Napoleon Solo
New member
I recently took a thrilling 12,000-mile motorcycle trip around the United States on my Harley-Davidson Road King. This is not that story...
The story begins while I prepared for that trip.
I am in the garage of my San Francisco house. I reach overhead to pull my gym-bag from the top shelf to get the long-johns inside. As I pull the gym bag, a knapsack resting on the bag slides off the shelf and hits me on the head. I instinctively stretch to catch the knapsack but only tip it. As the knapsack rolls off my fingertips, a furry animal bails out in mid-flight, tumbles thudding to the concrete floor and waddles beyond the furnace.
It happens so fast, I can't ID the hairy stow-away. The shambling trot reminds me of a porcupine. But it doesn't look like a porcupine or raccoon. I jump the critter behind a table, which scurries to the corner under the staircase's lowest step. It's a possum! He's diggin in and I can't get to him.
What the hell is some prehistoric Hillbilly kangaroo-rat doing in my San Francisco city basement? Where did he come from? And what was he doing in my knapsack?
With no experience at this thing, my roommate calls SF City Animal Control and says, "take him away, Goldie!" Yeah, right. Animal control says, "your problem, bro. Open the back door and he'll leave tonight." My roomate swears to do so.
The next day I leave for my spectacular 6-week motorcycle tour to San Diego, New York City, Virginia, Sturgis, the Rockies -- uh, ehem. Sorry, that's another story...
No sooner do I get back from Seattle the roommate says, "we got a rat problem."
Great! First a possum, now rats. The rats eat my leather motorcycle gloves. They eat the sweat-brow liner out of my $350 motorcycle helmet, ruining it. THEY EAT MY CAN OF SADDLE SOAP!"
We set traps. The sticky glue kind. They've always worked before. The next day, the bait is gone. The traps are totally gone. We look everywhere. They are gone. GONE. Now I am getting suspicious about the "rats." Could that damn possum still be here after two full months?
Time passes. I am upstairs listening to the radio and hear a "bump" downstairs. The rats knocked something over! I race downstairs and sure enough, just below the top shelf I can see a rat's tail hanging down. But it's a BIG rat, baby! I take a broom and prod a box on the top shelf. The tail disappears, but a big old grey possum scrambles up onto my suitcase on the top shelf.
It's the same damn possum! He never left. He's been living in my basement for over two months. What is this guy living on, besides leather and saddle soap?
Now I am pissed. No more mister nice guy. No, "lets trap it and bring it outside." I'm going to kill the sucker.
I prod the boxes to keep Mr. Possum wanting to stay put. I race upstairs, grab the scoped CZ rifle and a box of American Eagles. .22, High Velocity donchanknow.
I bolt downstairs and ram the broom into a couple of boxes to scare the retreating possum, who saunters back to his safe perch atop my suitcase. I load two rounds of .22 LR in the mag and ram her home. Work the bolt, aim and...
It suddenly dawns on me, like those big light bulbs that flash over cartoon characters -- I am living in the middle of a big city. I can't just fire a gun in my garage at 10:30 on a weeknight in the middle of a freaking densely-populated liberal PETA city! Even a .22 makes a decent "bang." The sound will be heard across the street. Our houses are built right up against each other so I know the neighbors will be able to hear this.
I am even more pissed and the possum keeps trying to get down.
With divine inspiration I set down the .22 rifle, race upstairs, turn on the big screen TV, whip open the DVD player and slap in "Saving Private Ryan," fast forward to the beach scene, crank the volume to VERY LOUD and run downstairs, broom the boxes to scare the possum, heft the rifle, place the crosshairs on his left shoulder, and I wait. To the thundering cadence of German artillery and 80mm mortars exploding, to the staccato chatter of MG42s raking the shore, I gently squeeze the trigger. BANG!
Yes, even .22s are pretty loud in a small basement. But I know that to the neighbors, it is just another shell from the USS Texas landing on a shore battery in Vierville.
