren't random; it was arranged that two shots would be the signal if there were trouble downstream.

A few minutes later they came across Ambusha alone in a dugout. He was the one who'd given the alarm. He said, "The Indians in my canoe turned in-shore without a word of warning and landed, leaving me alone on the bank." He was sure they were up to deviltry, so he pushed off and fired. That was a lame story, of course, but Ambusha was judged a benefactor anyway, because Up de Graff was convinced an attack would've come sooner or later, and circumstances would've been more against them. It's always nice to do the wrong thing and have it turn out right!

Our Bullets Will Chase You

Chapter 18 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Turning the Corner

Pitacunca (the Jivaro medicine man, whom they called Pete) led the way in his canoe, making giant strokes. Up de Graff reflected on Pete's size (massive), his strength (the embodiment of strength and deviltry), and considered his own security as a white man. He didn't believe he could trust them but didn't completely believe that his rifles would be enough to save himself and team. He calls the Jivaros cunning, knavish, and diabolical, with the courage of wild animals in battle but purely looking out for their own interests. I'm myself a nice guy to everyone, but I'd rather not have overnight guests.

In a few hours they were at the western mouth of the gorge, the Pongo Menseriche. They saw some monkeys and decided to take down some for food for the rest of the trip. They were after the howling monkey, called cotos. Those with shotguns were bested in the hunt by those with blow-guns. But they still ended up with around two dozen of them. Up de Graff himself got three, but his were more of a mess (shotgun spray) than those taken with a blow-gun. We used to get rabbits with a shotgun. And it's worth mentioning one of my own adventures, cleaning rabbits while wearing my mom's fur coat. It was a mess and she was mad.

It was Pete's advice not to try the passage of the Pongo that night, but to lash the canoes together, then they'd run the minimum of risk. After dark, then, they moved a ways upstream and pitched their camp on a sand-spit. The two white men kept watch, one at a time, spelling each other every couple hours. Their biggest fear was losing their allies, "who were liable to disappear if the fancy took them." But all slept soundly. And they heard the Pongo's mighty roar on the night air. That'd be great, white noise like thunder.

They were in the luck with the river the next day. It was just right for passing back up the gorge, the canoes strapped together and a log between them. Sweeping clear of the eastern mouth of the gorge, they came in full view of their camp and were greeted by their fellow explorers. Since Up de Graff and Game were a day late, the others had almost gone out looking for them (as planned). They were also glad to see the extra plantains. And Up de Graff himself appreciated the hot coffee and milk the others had. That might've been coconut milk though, probably was, we haven't see references to cows.

Pitacunca took one glance at the camp and the explorers and turned around. He and his people retreated 20 yards away, sat down, and started a dismal wailing chant in a minor key. They seemed distraught at the sight of so many white people as well as their kit. It seemed to Up de Graff that they would never stop "yowling." They continued for about a half hour, then settled themselves by the campfire.

Up de Graff needed to wait for the water to go down at the Pongo before leaving. So for safety sake he showed how accurate they were at shooting small game, as a warning to the natives, particularly the Huambizas. Get this: He said, If the Huambizas "really aroused our anger, even though they might be half a dozen miles up-stream and round three bends, we should sent our bullets off to chase them and them to sleep." But when the natives started getting restless, the explorers decided to get going, choosing to risk the river instead of the people. You see your chance, you take it. Better to get up a head of steam than lose your own head. Let's head out, folks, while we got a head to head out with!

So they set out, and waged eight hours' war against the seething waters.

Gelatinous Mass, Happy To See Me

 

Chapter 15 (2nd part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

The explorers were on their way back to meet the rest of the team. The water was swift and they made good time. By Up de Graff's watch it was only an hour and a half to get there. They found all was well on Mitaya Isla. Their three fellow explorers had benefited by a good rest. I'll probably take a nap myself after finishing this. I woke up last night at midnight realizing that yesterday's (July 17) "Head Hunters" blog wasn't yet written! So I had to climb out of bed and suffer the slow waking up of my laptop to get it done. And in the middle of the night I don't know Pongo Menseriche from Peter Piper Picked a Peck. But through drowsy eyes and the current heatwave got the bastard done...

Up de Graff remembers the few days there chiefly by having lost his pants. (For the graphic I put pants on him, to stay on the right side of the Blue Laws of decency now or in the future.) He ran up against a tiger armed only with a half-barreled double-barreled shotgun. (It was originally a double-barreled shotgun but down to half barrel since the other one and a half had been blown off another time.) How he lost his pants was this: He was swimming the river with the half-barrel double-barreled gun, looking for turkeys which were settled in the trees. But the tiger was only 15 yards away. The tiger looked at him and slunk off. And his pants must've slunk off too.

Morse later found Up de Graff's "damned old pants" stuck in the mud, and filled them with turtle eggs, probably the less said about that the better. Could've been, "Is that turtle eggs in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" It'd be interesting in a slow dance with Sally Ann back at in high school. She feels the bulge, not hard, not even a consistent clump, but fairly gelatinous and diverse, but so as not to embarrass me thinks, "He's got a package all right, most likely jello and carrots, either that or nasty old turtle eggs..."

They continued on several trips as two parties during August 1899. About this time they started having some difficulties again with food. Up de Graff saw his hardtack barrel about empty. The last few biscuits had "whiskers" on them, which I think means mold, about two inches in length. Finally they all arrived, both parties, at Borja and were ready to attack the Pongo Menseriche. They erected a permanent camp on an acre of land. They planted Indian corn and yuca. There were no signs "as yet" of headhunters. If someone tells me the headhunters aren't here "yet," I'm concerned. I honestly don't think I'd look great with a detached shrunken head and fake beard a foot below my chin. But you know how it is, we're always our own worst critic.

Ed, Game, and Up de Graff explored the Pongo in the small canoe. Whirlpools and eddies were such that the craft was tossed like a feather, but it was spared destruction by its lightness. The main current of the Pongo initially is indistinguishable, looking like it's going upstream as well as downstream. There's a mighty gorge estimated about 1,000 feet high. Maneuvering corners is hard, with the currents in the center going strongly downstream. But currents on the sides go upstream by a backwash from the main stream's pressure against the ravine's walls. Then whirlpools. In such a kaleidoscope of motion, the lighter the craft, the easier the passage. I would've had to pee, which also would've passed easily.

