• "Spreading the ideas of freedom loving people on matters regarding high finance, politics, constructionist Constitution, and mental masturbation of all types"

Why I love it here

newmisty

Splodey-Headed
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 31, 2010
Messages
29,104
Likes
43,760
Location
Qmerica
#81
Exactly. I have often thought, regarding some snakes and spiders, that there is no understandable reason for them to have as much venom as they do. What possible use could they have for enough venom to kill ten creatures way bigger than they can swallow?
It's the same reason we have serial killers rapists murderers and thieves. Our complex Universe has extreme duality at this period of it's evolution.
 

newmisty

Splodey-Headed
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 31, 2010
Messages
29,104
Likes
43,760
Location
Qmerica
#83
People need to accept how big these can really get. Just count the bands.




 

GOLDZILLA

Harvurd Koleej Jeenyus
Midas Member
Joined
Apr 1, 2010
Messages
8,343
Likes
8,593
#84
You dont want me to show you my snake.
 

newmisty

Splodey-Headed
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 31, 2010
Messages
29,104
Likes
43,760
Location
Qmerica
#85

Silver

Platinum Bling
Midas Supporter
Platinum Bling
Joined
Mar 31, 2010
Messages
6,193
Likes
10,043
#87
We've got a few snakes in West Texas...

roundup2.jpg
roundup3.jpg
 

Son of Gloin

Certainty of death? What are we waiting for?
Midas Member
Midas Supporter ++
GIM Hall Of Fame
Joined
Apr 6, 2010
Messages
7,320
Likes
16,217
Location
USA
#88
Crazy!
 

DodgebyDave

Metal Messiah
Midas Member
Joined
Mar 30, 2010
Messages
12,252
Likes
14,392
#91
 

DodgebyDave

Metal Messiah
Midas Member
Joined
Mar 30, 2010
Messages
12,252
Likes
14,392
#92
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
#93
Rattlesnake Roundup.
Yowza. I was at a Rattlesnake Roundup in Abilene with my wife, and we could hear the buzzing emitting from that partitioned area all the way from the top of the arena stairs. As we were standing there, a guy came by and smacked Herself in the ass with a bagful of buzzers. :p:Happy:

For a coupla seconds, NOBODY could hear the buzzers in the arena.
:blew up:
 

Son of Gloin

Certainty of death? What are we waiting for?
Midas Member
Midas Supporter ++
GIM Hall Of Fame
Joined
Apr 6, 2010
Messages
7,320
Likes
16,217
Location
USA
#94
Yowza. I was at a Rattlesnake Roundup in Abilene with my wife, and we could hear the buzzing emitting from that partitioned area all the way from the top of the arena stairs. As we were standing there, a guy came by and smacked Herself in the ass with a bagful of buzzers. :p:Happy:

For a coupla seconds, NOBODY could hear the buzzers in the arena.
:blew up:
I take it, “Herself” let some vocal attitude fly in the general direction of the dude with the bag? If she did, he deserved it.
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
#95
I've seen TWO that were considerably larger. One was alive, and one was a skin over a hunting lodge wall that I thought was a really big gator. It was fourteen feet long. Then I saw the rattles... Oh, shit!

The live one was in a wire-cloth cage outside the hunting lodge (this was right by Yeehaw Junction). The guys there said he was bigger than the one over the fireplace.




Now that I thinks onnit... I seem to remember a couple of articles I wrote about that. I'm gonna try to find at least one of them.
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
#96
I take it, “Herself” let some vocal attitude fly in the general direction of the dude with the bag? If she did, he deserved it.
Nah. By the time her heart was re-swallowed, and she regained compos mentis, she saw the humor in it. Just as well, because there were 500 people laughing. :Happy:
 

DodgebyDave

Metal Messiah
Midas Member
Joined
Mar 30, 2010
Messages
12,252
Likes
14,392
#97
LDG would have shot everyone. Sneaks.......she does not like old sneaky snake.

I frighten her as well........
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
#98
This is one of the stories I wrote... it is entitled: "Snake" An Unforgettable Man

The peculiar lifestyle of Your Humble Obedient &tc. lends itself to meeting some really neat folks. Well, I just spent two days in the company of a bunch of avatars. That’s fancy writer-talk for semi-civilized weirdos. Of which, by association, I’m one.

My bosom companion Charlie (an evil-visaged villain with a face you could use to split kindling) and I went wild boar hunting up by Yeehaw Junction. The story of the actual boar hunt will have to wait for another time.

