Gut Rumbles

August 18, 2004

being shot at

I've never been in combat, but I've been shot at a couple of times in my life. The first time was when I snuck off in the dark to court a farmer's daughter and disturbed two got-dam dogs who tried to out-bark each other while I ran when the porch light came on.

That man fired a few shots at me as I got tangled up in his electric fence around the cow pasture. I had bird-shot raining down through the trees around me and sparks flying from my nutsack as I tried to escape that fence. I didn't go back there again. That man put the fear of God into me, and I didn't like that fence, either.

The second time was on River Street. I had been out with Recondo and Georgia and we drank beer all afternoon. We decided to go down to the river to close out our evening. I needed to pee when we got there, so I stopped behind a parked SUV and drained my lizard while Georgia went on to a bar and Recondo stood by waiting for me.

I finished peeing, zipped my fly and saw sparks flying off the cobblestone walls next to me. "GODDAM! Somebody's shooting at us!" Recondo exclaimed as he ducked for cover. I stood there like a fool, with my dick barely out of my hand, until I felt a round go whistling right past my ear. I ducked, too, after that.

That's when I saw the crazy sumbitch charging up the ramp at me and clicking the trigger on a now-empty, piece of shit pistol. It looked like something I might buy at a Woolworth's store when I was a kid. No wonder he couldn't hit me. He was out of ammo and I was pissed by then. "What's your fucking problem, man?" I yelled. "You fucking SHOT at me." If I had been carrying that night, I would have killed him, that dickhead. (Georgia doen't like it when I tote a pistol, so I usually don't when I'm around her.)

"I...I...I thought you were breaking into my car," he said.

"I was TAKING A LEAK, asshole!" I replied. "I wasn't breaking into your fucking car." He tried to apologize and give me $20. I threw the bill down on the street. "You keep waving that piece of shit in your hand around here, and somebody's gonna stick a REAL pistol up your crazy ass and pull the trigger." I said. "You're well on your way to being a dead man because you can't shoot for shit. Put that thing away before you get yourself hurt."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm from Atlanta and we have a lot of crime there..."

"Yeah. I can imagine. You get your guns out of Crackerjack boxes and wonder why criminals run wild. YOU are a fucking idiot."

I walked away and went on a bar-tour after that. I didn't even think about how close I came to being killed by a fucking idiot until the next day. That guy WAS shooting at me, and he meant to HIT me. I don't think he could drill a #3 washtub from five feet away with that piece of shit gun he seemed so proud of, but it takes only one lucky shot to ruin somebody's day.

That farmer fired birdshot over my head. He wasn't trying to hit me. (He COULD have if he wanted to) He probably laughed his ass off when he saw me tangle with that electric fence in the dark.

But that guy on River Street is the kind of idiot that gives all gun owners a bad reputation.


I've been shot at. Hit, too -- but only with BBs and rock salt.

Ever steal watermelons? Nothing in the world tastes better than a watermelon, fresh from the field and broken over the fender of a '53 Buick by moonlight at one in the morning. Especially if you have a little gin to make a proper slushee out of it.

But farmers don't care for that. Oh, where I lived nobody really gave a damn about one watermelon more or less -- wholesale it meant ten cents (a buck or so now) so it wasn't a big deal. People sneaking into the field to get 'em, now that was a big deal. So watermelon growers all had an old shotgun, barrel too shot-out to make a decent pattern, with rock salt in the shells.

Crawling down the rows with the moon shining above, keeping low, tapping melons to choose precisely the proper one at its peak of ripeness, otherwise maintaining proper silence -- no wonder so many of us did well at sneak&peek LRRP missions (not me, but lots of my friends; I was a REMF). Then -- AW SHIT! The light goes on, the screen door creaks and hits the wall outside, comes the unmistakable Remington K'CHIK'A. Time to bug out, but you ain't got a hair on your ass if you don't get a melon. That'un will do, it thunks nicely even if it ain't perfect. Grab, twist, and off for the fencerow on knees and one elbow, melon cradled carefully in the other.

Sometimes we made it. Sometimes we didn't. BOOM! Rock salt stings like a M*F*R even through Sears&Roebuck blue jeans. Sound of genial laughter from the house, as we scramble over the bobwire and fade into the woods. Oh, and K'CHIK'A. There's more where that came from...

But damn those melons were good. Can't get 'em like that any more.

(who is four years older than Acidman)

Posted by: Ric Locke on August 18, 2004 10:53 PM

*snork* I"m sorry. I'm still laughing at the thought of you and the electric fence.

Keep away from those farmers daughters now, doncha?

Posted by: Mamamontezz on August 19, 2004 01:23 AM
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