A Pacyderm Packs It In

Part 23 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Did you know they used to enlist elephants for military service? Quite the thing. A family would raise one from a calf, then on the day of the Big War would say, “Horray, Jumbo’s all grown up and ready for war! Put a star in the window, let the whole town know we're patriots!” Sounds unlikely these days, I know. When the price of elephant food went sky-high, plus liability insurance, etc., it suddenly wasn't common for a family to raise them. Which is a damned shame, because if we'd been raising elephants, think of all the things that wouldn't have happened. 9/11 for starters.

Of course elephants have always been big, but they were larger than life in the days of the Roman Empire, when all kinds of crazy stuff happened. Back then they didn’t have everything we take for granted, cannons, bunker busters, bazookas, and gun shows. If they wanted to conquer someone they had to unleash an elephant. Yes, they had bows and arrows, swords, and spears. But it was elephants that trampled out the vintage and made the grapes of wrath flow. One big reason, they were hepped up on firewater, hootch, and booze, and went plain loco. Which was a good thing.

Personally, I don’t know entirely how it was done. For me to depend on an elephant to distinguish the enemy from us, that’d take a lot of trust. But it was accomplished like everything else, by experts. They pointed the way for them to go, they fed them a truckload of peanuts, and before you knew it, it was V-Day over the Huns! World War I ended! Hallelujah!

Am I glad we won World War I? Of course I am, I'm always for the home team. But at that time I wasn’t even thought of, nor were my parents, so I sat it out. Later, I took coursework in history in college, but most of the stuff I learned I've forgotten now. World War I, though, was a war to end wars. And elephants' days were also numbered.

It's hard for me to speak ill of an elephant that died. But keeping to the theme, let me think of something ill for this one. Looking at the picture for de-inspiration: What's the matter, you fool, staggering and stumbling like that, breaking through the fence, the cannon tipping over! Next thing you're going to make a mess! And next thing, the enemy's going to say, "That elephant's loco! Shoot the guys on top of it! We'll capture it!" So all that stumbling was a huge mistake, because you took a bullet right through the temple, a terrible place to be shot. Killed instantly. Very bad job.

Celebrate Guns With Me

Guns, guns, guns. Please don't pop my bubble by saying there's something wrong with guns. Guns are great, society sucks. We really should do something so psychotics aren't given free access. That's common sense, like forbidding rabid dogs from sleeping in your children's rooms. But for those of us who are "normal," i.e., not at all given to shooting up schools or hospitals or even pointing guns at another human being unless entirely in self-defense or war, they're OK.

One of the things we always had in my family was guns, shotguns and rifles. They were just communal hunting guns. No one had his own gun. They were on the rack, and of course when you had something to shoot, you went over and got a gun to do the shooting. I said we never pointed them at another person. Not even accidentally; you're supposed to be entirely aware of your environment. But one of the last times I was ever out hunting with Dad, he was an older guy, I was a full grown adult. And we heard some shooting, and these idiot bastards were shooting at a pheasant as we had come over the hill. It was up to those bastards to be aware of their surroundings. We were both aghast.

I don’t even have a gun now. And here I am in The Big City, with enough crime, everyone can have their share, while they work on Grandma’s house, trying to restore it to minimal livability; it’s somehow become a shambles, enough bacteria in there to make a Petri dish blush. Just give up and retire the science biz all together. Not to mention the mold, reportedly bad for your lungs and other living parts. Mold doesn’t know the typical restrictions against it in life. It has its life and its ways, and the rest of us be damned! “We mold have free reign over the world!” Like those idiots coming over the hill with their guns.

OK, I don’t have a gun, as I said. I had a rifle and shotgun, but I pawned them and bought BBQ pork ribs with the money. I’ve looked at guns while shopping a few times since, then always come to the same conclusion, I’d probably end up dying with a gun trying to defend myself and property, just the opposite of what I want. Whereas, yielding a little, not heightening any confrontation is generally the best path to survival. The path to survival is not guaranteed, of course, when there’s bad hombres afoot. But I’m in only one place and hombres have a billion places to be.

Still, I do celebrate guns, mostly by way of memory. Cousins and their guns, shooting up the timber, making it unsafe for any living thing. That taught me a lesson. Too much shooting, nothing wants to be near you. Making your own shells, that’s enlightenment; given the proper tools, you definitely have the power. And other silly stuff about guns. We used to have a kid in the neighborhood who’d shoot us in the back with his BB gun, not often, but more often than parents would want to know about. I think that guy’s probably a decent guy. Last time I heard he was still alive, but we’re not in the same circles. If I ever see him coming, though, even though I celebrate guns as a thing (family history, etc.), he’ll have to disarm before we get together.

No Mercy For Vermin

What ever happened to me? How did I develop this pathological sense of mercy for everything? I’m trying to trace it back. If it’s compassion, when did this travesty called compassion take its evil root?

I should’ve learned the sayings that life offers for wisdom, and heeded them. “Give her an inch, she’ll take a mile” is a good one. Pretty soon it’s a little more, then a little more, then a little more, till there's nothing left. Which applies to me, too; if I get anything at all, of course I want more. And next thing I know I’m bloated and floating away.

For some reason I’m thinking of Willy Wonka, which I don’t know very well. But there’s a kid in that that bloats up similarly to the way I would’ve, except I don’t think he floats away. I know Moe bloats up and floats away, Three Stooges. He falls into some rubber mix, which quickly adheres and dries, then the others pump this suit of rubber slime full of air, and off he goes. You have to be lighter than air, or lighter than the amount of air they’ve pumped into your rubber suit. Good lesson to remember.

Back to vermin. I really am sympathetic — more than I need to be, anyway — to all creatures. But it doesn’t happen the same way every time for every creature. Compassion, it kicks in. Then I kill a fly instantly; they’re bugging me. I whack 'em dead. But in that case, my compassion is the quick killing. I’m not dismembering them slowly. Although I did have some fly paper strips, briefly, which ended up catching 10-12 flies. They didn’t appear to suffer, which was a true concern of mine.

Why? Why? O, why? I guess that’s the way bleeding hearts are wired. But now it’s gotten me in a jam; Grandma's house went to pot. Although, the full truth is more complicated. It’s not that I’m just so compassionate I can’t kill vermin en masse. But when it comes to vermin, there’s more to it than “kill or not kill.” There’s how it needs to be done, and not so much for their sake but for your house. You could kill vermin wholesale by burning your house down. Saves money on expensive treatments, return visits, etc. The huge downside, Bye Bye House.