This is a story about a character from the locale of Yeehaw Junction.

The town’s name alone is a sort of people-filter. Nobody who can be considered mainstream yuppie-normal would ever live in a place called Yeehaw Junction, now would they? Think of how odd it would be for a strait-laced accountant, university scientist, or three-piece-suited lawyer to have a business card touting Yeehaw Junction as his area of operation.

So the whole area around Y.J. is several decades back into historic Old Florida. And where Charlie and I went was even further, since we had to use Yeehaw Junction as just the starting place to get to where we were going. Following directions, we drove down a deserted road a few miles, and at the quiet hour of 7 a.m., we turned off at a dirt crossroads, to bump along through a succession of Olympian puddles and ruts. Huge, vine-covered live oak trees crowding and overhanging the sinuously curving track were heavily bearded with Spanish moss.

It wasn’t spooky, it was calm and beautiful. Curious squirrels watched my car jouncing by in the calm morning silence. The road-path wound on for a couple of more miles. I began to wonder just what we would do if the car broke an axle or something. Since we had twisted and turned so much under the overcast (when you could see it through the live oaks) sky, I could not guess North from South. I figured North.

“I think we’re going East,” Charlie offered up with telepathic aptness.

“I think we’re going into the Twilight Zone,” I whispered back, “we’re so far back in the boonies that the creatures around here are several stages back in evolution.”

“Yeah, it’s bad enough wondering how lost we are without having to worry about lizards learning to fly.”

You can see that Charlie and I think alike in many ways.

And then, up ahead, we saw water. And a shack. It was a sort of general store, situated where the track we were driving on sort of widened and petered out all at the same time.

Nobody was around.

“Is this the place?”

“It’s gotta be, there’s nothing else around here.”

Charlie and I were talking in whispers for some reason. Maybe we didn’t want to awaken the trolls. The entrance to the general store was around to the side, past the concrete bait tanks.

We went in.

There are museums that wish they could achieve the effect that the folks who ran that store had accomplished. There was a single sign on the glass-windowed peeling-paint door:

“Unattended Children Will Be Ground Up For Chum”

Says a lot in just a few words, doesn’t it?

And there were stuffed alligators, moose, elk, and deer heads everywhere. Not just on the walls, but filling the crowded, crooked aisles of the store. Cans of food rested on antlers.

Over in a corner, some bearded ruffians sipped coffee by a flickering Isinglass stove. They sat staring at us.

“Uhh, ahh...” I began intelligently, “is this the place we’re supposed to be to go boar hunting on Brahma Island?”

The grizzled group looked at us a few moments more. Then the biggest one of them smiled.

“Shore is.” His voice rumbled like a passing freight car. “Welcome. Ready to git started? Good.”

He turned his ebony face with its salt-and-pepper beard toward the window. “Jist follow us to the end of the lot, and we’ll load your car on the ferry.”

The “end of the lot” was a twenty-minute drive through more Jurassic territory. And the “ferry” was a barge just big enough to be powered by an outboard motor.

I made double sure the emergency brake was on when they pushed off from shore out into a large lake.

Halfway across, the outboard motor quit. But after a few minutes of the big guy cleaning out the fuel filter, we were inching along again.

Brahma Island is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in Florida. It has an area of about six thousand acres.

That’s big enough for bald eagles, snow-white axis deer, buffalo, goats, wild sheep, a bear or two, and a bunch of wild boar to inhabit. It is also big enough to drive another mile or so until we reached the bunkhouse.

The bunkhouse showed me what a lack of imagination I possessed. From the outside, it was ramshackle, decrepit, greenmold-roofed and weathered, nestled under the ubiquitous live oaks. It was beautiful.

The inside made the aforementioned general store look like something plastic from K-Mart. A huge living room with a stone fireplace was dominated by boar’s heads and whole stuffed boars, posed in every position ever achieved by these animals.

What I at first thought was a large skinned alligator turned out to be the skin of an anaconda.

No! Wait! It was a rattlesnake... Couldn’t be. It was twelve or thirteen feet long. Rattlesnakes don’t get that big. I looked at the salt-and-pepper guy.

“Where did that come from?”

“Oh, I jist picked him up one day.” Matter-of-factly, with a nod out the dusty window. “Over by that tree yonder.”

And so I met Snake. I can’t honestly tell you how tall he was. He was so much larger than life that I see him in my mind’s eye as being about six-three, and maybe he was. He was muscular, with a cat-footed litheness that made him totally silent even while walking about on the creaky floors inside the bunkhouse.

