Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Stuff In The Truck

When I arrived home this evening I backed my truck into the drive and removed all the clutter from its interior. Tomorrow morning my mechanic will drop by the shop and drive it away for a few minor repairs. In preparation for his arrival I had much to remove.

So, out came three hand guns, two rifles, several full ammo cans of .45, .40, 9 mm ammunition, a case of frag grenades, two rocket launchers and six anti-personnel mines. Six or seven different brands and types of knives, my get-home bag and more hats than I could count.

I then searched under the back seat and grabbed my tool bag and two bottle jacks. I left the bottled water, the jerked boars head and its now yellowed tusk. I locked my flashlight in the console along with my winter gloves. The spare tent and rain gear went into the garage too. Thieves love tents and rain jackets. I then remembered the ax and my Hi-Lift jack. I like and trust my mechanic, but why place temptation before him.

While digging among the debris I found an old bag of Little Bit's candy...trash can. I'll keep the three 1911 magazines I pinched from Duke's range bag....he'll never miss them.

My truck should ride six inches higher tomorrow morning, and for sure, I'll feel naked as I drive to the shop.

Okay, I lied. I only have four grenades, and one rocket launcher. Sheesh, some people just can't take a joke.


Bits & Pieces

I was dead to the world. Sleep is good, especially since it took me forever to reach rim. Far back, way down in my subconscious, I hear, "Honey, please. Do you have a flashlight?"

My dream responds, "Sure. I always sleep with a flashlight." She yells back, "Please Honey, wake up."


Seems Sweet Wife washed her hair this morning. In our master bathroom we have this built-in vanity and mirror where she sits to dry her hair. She also uses an small electric heater (what is it with women and heat) but fails to turn the sucker off when she uses the hairdryer. The circuit fails.

Lovely Sweet Wife runs to the garage and tries, in the darkness, to flip the breaker back to hot. She mistakenly hits the main. Total blackout.

I'm at work an hour early.


This morning I shot an armadillo. I hate 'em with a passion. They undermine my deck and generally make a mess of my backyard. When I noticed the booger it was using its front legs to gather and pull hickory leaves for its nest. It would gather the leaves then use reverse to pull the bundle under my deck.

I eased outside with an old Rossi .22 pump and gave it two rounds. The rifle was loaded with CB caps. It flopped and flipped for a few moments but in the end...


Like I said, hate 'em.


Yesterday a fella walks into the shop. He hands me a nice Ruger LC9 and says, "It won't work. Its a piece of sh*t. You want it?"

Me, "What's the problem?"

"The trigger won't work."

I insert the magazine. Slap back the slide and pull the trigger. Snap.

Him, all red faced, "Oh. What did 'ya do?"

"Just inserted the magazine."

I reached to give back his handgun. He refused to take it. Then, "You want it? I don't like it, and besides the governments gonna take 'em all back."

Debate wasn't necessary. The Lord offered me a kiss and I wasn't about to say no.

I made a ridiculous offer and he, without hesitation, accepted.

Later, as is my habit, I went online and ordered two spare magazines. The cost of the magazines far exceeded the price of the handgun.

I smiled all afternoon.


I normally take my first cup of coffee outside the shop. I like to soak in the cool fresh air and listen to crows cuss, and I like to watch the children as they march towards school. They're a lively lot, five little boogers.

This morning, "Hey, Mr. Stephen." I wave.

There are three girls and two boys, most African-American. As they draw near one little girl separates from the pack. She stops before me and points and, "You gots a bad cup. I's gonna be tells my teacher 'cause you's gots 'dat bad cup."

Blink, blink. She was right, of course, my coffee cup has several images of Glock handguns.

I suppose I'd slapped a questioning expression on my face because another little boy explains..."Mr. Stephen dat dare cups be has guns on it. Guns be bad. Teacher tells us da' be's bad 'tings."

As they moved away I yelled, "Teacher's wrong. Guns are good."

They ran.

I so miss the days when a student was able to drive to school with the back window rack filled with rifle and shotguns.