So therein it is, the meat of the goody, problemo numero uno. A potentially complicated route to deal with vermin. You have to go to Vermin School, then they make you an Exterminator Extraordinaire, conferring on you various honors, titles, certifications, and finally a state license. You see a fly at 40 paces, you know its province, ways and mores, how it responds to the many elements of life, from sugar to rat poison. Really, how often have you see flies, for example, land on rat poison, and presumably eat their fill, and fly away, and not harmed in the slightest? Either they know when to say when, or there’s something in their constitution keeping them fit.

And it’s the same with rats. A rat could get tangled up in fly paper — I actually had it on my hand and it took three or four washing to knock it down to only moderately sticky — and not get away. But there’d be nothing lethal about the coating. Just being tangled up would be the worst of it. Then he gets back to the nest and rolls around in your house’s insulation, and keeps going like that for about three hours, and suddenly he's a furry possum.

I had possums coming in the yard and killing the chickens. Greedy little bastards thought they had the right to take food for their own sustenance, right under my nose! The way I handled those verminous (and ugly) possums was with a shotgun, or rifle, can’t remember which.

The honest way I should’ve handled the vermin, that have 99% destroyed Grandma’s house, is to pour money into better and different exterminators. Better, because with education the newer guys replace the old guys set in their ways. And different, because many minds have many possible solutions, not just the old tried and fail methods of Rex down the road with the same old poisons he was using in the ‘40s. These are cyborg vermin, not the happy-go-lucky vermin Rex knew and probably drank with after hours.

That’s probably it. The exterminator (Rex, in this case) saw the symbiotic relationship he had with vermin. They were his living, and if they died, he’d die too. So he knew the old ‘40s methods had long been surpassed by cyborg vermin, etc., etc., with the terrible ending that now Grandma’s house is shit and I’m out. The new guys won’t be calling Rex or his sons. No, they’ve got canisters on their backs, masks, hoods, and big guns like Electrolux vacuums. With the same motives as Rex, making it mysterious enough to keep their business secure. But they have such a larger field of business, because the old-timers screwed us up for decades.

Bottom line: Compassion is passé, kill everything in sight.

Baby Spat "Stir Will Be Nothing!"

Soon Angelina will be with the angels. How about that? I've been very emotional lately, and probably the last thing I need is a tearjerker story about a lady dying. But life is life, and regardless of my sensitivity, there will always be suffering. Really, my sensitivity numbers are through the roof. I hear a sad story and I about bust out in tears, especially if it has something to do with a lady like Angelina. Let that name roll around on your tongue a while; you'll be in love.

Here's what I know. She was given 30 days to live. I can only imagine! You get severe bodily malfunctions. This is bad, this is barely functioning, this is on the fritz. You're looking at your big toe, holding out hope and sort of daring it to go bad, then reversing yourself completely, saying, "Don't you dare go bad!" I know, you can live without a big toe, even if it takes some mincing around so you're not falling over. I also have a big toe problem, a little numbness in it; it seems like I hit it on something or dropped something on it, but my memory's bad too.

Add to the mix Angelina is married to George. Very crotchety guy. He's apparently been a significant burden to her. He's old, and like most guys, a horn-dog. But even when your wife's very basic life systems are shutting down? George, to put it mildly, can be a bastard. But to a certain extent I can relate. You're a guy, you have needs. And while it's easy to lie, say you're going to the bathroom to clean the sink (or whatever), then actually do whatever, and suddenly you're OK, there's limited satisfaction there. Especially with Angelina that close.

So they got into it. Most of us know she not that into George. I can't imagine why anyone would be into a crotchety guy like him. Forgive me, I know I'm preachin' to the choir, assuming you know George. Essentially it's this: George can be tough. He's not always the most sensitive guy, and there's a certain level of selfishness that characterizes him.

OK, in that highly-charged situation, things escalate. Finally she threatens to kill him. He goes suddenly quiet and throws up hands, answering indignantly, "Yeah, well they'll put you away just like that! I could call the cops right now and they'd put your ass in stir!" Stir!

How'd she take that? She laughed like a maniac. (I know her family, she’s never been 100% stable either.) She laughed, then spat out, “Stir will be nothing! Because I only have a month to live! I’ll send you off ahead of me, and I’ll see you when I get there!” If that idea resonates with you, you might be thinking of streets of gold and mansions or smoldering embers and smoking caverns. It might be like that, but it could also be like it is here, a mixture of the two, life being what you make it. Too bad her doctor couldn't solve her problems...

A month to live, then dead. If any one of us had to deal with that -- and we had a husband on the make, like George -- it'd be tough to handle. For me, I wouldn't want to harm anyone. Strictly live and let live. I want everyone to have a chance to live without interference, although I would defend myself from an aggressor as best I could. Going by the daily news, though, there's a lot of nutzoids who go totally ballistic. I'd like to sit some of these nutzoids down and make them look straight into my eyes and tell them, "Listen, buddy, you get a grip on your damned self or you're going to do something stupid, OK?" Tell them about Stir. Stir means prison. Stir means bad. But what if you had 30 days to live?

That's what Angelina meant by her spitting-mad retort, “Stir will be nothing!” If the doctors couldn’t get her intestines and heart and kidney situation untangled, the guys at the police station won’t be able to fix her so she’d have to suffer the slings and arrows of the system. She could sit there and taunt them, too. Even if they got sick of it and moved her to “The Hole,” time has already passed, what’s 20 days in “The Hole”? Bad I'm sure, but take Angelina's health into account; she might pass out and die early.

The way George handled it, just to tidy up, was to choose retreat in the face of homicidal Angelina with nothing to lose. Wisely, he wheedled and worked hard -- but tenderly -- to get back on her good side. “Oh, let me love you, baby, like we used to do. Let me handle the cooking, the cleaning, getting your soiled porta-panties out to the garbage. You relax and take it easy.” She calmed down as he brushed her hair. He watched her covered breasts heave from the previous excitement, then relax as she dozed off.

Then he threw some Aqua Velva into a duffle bag, some clothes, etc., and got the hell out of there. He came by, explained the situation to me, borrowed my pup tent, and he’ll check in with me in 30-45 days, just to make sure the coast is definitely clear.

What I might do, if she actually passes on, is post it here — maybe explicitly, maybe something between the lines — so George can come back safely, go through the grieving process, etc., then get on with his life as best as he can.

IF THE THREAT HAD BECOME REALITY

Newsletter -- The Peace of a Thief

Yesterday, I lifted up one of my staff members, Stan "Tipsy" White, as a great example of the glories of drunkenness, and got a lot of nice comments, so I thought today I'd highlight another member I sincerely admire, Dashing Danny Whfrf.