Over the next day and a half, I came to notice the framed photos hung all over the walls inside the bunkhouse. The majority of them showed Snake standing in the brilliant sunlight, his dark skin draped in mighty rattlesnakes. A typical pose would show him standing tall, holding the head of a rattler up as high as he could reach. The body of the creature would loop down over his arm, then back up around his neck, to stretch down, and then lie along the ground next to him. Several were eerily mounted by some demented taxidermist, and placed in various poses around the room in the bunkhouse.

Snake caught them without tools of any kind.

I do crazy things. But Snake has me beat at every turn. Later in the day, we were in an open truck, jouncing along across an open field in crazy pursuit of a wild boar. Snake could determine even at high speed that the boar was not of trophy caliber. Therefore, he had to find a way to call the dog off. (The dog would flush the boar, and chase it for a while. When the boar turned to destroy the dog, it was up to the hunters to pile out of the truck, run up between the dog and the boar, and drop it.

Tricky, doggone dangerous, and exciting.) But this boar was to be spared. Unfortunately, passing this intelligence to the lunatic dog was difficult.

We were passing by the running boar-dog combination at a minimum of thirty miles an hour. I turned to ask Snake what we were going to do -- just in time to see him leap from the truck.

He hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud, rolled three times, and was up and running without losing momentum. A fantastic exhibition of courage, insanity, and coordination.

Since the truck was now past the boar, the driver slammed on the brakes. When I picked myself up from the pile of bodies in the truck, Snake had just reached the boar.

With no hesitation, he threw himself onto the beast. The next few seconds resembled those cartoon fight pictures you see where there is nothing visible but a sort of circle of fists, legs, and dust.

When the picture cleared, there was Snake -- one foot on the boar’s head, and both hands holding up its hind leg. Freeing one hand, Snake reached for the huge coiled whip at his side.

I got to see a genuine Florida Cracker at work. Two gunshot-loud cracks into the air with his whip, and the hysterical dog was calmed down enough to be ordered back into the truck.

Snake released the boar, which ran off into the brush. He jogged back over to the truck, climbed on and rumbled, “OK, let’s go git us a BIG one!”

He wasn’t even breathing hard.

It was at that point that I decided to pass up the opportunity of impressing him by telling him any war stories about how hard it is to catch lobsters by hand.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
#99
HAH! Found the other one:

Rootin’ With The Hawgs

© Walt C. Snedeker

The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.

“Ah, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive."

“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.

Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.

We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.

Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.

Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.

“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.

I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.

“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”

The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.

We climbed on.

Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.

The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.

A great lurch, and we were off.

It is now time to step aside, so to speak, and explain the concept of wild boar hunting on Brahma Island.

The first thing you should know is that wild boars have no natural enemies. That means that they are not necessarily afraid of you. Keep that in mind.

There are two options: You can ride around, looking far ahead through the brush and trees to spot the critturs. Or, when the vegetation gets really heavy, you can stop the truck, and let the dog run around sniffing through the palmettos. Either scenario generally has the same result -- the dog winds up chasing the boar (which can run amazingly fast) until the boar gets really annoyed, and turns at bay. This is a critical time, for the dog is really stupid. Or brave to the point of recklessness.

The dog will continue to bark, and charge at the boar, distracting it from the approach of the truck. The hunter piles off of the truck, and gets over near enough to the boar for a clear shot before it finally decides to make muttburgers out of its pestering canine tormentor. This is tricky, because the boar may just decide to suddenly ignore the dog and make peopleburgers out of the guy with the rifle.

We had decided by rock-paper-scissors that it was my “up” this day. That meant that Charlie would be my backup, whose job it would be to drop the boar if it began to eat me if I missed my shot.

We rode around uneventfully for a while, and then Snake decided to let the dog check out an isolated patch of palmetto. We all got out of the truck to watch Ole Blue go to work.

Bingo!

A basso profundo grunt came from the palmetto clump just as Ole Blue poked his nose in. With frenetically insane barks, O.B. flushed the monster from its hidey-hole.

Unfortunately, the inconsiderate beast ran directly out of the far side of the clump, and headed at high speed for the deepest jungle on the island with the maniac dog at his heels. Snake, Charlie, and Your Humble Obedient followed around the palmetto clump.

Normally, the only part of me that runs is my nose (or my stockings, when I’m in drag), but this was an emergency. As Snake shouted over his shoulder, “If he gets into that jungle, he may kill the dog before we can get anywhere near him!”

