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  • On Killing Things...

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        Friday, April 04, 2008

    On Killing Things...

    We humans do it all the time. Even a carrot screams when yanked from the ground. Men tend to kill the most, but children are pretty good at it, too. Half of your time parenting is spent trying to keep them from killing one another. I remember my 3rd grade teacher reading the 'Little House' books to us, and how the girls would go out and catch the grouse and quail still sleeping, and stiff from the cold, and peg stones at them until they died. And then, to the pot, with good biscuits, and gravy made from flour, and their fat and organs.

    When a chick sets out to kill you, well, I've faced men who scared me less. You look into her eyes, and you know the only reason you're not dead yet, is because she hasn't been able to kill you. Yet. I once had my ex (when we were still in 'love') back me from the front door to the very back wall of the house, throwing roundhouse kicks, snap-kicks, and all sorts of punches and chops at me.

    I finally reached over her guard, and rabbit punched her in the jaw as gently as I could. Her eyes went white and clicked up into her head, and she dropped to the floor like a wet sack of guts. Shit, I thought I'd killed her.

    I tried to rouse her, but that was a no-go. So I finally levered her up into the bed and she commenced to snoring. I fell in beside her, and crapped out, too. There may, just maybe, have been some whiskey involved. She's got just enough injun blood in her to make her insane when she gets drunk. I hear she was in AA for years, but is back on the sauce. And has bought herself a pistol and a shotgun.
    The wife and I have an agreement that if the ex shows up unannounced, one (or both) of us will just keep shooting her until she stops moving. She'd do the same for us.

    A man will try to dominate another man in a fight (not me) and will quite often show Chivalraic mercy (again, not me) to his opponent. A woman will just flat kill your ass if she can, and fuck you up bad if she can't kill you. And then report you for attempted rape.

    I had a lot of badass girlfriends in Oklahoma. They hit like a man, and were like Terminators with tits. The first night I went out to this Okie bar, I watched this chick bartender come over the bar and kick this other broad off of her barstool, and then beat her up one side of the bar and down the other. Her victim ended up hiding under a pool table to get away, so she grabbed a pool cue by the small end and beat on that poor bitch like Hank Aaron going for the center field fence.

    Then the beatee's husband or boyfriend or whatever finally came up and tried to stop her, and she turned like lightning and threw an elbow into the side of his head, and he wobbled off to sit down. I knew right then, that I had to fuck this chick. And I did.

    She always stole from my wallet while I was asleep, but never more than a ten or a twenty, so I humored her. She fucked like she fought, wildly, and to the death. Heck, I'da paid more than that on purpose.

    And man, you get a chick started on shooting and hunting, and they have more enthusiasm than a teenage boy discovering he can make stuff shoot out his dick. Damn, I can't bring enough ammo along to satisfy the wife. She would shoot for a week, and stop only when she passed out from exhaustion.

    Men, now, we get creative. We make up games that involve us killing things, and have rules, and place bets. I utterly depopulated a rock fall where a colony of some kind of furry rodent or other had taken up residence. It was like playing whack-a-mole. I'd kill one or two, and they'd disappear. Then, unable to resist, they'd pop back up. Finally, there were no more to pop up.

    My family had this friend when I was a teen (well, I fucked his wife, but he never knew) who owned a huge expanse, well, several expanses of almond orchards. If you've ever opened and ate a can of almonds, it is likely you have eaten his almonds.

    Anyway, he bought a 'varmint rifle' in a relatively new caliber...the .17 Bee. It was essentially a tiny little bullet on the tip of a .300 magnum cartridge. Damn thing looked like a felt-tip pen. The rifle was single shot, and he had modified a big camera tripod to lock it into, and he kept it in his upstairs office of the drying shed.

    Damn thing had a scope on it big enough and powerful enough you could have seen a pimple on a Martians ass. And he had a nice soft cushioned bar stool behind it, and a pair of German Zeiss binoculars seized from a German U-Boat in WW2 on a table beside him.

    And he hated gophers. With a Purple Passion. And that .17 bee would leave nothing but their bushy little tails. He'd often shoot into a newly forming gopher mound, and through the binoculars, as I watched, from hundreds and hundreds of yards away, it looked like he'd set of a grenade in their hole. Even I couldn't see his targets with my naked eyes.

    His Mexicans would hear the crack, and one of them would come running up, and he would show them via the scope and the binos where he'd made his shot, and the beaner would race off down the line of trees to fetch the tail, and then come back and tack it up on a wall of the warehouse he had reserved for tail display.

    Last time I was there, a wall at least 60 feet wide and forty feet high, was nearly covered in gopher tails.

    Some people like animal heads displayed in their home, or place of business. I think that's kinda creepy. But it made me happy every time I walked by that wall of tails.

    Have I told you the tale of how I bayoneted the gopher in my back yard while in the military, in military housing? And of how I leaped out the back door onto the newly forming mound, and skewered the little fucker, and brought my bloody bayonet up and roared a roar of victory, and then noticed the backyard of the terrace above me was filled with people, having a barbecue, and looking at me like, well, 'if he comes any closer, we should run, honey'?

    I hate gophers.


    Oh, and when I bayoneted the gopher, I was only wearing tan, issue underwear. What you would call, were they white, 'tighty whities'.
    I have no recollection as to whether I had a hardon or not.