Danny's a traditionalist, and I like that, a traditional thief. He's not into new crime like computer hacking or carjackings, which of course have their place; he's into what has to be one of the oldest criminal activities of all, thievery, stealing. It's so old there's even a 10 Commandment about it! Fortunately Danny doesn't live in some backward country where they cut your hands off for stealing, because he'd be out of work then, needing as he does his hands for holding the gun and carrying stuff off.

Of course in these days where every field seems to have succumbed to modernism -- and I'd complain, "Modernism for modernism's sake!" -- it's rare to find traditional craftsmen, working not only with their hands but with their wits. When you work with your wits, you need wisdom, and that's what Danny uses to scope out a situation, see where the goods are, where the exits are, and what it's going to take to get him in and out in one piece. Part of one's wits also entail foreseeing the unforeseeable, if we can put it like that, having the foresight and intelligence to roll with the flow. Danny's not afraid to change his plans on the fly, such as his route of escape. He says he's dove out of more second story windows than he cares to remember!

Damn the luck, though! He's currently doing a little prison stretch that's sidelined him, but he's proven himself an honorable and worthy fellow in demonstrating "good behavior." Plus, he went beyond the call of duty when he ratted on a couple rat-finks in the clink, who were planning to knife a guy simply for not sharing a Playboy magazine his sister smuggled in to him. And that put Danny in good with a few higher-ups, who then put him on the fast track to eventual release by sending him to the local work release farm. From there he was let him out to help me as a staff member on my upcoming newsletter.

I've been happy with Danny's work ethic. He's very bright-eyed, looking at all the angles. Which is even more amazing given the late hours he keeps after a full day. I bet he's explored every part of our town. I sometimes wonder what discoveries he's making -- our town's a fascinating and hospitable place, and I believe he's found that to be true. But he's not one to show a lot of emotion; he's reluctant to get sentimental about civic pride because he might break down and cry. And once you've been in the pen, that's a big no no.

Yes, the thought's crossed my mind that he might be pulling a few jobs around town. He always goes armed, which he sees as a fundamental constitutional right, and it could be he sees things he likes that he honestly can't afford, since the state's only giving him 12 cents an hour. That's not much money for a full day's work! I've chipped in a few cents to make it 15 cents, but even that's only marginally better. You could literally blow through a whole day's pay on an unfrosted cupcake. Fortunate for him, we have little joint downtown that'll sell you a single cigarette or he'd be completely lost.

If he is pulling jobs, more power to him, right? If he's at peace with it, who am I to raise a ruckus and mess up his thinking? He tells me his mama never raised no fool, and I confess I'd say the same thing about my mama. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Danny's got it. And even if he didn't have it he'd know where to find it, which is reassuring.

Messing up his thinking would be the same as messing with his peace of mind. And that's something I'd never do. Danny's got what a lot of us haven't got, the native sense that God gives thieves, who believe, "The whole world belongs to me. What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine." There's such a beautiful innocence in that, like a baby reaching out and picking a piece of food off his daddy's plate. Daddy just sits there and laughs, "You're such a good boy!" The amazing thing, then, is to carry that attitude through your whole life; what's out there is like the air, it's your environment, your enchilada, and completely free for the taking. It don't get no easier than that!

Jor-el, Stun Gun Ablaze, Protects Billionaire

Tons of people have been milling around my half-acre. Proving billionaires also have groupies. Not so much for me, but the billionaire. Although when they learn the details of my own fortune -- $2.1 billion ain't chickenfeed -- I'll be in for it, too.

How well I remember how Elvis had these problems, so he had a big fence and gates around his place. And he, in all his awesomeness, was only a multimillionaire. I can see a huge expense in my future, not just for a fence, but dogs, a moat, flaming buckets of pitch, the works. Let every casualty be a warning to others!

So I was at home all day. I called the police to come clear the property. I could tell he was holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone. He came back on and said they were busy. I asked when would they be free? He said they're always busy. Lesson: Don't piss off the police, like I did when I said I could play them like a cheap fiddle.

I kept looking out because I was waiting for a friend, Garrett Al. The billionaire wanted a local assistant and asked if I knew anyone. I thought right away of Garrett Al, because we go way back. Not that we haven't had our moments. He was "all hands" and violent a few years ago, which freaked me out. But he got his head on straight, underwent a cosmic conversion, renamed himself, and has been a great guy.

I went to the door and motioned him to come in quickly, then I about shut the door on some other guy's hand. These people were out there with big handfuls of overdue bills, looking for help. Seeking an audience with the great ones. If someone doesn't talk me out of it, I will get a stun gun! Do not try me!

The billionaire took my word for Garrett Al, and was intrigued by the cosmic conversion stuff. We call him Garrett Al, of course; that's his name. My own playful name for him over the years has been Geritol, which sounds similar. Then, in 2010, Garrett Al was channeling Kryptonian energy (he's in a Superman reenactors club), and realized that "Garrett Al" sounds also like "Jor-el," Superman's father. He took on that persona and started having more of a mind for the stars, the energy of the heavens, and the movement of the planets. It was touch and go for a while, but we found if we could keep him away from Cape Canaveral he was OK.

I remember an amazing time when Jor-el took the robes of a prophet, and as a sign gargled for 30 minutes straight, a dramatic warning, one we could not ignore, of "rumblings of troubles" for the future. Later, he cooked a piece of toast to warn that our cause was "toast," followed by unzipping his pants under his prophetic robe to give this message, "We're screwed." So you can see, this is a serious guy, the perfect guy to have as your assistant.

We sat around the table -- Garrett Al, the billionaire, and me -- and were laughing about those days and Garrett Al's glory. I gave him some faux complaints, like, "Why didn't you just come right out and say there were 'rumblings of troubles'?" He laughed and joked, "Get me a glass of water and I'll tell you." Then he turned serious and said, "I had some weird interplay of the left and right brains. They were doing a dance and I was gripped by a force. I simply gave the message I got." I said, "Yeah, but prophets are supposed to have control over themselves." He pointed, "Touché, so true, but not newbies." The billionaire was lucky to get a guy with so much understanding.

The billionaire said, "For your first task, do you think you can clear the yard so we can get the hell out of here?" Instead of answering, Garrett Al went into a trance. We sat there for several moments that seemed like eons. Then I watched Geritol, a man transfixed by a force not of this world. And in a flash, Jor-el was to his feet and bolted for his car. Also in a flash, he brandished a stun gun, like a gunslinger from the old west. Hangers-on were falling everywhere, with others raising their hands, screaming and begging to be spared. Feverishly they motioned for him to let them remove the stunned victims, and, showing such extraordinary mercy, Garrett Al allowed it.