The jungle that Snake was referring to looked like something out of the original King Kong movie. We watched the mismatched pair disappear into it. Snake was nearly out of sight by the time I wheezed up to the edge of the incredibly dense palmetto. It was so thick, I could not see my own feet, and I could just make out parts of Snake, who was standing about ten feet ahead of me.

The dog kept up its frenzied barking.

I could hear a sudden, loud crash-rustle of palmetto fronds, and suddenly the dog gave a high-pitched squeal and went silent.

Snake cussed. We pushed into the palmettos as fast as we could. I couldn’t see a thing, and was now just following the sound made by the big guy ahead of me. I began to think about those huge rattlesnakes that were in all the photos around the bunkhouse. They lived in this very stuff. Eek. Eek.

The dog started barking again. Relief.

Snake was suddenly there. He grabbed my shoulder and whispered fiercely:

“He’s right up ahead, if you duck down low, you can see him. Go in an git him! Quick! Before he kills Ole Blue!”

There was nothing for it. I believe in the philosophy that no man can be sure of his courage until the day of his death, but I was too much caught up in the hunt to be rational and seriously consider the insanity of just what I was about to do. Besides, the secret to the greatest enjoyment of life is to live dangerously.

The Fabled PC puts it differently. She says that when I am between two evils, I like to try out the one I’ve never done before. And I am not afraid of dying – I just do not want to be there when it happens.

So I offered up a prayer that all those sooper giant rattlesnakes would take a short vacation, and got down on my stomach to begin crawling toward the racket. Charlie helped my state of mind enormously by offering the whispered observation:

“Geez, Walt, I can’t see any part of you at all past your waist.” His foot was touching mine as he spoke. “I can’t give you any backup.”

Oh. Fine.

The din was deafening. When the boar gruntsquealed, the palmettos shook. The crazy dog was barking itself into psychosis. I was shaking like an aspen leaf, and without even aspen their leaf to do it.

Then I saw it.

Well, I saw the ear. The ear was huge. It was about 7 or 8 feet away. Lessee now... the dog’s mayhem was coming from a little to my right... that means the boar was facing it. If I could see an ear, that meant the rest of the boar was... over there.

I brought the rifle up. It rattled a palmetto frond.

And everything changed.

The boar turned on me at full speed. The time it took to travel about 1½ body lengths was about a fifth of a second. My finger squeezed the trigger convulsively.

The boar contacted the end of the rifle barrel just as the rifle went off. I felt a short, bright pain by the bridge of my nose and eye. It was the boar’s razor tusk.

Then Snake was there, and the nutty dog was ripping at the dead boar’s ear in a righteous indignation.

I was bleeding like (you should pardon the expression) a stuck pig. Charlie handed me his handkerchief. He looked at the tableau.

“Wow! That’s as close as you can get! Great shot!”

Little did he know that I never shot intentionally, all I did was sort of spasm at the right split-second. Snake handed me a bottle of ardent spirits from the truck.

I took a shaky much-needed pull, then another. All I could think of to say was, “The reason why I like to drink: when I’m thirsty, to cure it; when I’m not... to prevent it.”

I think next time Charlie and I go out, we’re going to try rhinoceros wrestling -- or maybe bobbing for cobras... you know, something a little tamer.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

Unca Walt

Midas Member
Midas Member
Site Supporter ++
Joined
Mar 15, 2011
Messages
11,026
Likes
17,798
Location
South Floriduh
One more Hawg Story (since I ran across it while lookin' for the others). This one was written in "Southrin" on the specific request of my editor -- so please forgive the dialect/patois:






The Hawgfight At High Noon
© Walt C. Snedeker


And now... for the hawg hunt story that very nearly din' git writ...

This one wuz dang close!

Ole Hatchet-Puss Charlie an' Your Humble Obdn't &tc were up in the Low Country of South Carolina. Low Country is real-estate talk fer swamp. Right near the ocean. Even the creeks have tides, and they are fresh water. TINS.

We were on an ole railroad bed from the Civil War era. There were no tracks or nuthin', but it was a straight-as-a-string berm wide enough for a dirt road that went right through the swamp.

Charlie dropped me off (I had a folding chair and my honkin' huge black powder rifle -- it is .58 cal and shoots 555 grain bullets). Note that a 30.06 shoots 120 grain bullets, folks.

This is a BIG gun. Hawg gun.