It might've been too much. I'm sure we'll face charges. But whatever, at least they won't be charges like Geritol pumped into that crowd! Whew! Finally, we were able to get out and go for dinner, the three of us sharing a lovely evening.

Get Your T-Day Turkey by Drone

After all these years of lagging behind -- check any key index -- my town has something to finally be proud of, something to put us on the map. I'm hoping this will spur greater tourism, as folks will come from near and far to see where it happened. Certainly it'll be a boost to our reputation, as we'll be able to claim the title, "Home of the First Drone-Delivered Turkey."

Those are the larger issues, but the main thing is how attractive this is for the local consumer, not having to go to the grocery store and stand in long lines, your temperature rising, the feeling, cramped in as you are, that you're going to explode and massacre everyone. We're looking forward to getting rid of that. Because it's Thanksgiving, folks! A sacred holiday, a day for family, friends, and food, not erupting in bloodshed at the local supermarket.

And finally there's something to celebrate in the field of technology. This is technology that actually enhances life and doesn't detract from it. I used the think the computer and all our other gadgets would be a blessing. Instead, crime against children is up, brutality against women is ever-present, banks are being robbed faster than they can build them, there's shoplifting, arson, and bullying. What's the one thing all those have in common? The perps more often than not have used a computer at some time in the last 15 years.

Plus, this is something I can actually get excited about. I'm like everyone else, as above: I hate the inconvenience of grocery stores. You find a parking space (good luck), you go in, the antibacterial towels for wiping the cart are usually out, then you're jam-packed with other people with the same basic goal in life, hunting and gathering food. You get to the checkout and there's always someone ahead of you. Usually with a squalling kid, nose running. It's almost enough to make you go berserk. Thank God most stores are now open-carry.

Anyway, technology to the rescue! Little drone planes promising the fullest measure of convenience for getting your turkey, greater than anyone could've imagined. That's the way I like it. No fuss, no muss. Just go out, get in line, wait your turn, etc. Then some time, be it an hour, or maybe a few hours, the mighty drone plane will come in with Turkey on Board for you! They'll take your souvenir picture, you load it in the car, and you're off.

Being new, though, with everyone wanting one, there will be a little competition to get your turkey. But don't worry, it'll be fun! When you get to the airport, stop by the main booth and get your bidding number. Then make your way to the runway. No crowding please, there's room for everyone. Pretty soon, the store will have loaded the drone and sent it flying, and it will come into view with a beautiful frozen turkey. Hands will go up fast, of course, because everyone wants one. But wait! With supply and demand, the only fair way is to auction it off. No one should complain. Why do you think you needed the bidding number if you weren't expecting to bid? The auctioneer will start every sale at 49 cents a pound, and depending on how many haven't yet got theirs, it might go for 89 cents a pound, or you could wait till the crowd thins out and get it at the minimum. It's all good. The store will keep sending them while buyers are still present.

Once you've got your turkey -- and checked out the drone, very cool -- the only thing left is to buzz by the store and get everything else you're going to need, dressing, beets, yams, pies, and don't forget you'll probably need a big aluminum pan.

That's what happening this year, exciting enough. But for the future, the sky's the limit! I'm looking forward to the day when someone makes the attempt, the first transatlantic delivery of a turkey by drone to France, with throngs of excited Thanksgiving revelers waiting on the scene.

Veterans Day -- Sarge Enjoys Free Meals

If you run a restaurant, and a veteran shows up for his free steak, but is unfortunately missing his manhood, and you're somehow able to realize this, either by sight or his higher voice, you might wonder, Could this be the guy? Let me tell you about him, because his discharge papers are perhaps not up to snuff. He's a guy Sarge had to deal with...

It just so happens that I have a friend in the neighborhood, called Sarge (Walter), who's now a handyman, but in prior years was a sergeant in Vietnam. He was just recently over at my place; I think it was last Wednesday -- could've been Thursday -- no, it was Wednesday. Several years ago he made me one of those boards that has a row of jars nailed to it in which you store screws and nails. Well, I'll be damned, but some moisture got in there and rusted the lids shut! So there I was, actually breaking one of the jars for a quick screw.

Sarge came over to make it right, since it was still under warranty. In talking, we got on the subject of free food for veterans on Veterans Day, and I know he's definitely all set. By now, at this writing, he's surely had free breakfast at one of the grocery stores. And in a little bit he'll have lunch at one of the diners, since they've also jumped on the bandwagon. Then tonight, my warrior friend will sit down for a much finer meal at the steak house. The steak house is a very patriotic bunch and they've really led the way in free meals, with the only downside being a long line. Some of our older vets have been known to pass out waiting; one year one cut his head, but insisted on his steak before getting treatment. That's the way they're trained: Mission first, personal safety last.

Anyway, Sarge was over, and I thought, "No, I'm not gonna get him reminiscing about Vietnam. Let old wounds die." But as luck would have it, we got to talking about the tables at the steak house, quite innocently, how they're always loaded down on Veterans Day, literally to the point that they'd collapse if they weren't so sturdy. This led to him telling me about another table, the desk he had in Vietnam, under which he had duct-taped a gun, pointed outward at whoever sat across from him. I can't imagine, but that's the way they did things! Because Sarge is wise.

Day and weeks passed, when, lo and behold, who comes in but this one totally crazed son of a bitch, a guy no one could figure out, just loony bins, total bananas, hopped up on who knows what, caffeine, stronger drugs, illegal drugs, killer drugs... He also had what could only be called a general spirit of cussedness. This guy had no reverence for authority, being whack, either half out of his son-of-a-bitch mind or completely. I can barely stand to hear it, let alone put myself in Sarge's shoes, when that crazy idiot came in there loaded for bear, and every authority figure he saw -- whether he knew it or not -- was bear.

The way Sarge tells it, he immediately recognized the guy for the total bad news he was, and tried his best in the precious few seconds he had to bring him to heel. But then there's that flash in your brain, that trigger that once triggered tells you you have about three seconds to live, unless... unless you're prepared to defend yourself. I looked in Sarge's eyes as he recalled the incident and I could see fire where the whites should've been. In that split second Sarge knew it was him or the other guy... And just as that bastard was coming up, as if to strangle the life out of him, in a split second, Sarge reached down and pulled the trigger, and essentially blew the guy away, from the crotch down. He still had legs, that's not what I'm saying, but ... he was subdued. They carried him out and that was it. Sarge was cleared, and now here he is, my hero. And handyman.

With Veterans Day looming, as he was leaving, I did as instinct compelled: I snapped my feet, made my posture erect, and gave him a more or less convincing salute. Gotta love 'em, veterans!

Get Your Degree in Violence

I've been watching the arc of history closely, keeping track of how things are going, and now with over 60 years of experience, it seems to me things are getting a lot worse in terms of societal violence, quite a bit worse. Either that, depending on how you look at it, or things are getting better, a lot better. Because of course there's lots of great opportunities for somebody no matter what happens.

I too can see some great opportunities. Gun sales, that's keeping a lot of folks employed. Then on a larger scale, we have defense contractors, who are always prosperous. There's plenty of opportunities to work in the military. And with guns here on the home front there's plenty of openings to teach folks how to shoot, gun safety, and, my favorite, how to ensure a kill shot at any shadow moving around your house at night. Be they burglar or, maybe not as desirable, family.

One huge opportunity (and maybe someone's already doing it) would be in the more advanced educational field, offering a college degree in Violence. That'd be a cool way to get the upper leg on things. Imagine the deeper philosophical background and how much practical value that would be for you, being able to develop new and better techniques of defense, plus offensive maneuvers. Obviously you're not going to get that at the gun range! And this isn't just the namby pamby stuff they teach at places like West Point, which, frankly, has more to do with the niceties of saluting and keeping your uniform clean than anything else.

In case you're thinking this is just general education classes with a few hours of Violence courses, let me assure you, it's not. There's no general education hours. English, math, even the history of warfare, you don't need that. Instead, it's one useful course after another:

Introduction to Barbarism;
Stockpiling the Perfect Arsenal;
Beheading -- The Cutting Edge;
Bombs -- From Backpacks to Mack Trucks;
Terrorism's Secret: The Buddy System;
Plus lots of smaller stuff:
Hold Ups;
Burglaries;
Truncheons, Bludgeons, and Pikes -- Your Personal Toolbox;
What Color's Your Chainsaw?
and, Pyro -- Not Just for the Fourth of July.

I'm excited already. I wouldn't mind signing up for some of this stuff myself. If anything, it'd boost my personal confidence. Yes, I've had troubles in my life. I remember this one time in the '70s a big drunk grabbed me on the sidewalk, thinking I was someone else. I was lucky to wriggle away and for the fact that he couldn't run. But with a little training I could've wasted him, then when he woke up he would've regretted--- No, he would've been dead.

It might, however, be dangerous for the professors. The students are going to want to really prove themselves. They're not going to just skate by. The practical implications, having a guy like me able to wriggle away, could be deadly. So when the professor calls for role playing, you honestly might end up dead. And the same goes for the professor. So the school will need the biggest, baddest, ex-con, cyborg, armed guys with hairpin triggers, the whole bit.

The implications are crazy. Because I don't think you could have students start the training, get disgruntled, and drop out. They'd be giving away all the techniques (and philosophy). And then how would students have a leg up? No, if you're a student and you can't cut it, you'd about have to be one of the victims during the demonstrations or practicum stuff. Say you're defending your thesis; you might need several victims.

Violence is increasing. It's getting dangerous even to go out and get the paper. That happened the other day, a drive-by shooting. I bent down to get the paper and a barrage of bullets took out the ass of my pajamas. Was a good thing I was reaching at an angle. But how much better it would've been had I been trained. I could've cleared the road with some mortars before going out, then got the paper and got the hell back in.

Big Shoot Out at the Police Academy

I have to say, I definitely love the policy of the Police Academy: IF YOU SURVIVE, YOU PASS. Speaking as one with a lot of anxiety in school, the assurance was comforting. It didn't matter about the quizzes, group discussion, participation, or the final exam. If there's a notebook to hand in, original research, or book reports, none of it counts, skip it.

I always wanted to go through the training. Yes, I heard it was a bastard of an ordeal, but the mere fact that there's policemen on the street told me it was more than theoretically possible to survive. And so I did ... the only one this year ...

The first day came, the opening of Police Academy! They told us the policy and I immediately knew what had to be done, which was basically to bide my time. Everything would work out in the end. It would just be a matter of playing it smart and accumulating what I needed. After all, if you survive, you pass!

Right away, I saw the others were doing it all wrong. These guys over here were diligently taking notes. A couple of female cadets were winking at the lecturers. Most of them were doing lots of research, putting it on 3 x 5 cards. I saw some impressive piles. They taught us about taking a good defensive stance, of having the right ammo for the particular gun we were handling, and how it might help to memorize the Miranda rights, just in case we failed somewhere along the line, etc. Failure? I wouldn't have it!

My favorite lecture was the one where they had a big body outline on paper. The lecturer pointed at the various appendages. The top two were arms, the bottom two legs. Those are not kill zones. Everything but that, see, constitutes what's left. And of that, everything from the waist down is non-trunk, leaving the remainder, except for the head, as trunk. The head is the head. With all that in mind, every shot goes for the trunk or head. Simple! There's no crotch kills.

Then there was the mantra, drilled into us: SHOOT TO KILL OR DON'T SHOOT AT ALL. There's nothing ambiguous about that, which is how I like it. Nice and tidy, easy to remember, easy to do. I've always been amazed how they don't do this on TV shows. I'm sitting there watching the cops shooting at random, poking the gun around the corner and shooting. And I'm shouting at the TV: "Wait for a good shot, then shoot!" It's not like you have all the ammo in the world; it's much better to end up with more than you need.

So we had that policy, and the other one, IF YOU SURVIVE, YOU PASS. To me that said there might be shooting. Someone would go crazy and start in. I immediately made up my mind that when that happened, I'd be ready! They wouldn't deny me my certificate! That's where I got busy, accumulating guns, other weaponry, building a formidable stockpile, charting out the auditorium, the side rooms, etc. I knew the access points, the whole layout. And I was ready.

The last day came and anxiety was building. Who was going to blow? And why? It turned out to be something simple, some idiot clown pissed off that all the homework he did, the notebooks, the stacks of cards, the original research, the kissing up to the lecturers, the homemade book covers from paper sacks, none of it mattered. He complained about the other guy who ignored everything and did nothing -- he was referring to me -- would get the same passing grade. So he erupts -- see? -- and pulls out a gun and is shooting wildly. That means everyone else, trying to defend themselves has to shoot to kill or not shoot at all.