So I sits there on my foldin' chair inna 100 degree sunshine (the onliest way to find shade would be to lift yer foot an look under it). Been there about 30 minutes, when I saw a deer about 200 feet away, munching on the grass in the middle of the railroad dirt road thingy. It was NOT deer season.

Bored, I figgered I'd go a-sneakin' to see how close I could get. Now, the funny part is, there ain't no cover on toppa an ole railroad track, as you might imagine. And as far as you could see, there was a big ditch on either side of the berm, full of black, icky water. Can't you just picture the pore bastids a hunnerd and fifty years ago in the blazin' sun, diggin' that by hand? YIKES.

Waal, Pilgrims... Ah got about 75 feet away, and I noticed that on the far side of the deer, there were two big oinks!!

So I keeps on a-sneakin', trying to get a shot (damn' deer wuz inna way). Finally, the deer noticed this haggard-lookin' sweaty old fart a-sneakin', takes a good look...

...and bolts away, right over the top of the oinks. Oh dear. The oinks run offa the berm and into the thick swamp. So I sits right down there amongst the chiggers and waits.

For a half-hour. That is all my patience is good for to do anything. I creaks up to a standin' and creakin' position, and turns around to go back to my chair.

AW JEEZ!!

Right there by my chair is a big, BIG oink! He had circled around me inna jungle, and came up right where I had been sittin' and sweatin'! He goes all stiff, lookin' at me... and I kin see he is about to do a Jesse Owens.

So I brings up my cannon, and cuts loose with a wing shot. Damn' thing knocked me on my ass as usual, but I see Porky go down, squealin'. YAY!

Then he gits up a-runnin'. BOO!

I throw down my gun (black powder, d'ysee, no good fer two shots) and start runnin' after the hawg. It had tumbled down offa the berm, run through the black water, and was climbing (somewhat awkwardly) the slope on the other side.

So, with the knife that The Fabled PC had given me fer Christmas in my hand, I went chargin' after him through the icky. I could see that I'd hit him inna head, but the bullet had bounced off (he had turned to look at me as I fired), traveled under his hide, and broke his front leg. I reached out and grabbed his hind leg.

BAD MOVE!!!!!!!

REALLY bad move. I am serial, here.

That damn' hawg spun totally around in a tenth of a second and charged. He hit me inna chest (remember: I wuz down a steep slope from him). Down goes Unca Waltie, sliding into the stank until my head went under the black water. Drank some. Peeyoo! That sucks, so I heaved my head up, and there was the oink... standing on my chest, one inch from my face, and greatly annoyed!

With my left hand, I grabbed his ear, with my right, I made a slash with my skinnin' knife. Made a six-inch gash across his forehead, and he didn't even bleed. Dang. Tried again, and made him bleed from a five inch cut to his jowl. About this time, he nailed me inna left forearm with his tusk. Twice. Owdang, Ow!!

I could see he wuz gonna do fer me, so I stabbed with the knife right into the bullethole in his head. He squealed and took off... with my knife. I wuz a dead man if'n I lost that sucker, so... I spun my legs around and down, and got up outa the yukky black goo. My expensive varilux glasses were somewhere in the water... screw it -- after Porky!!

(An aside here: Yeah, I know... stoopit. And crazy.)

Chargin' up the slope after the piggy who had my knife, I caught up with him in some thick brambles (ow oo dang ow oo). He turned and charged. I only have one good leg (my left knee is completely homemade and sets off airport alarms). But I stood on the bad leg and timed my kick with t’other one. Got him right onna knife. We both went down, with my left leg under his neck, my left arm around his head (that's when he nearly took my left hand ring finger off with his razor tusk), and my right leg over his back.

I grabbed my knife outa the skull, and began whackin' everything that looked like Porky. After several minutes, to quote that guy from "Romancing The Stone", he "just died in my arms".

I lay there pantin', well, actually wheezin'... I wuz completely outa pants. I was totally covered in guts and blood -- both mine and Porky's. I had two large holes in my forearm, and my ring finger was sliced half off. Porky, meanwhile had donated at least a fair half-gallon of gore onto me. TINS.

Charlie, who'd heard the ruckus from 200 yards away comes runnin' up... he takes one look and says:

"Jesus, Walt!! You look like something from "Apocalypse Now" -- Don't get in my truck!!!"

Ya gotta appreciate a guy like that.

On the good side, he found my glasses.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

DodgebyDave

Metal Messiah
Midas Member
Joined
Mar 30, 2010
Messages
12,252
Likes
14,392
redhead.jpg