The place was ablaze with fireworks, bullets flying, life and death. I see cadets falling everywhere. One of the lecturers, a smart guy, is behind a table, waiting it out. Just as I was waiting it out, but I had taken the excellent precaution of stationing myself behind a huge metal plate (meant for the sound system) up in the rafters, with my entire cache. I looked out and just missed getting hit by a shot hitting the top of the plate. Half the class was dead, the other half was checking their notes as to how to do it right.

Now it's down to the last eight to ten guys -- the survival of the fittest -- and they're piling up bodies and ducking behind them, anywhere they can get. The lecturer's ducked down, but I have a line of sight on him. He spots me and shoots, just missing. Here's where it gets good, because I've seen him behind the table so much, I can picture precisely where his head and trunk have to be. True to my scruples about getting it right the first time, I zero in for a head shot and watch him drop.

The bad part of this shot is it alerts the others to my position. But right away in the hubbub, having also anticipated this, I'm able to get decent trunk shots on four of them. That left five or so others. My position, however, being what it was, I could afford to wait. I mentally raced through all the possible diversions I've seen in old shows, telling myself I couldn't be fooled. If someone threw something across the room, I ignored it. If someone called for a ceasefire, I knew better. But as for them, no one could move without me seeing.

Just then I looked down and this one asshole's crawling under chairs, exposing himself a second at a time in the gaps. Three rows and I had it timed, a nice head shot. Another guy was desperate and ran for a door in the chaos, but this is where the gun in my left hand came in handy, right in the back, heart-side. That left only a few survivors, whose cries for compromise I simply ignored. In the Academy it's kill or be killed, kill first and ask questions later, if there's anyone to answer.

Now they're calling to one another, trying to gang up on me, making a pact. At which point I'd just about had enough. I lobbed a grenade, not meant to kill but only to flush them out. Which worked. They're scampering along, tripping over bodies, slipping on blood, out of their minds with fear, the whole bit, and I picked them off just like that, bam bam bam bam.

OK, at this point, if I had less intelligence I might've come out. But I have that extra something, that extra mental oomph, what I like to call Moxy Power, moxy on the ball. So I waited and waited and waited, listening for some sign, just in case there was someone nearly as smart as me still hiding. I spent my time meditating, "Aaaaauuuuuuummmmm," just mentally working on that and other helpful mantras, keeping me on my toes, part of my Life Divine studies. When what do I hear? A very tiny hushed sneeze, someone sneezing into the thickest part of his shirt.

It was my meditation that gave me the extra Moxy Power to locate the sound, on the left side of the hall, 3rd row back, 4th seat from the end, on the floor. Here's where I was tricky. I heaved a grenade to the opposite side of the room. Which worked. The guy thought I was off my game and he could take me by surprise. So up he pops, gun in hand, with a quick aim. But not quick enough, with my 30 ought 6 rifle already trained where he had to be. I sent a slug immaculately through his head, right between the eyes.

So I survived! Yea! And I passed. I stepped over bodies getting to the front and found a bloodied sheaf of certificates by the dead lecturer, rifled through them, so to speak, and found mine. Now it's just a matter of passing the strength and agility training and I'll have a job with the local police department! Wish me luck!

Savior with a Gun

In every world I've heard of there are Saviors. The key thing with conscious creatures is we quickly sink into semi-consciousness or worse, not knowing our true selves and place in the cosmos. Everything bad (speaking existentially) stems from that Original Sin, the Big Bad O. So Saviors pop up as needed.

This particular Savior, on one of the worlds, like all Saviors, is full of great wisdom. The big difference is he teaches wisdom at gunpoint. It's like this: He's born, he grows up, he buys a gun, he reveals himself, and he gathers disciples, later to be charged with taking his message to others. But they also lack wisdom, so there's a period of teaching, preparation for the future.

The first day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, telling his disciples to go find the bullet, what's left of it. Off they go for a job that could take hours and never pay off. The Savior's purpose in this, without saying another word, is to draw out their willingness. How will they handle the bigger job later without sharing his will?

The second day, as before, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. Off they go! As said before, it's tough to find a shot bullet, or slug. Of course they know the general direction, but once you get out there, it's virtually impossible to find. His purpose is to teach patience, something most of us definitely need.

The third day, the fourth day, and the fifth day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. And each day they're off with this unenviable task, since it's really just more of the same. Monotonous, thankless, and probably disgusting. But he has an overall purpose. Those days he's teaching attention to detail, teamwork, and diligence. I can see how attention to detail would come in handy looking for an expended bullet. It'd be mixed in with dirt, rocks, and who knows what. But if you used teamwork, maybe a few of us would look over here and some over there. And diligence. You can't give up easily. Shrug off tiredness, let's find it!

The sixth and seventh days are much the same. The Savior raises his gun and shoots it, just as before, and directs them forth to find the bullet. Naturally, as you might readily guess, he's teaching them thoughtfulness and self-reflection. Thoughtfulness is one of the ways we absorb wisdom, and you'd need it after six days of looking for bullets. Self-reflection centers in on who we are and what we can become, things definitely needed for the task ahead. The task ahead will be even harder than looking for slugs.

The disciples, though, thinking it over, have heard of Saviors who do it other ways. Whereas theirs doesn't vary in the slightest. Shooting his gun and having them hop-to to find the bullet. They bring the matter to him, spelling it out, really complaining, "You shoot the gun and we look for the bullet, day after day after day..."

Inscrutably, in response, the Savior remains silent, picks up his gun and shoots it, this time twice, directing them forth to find the bullets. In silence he teaches them two things, obviously great wisdom: 1) Get used to it; and, 2) Be my guest ... When you're the Savior do it your own way.

-------------------------------
Coming up: Stories from the "Savior with a Gun Bible," and leading a class or seminar through our "Savior with a Gun" curriculum. For preparation, you will need our material and a gun. Please note, we advise a country setting with lots of land to which you have access. For those staying in town, you will need to make do with a rubber band or PCP pipe marshmallow gun. In an inner city environment, of course you have other options.

Bait Wagon

NOTE: If you're a fan of the TruTV show "Bait Car," you'll like this. If you don't know the show, it features metro police luring people into stealing cars. The objective is to prevent car theft. It makes a certain amount of sense, if you cross your eyes and think about it really hard. You know they're going to steal it, the police are rooting for success, and finally ... "There they go! Shut it down!" ... They shut the car off by remote control and arrest the perps.

There's been a rash of wagon thefts recently in my town. It used to be you could take your kid to the park, take them to the restroom, and come back out to your wagon still there. Those days seem long gone, with the many crimes leading to parents being extremely mad, and kids upset they took so long in the bathroom.

It's been crazy. Everyone knows a kid who's lost a wagon, and everyone knows a parent who's mad at life-in-general and everyone in it. Gun sales are way up, as well as heavy artillery, mortars, bombs, and jet fighters. The biggest course at adult education is on assembling IEDs. Folks have even shown up at the police department threatening officers with death if they didn't put a stop to the thefts. And, as it turns out, they meant business.

That's where I come in. I've been working with the police, part-time, training officers in public relations, using some of the principles of group dynamics as well as other people skills. One day, I was just wrapping up a session on "You Need to Go Along to Get Along" -- on knowing when the passive side of passive-aggressiveness is indicated -- right when a parental militia burst in and took out two of our best men. When the excitement died down, I concluded, "This time aggression was indicated, but don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

Another principle we're working on is "Digging Down to the Root of Any Dilemma." "Why treat the symptoms if the cancer's still there?" I asked rhetorically. "These senseless police killings won't stop till we address the real problem, the theft of these dam-- darned wagons." That's when I came up with the Bait Wagon program, modeled on the TV show. We would trick out normal wagons, pimp 'em up real "bad", so "bad" no self-respecting wagon thief could resist. Then put them in parks ... and wait.

But on our way with the very first wagon, we found ourselves fighting an entirely different parental militia, these ones coming in from the air. One officer -- Sgt. Smith -- said, "I've heard of helicopter parents, but this is ridiculous!" Those were his last words, as a mortar sped through the car window and impaled him. I helped the others drag the Bait Wagon to safety just as the car blew into a million pieces.

Fortunately, the park was near. With a wary eye, we quickly set up the Bait Wagon, leaving the handle right in plain sight, then hid in the bushes. It didn't take long till we had lots of browsers, lots of interest, little kids, parents, and a few juvies -- kids with tattoos. By now we were silently praying, moving our lips, "Somebody, please, take it for a spin!" At last a couple of good-time "bruthas" milled around it a bit too much, dicking with the handle and looking around. I checked the laminated profile guide Sgt. Smith bequeathed to Lt. Rutger and found them ... looking pretty close to these actual guys!

Almost immediately, true to form, the "bruthas" attached the handle to the mainframe and took off running down the hill, predictably picking up speed as they went. Likewise, we sped out from the bush. But our timing was unfortunate, as a parental militia just then came into sight on our rear flank and took position. We took incoming, with their first lucky shot taking off Rutger's leg, and the second the rest of him. I wasn't completely spared; shrapnel nicked the leather on one of my shoes, but it was on the back where it's not as noticeable.

But first things first! The "bruthas" were getting away with the Bait Wagon! I gave the order to the others: "Pull out!" (I actually didn't have any authority, but this is an old group dynamics trick I teach at my seminars: Anyone who "takes charge" is at least temporarily respected till folks have time to think it over. Most assume you know what you're doing.)

Now, each Bait Wagon is equipped with a remote-controlled brake to lock both back wheels tight. I ran back to Lt. Rutger and snatched the controls from his holster. Then we approached the befuddled "bruthas" -- now on the sidewalk, almost to the grocery store, struggling to make the wagon go. I gave the order and we rushed in from three directions, which would've been four had we avoided that last casualty.

Anyway, it turned out these were the guys behind all the recent wagon thefts. We think. We never actually found all the wagons, and they didn't have time to confess. But, you know, the laminated profile sheet and all ... it stands to reason. "Bruthas." It's a human tragedy.

But the real tragedy in this whole stinking affair was our failure to get this news out to the parents in time. All of a sudden, three jets came over the horizon in formation, strafing the whole scene for miles around, killing not only the remaining officers, but the "bruthas," and quite a number of innocent bystanders, including a white guy unrelated to this case running by with a different hot wagon. As for me, I barely managed to survive, not being hit but halfway scared out of my everlovin' wits.

Having nothing more to do -- my job was done -- I continued on to the grocery store, filled the wagon with a few essentials and went home. Saved a little gas -- did my best to save the planet -- and got in some exercise.

Bitten by a Dog

Note: This post is based on a partial quote of Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, found in the book, Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, (Evans-Wentz), page 79. It is: "On the way I was bitten by a dog..."

I had to make a trip to Edwinton the other day. No one would give me a ride. There wasn't a taxi to be had, and, of course, thanks to modern transportation, these days the bus no longer goes to Edwinton.

The point of the trip was to file a restraining order against an evil neighbor, whose vicious dog keeps me awake nights with his horrible howling. And occasional barking.

Like I said, I couldn't catch a ride. When everything was denied me, I thought, Just my luck! And driving was out of the question ... for reasons I should keep to myself. All right, I swore in church that I'd go on a month-long car fast.

So I had to walk, which carried with it unforeseen perils. Little did I know my neighbor (this is my suspicion) had various Black Magic powers, because of _________. (Tibetan magicians he knew.)

At the north edge of town -- on my way -- a vicious black dog -- a big son of a bitch -- came out of the weeds and bit the snot out of my arm. But at the first full taste of blood, thankfully, something spooked him and he ran. This would've been a great time to kill and gut myself a dog, but, alas, no knife.

I kept going, Edwinton being a distant 30 miles. I neared a farm and turned in to use their pump; my taste-buds were dying of thirst. All was good till the first gush of water, when a vicious farm dog came rushing around the barn, attaching himself on to the backside of my pants, tearing a hole in them and removing enough flesh to make me scream in terror. I splashed a handful of water in his eyes and he ran away.

About halfway to Edwinton, I knew I looked like a mess. I was cutting across fields, streams, and through muddy bogs. I sat in the mud and allowed it to dry and cake, to obscure my rear nakedness. What I hadn't anticipated was a hunter being spooked and his dog lurching at me, biting me on the leg and clamping on. I threw my hands up for mercy and he called it off.

The last dog bite was just outside Edwinton. It was just this simple: The sentry at the gates tensed up at the sight of me. And dogs, being keen when their masters are fearful, his dog leaped on me like a lion on prey. He got my other arm and his fangs grazed my throat. The sentry, to his credit, shot the dog, saving me, while inadvertently peppering me with stray buckshot.

Once in Edwinton, I got the restraining order. They said they'd serve my neighbor the papers. And then, to avoid a repeat of my journey there, I begged a taxi guy to drive me home.  His taxi worked great, easily able to outrun a pack of dogs chasing us all the way.