And presto -- no more possum! .22 LR -- One shot, one kill! Let the caliber wars begin. The possum has been vaporized! (Or hidden somewhere because he is gone and I can't find him nowhere no how.)
Grinning, I think of all of the city laws I have just broken:
Possessing a loaded firearm within city limits,
Discharging a weapon within city limits,
Hunting without a license,
Hunting after sun down,
Hunting possum out of season,
Maybe even failure to call a city animal psychologist to find out if the poor critter is just afraid of coming out and getting in touch with is feminine side or his alternative sexuality.
I smile at the thought and rest easy knowing the possum won't be dining on my $800 Corbin motorcycle seat tonight. Now to just find the SOB before he starts stinking up the Place! Unless...
Unless I missed him. God, tell me I didn't miss him!!! How could I possibly miss him with a scoped rifle at 20-feet (not yards) and where the hell did he go?
__________________
The story begins while I prepared for that trip.
I am in the garage of my San Francisco house. I reach overhead to pull my gym-bag from the top shelf to get the long-johns inside. As I pull the gym bag, a knapsack resting on the bag slides off the shelf and hits me on the head. I instinctively stretch to catch the knapsack but only tip it. As the knapsack rolls off my fingertips, a furry animal bails out in mid-flight, tumbles thudding to the concrete floor and waddles beyond the furnace.
It happens so fast, I can't ID the hairy stow-away. The shambling trot reminds me of a porcupine. But it doesn't look like a porcupine or raccoon. I jump the critter behind a table, which scurries to the corner under the staircase's lowest step. It's a possum! He's diggin in and I can't get to him.
What the hell is some prehistoric Hillbilly kangaroo-rat doing in my San Francisco city basement? Where did he come from? And what was he doing in my knapsack?
With no experience at this thing, my roommate calls SF City Animal Control and says, "take him away, Goldie!" Yeah, right. Animal control says, "your problem, bro. Open the back door and he'll leave tonight." My roomate swears to do so.
The next day I leave for my spectacular 6-week motorcycle tour to San Diego, New York City, Virginia, Sturgis, the Rockies -- uh, ehem. Sorry, that's another story...
No sooner do I get back from Seattle the roommate says, "we got a rat problem."
Great! First a possum, now rats. The rats eat my leather motorcycle gloves. They eat the sweat-brow liner out of my $350 motorcycle helmet, ruining it. THEY EAT MY CAN OF SADDLE SOAP!"
We set traps. The sticky glue kind. They've always worked before. The next day, the bait is gone. The traps are totally gone. We look everywhere. They are gone. GONE. Now I am getting suspicious about the "rats." Could that damn possum still be here after two full months?
Time passes. I am upstairs listening to the radio and hear a "bump" downstairs. The rats knocked something over! I race downstairs and sure enough, just below the top shelf I can see a rat's tail hanging down. But it's a BIG rat, baby! I take a broom and prod a box on the top shelf. The tail disappears, but a big old grey possum scrambles up onto my suitcase on the top shelf.
It's the same damn possum! He never left. He's been living in my basement for over two months. What is this guy living on, besides leather and saddle soap?
Now I am pissed. No more mister nice guy. No, "lets trap it and bring it outside." I'm going to kill the sucker.
I prod the boxes to keep Mr. Possum wanting to stay put. I race upstairs, grab the scoped CZ rifle and a box of American Eagles. .22, High Velocity donchanknow.
I bolt downstairs and ram the broom into a couple of boxes to scare the retreating possum, who saunters back to his safe perch atop my suitcase. I load two rounds of .22 LR in the mag and ram her home. Work the bolt, aim and...
It suddenly dawns on me, like those big light bulbs that flash over cartoon characters -- I am living in the middle of a big city. I can't just fire a gun in my garage at 10:30 on a weeknight in the middle of a freaking densely-populated liberal PETA city! Even a .22 makes a decent "bang." The sound will be heard across the street. Our houses are built right up against each other so I know the neighbors will be able to hear this.
I am even more pissed and the possum keeps trying to get down.
With divine inspiration I set down the .22 rifle, race upstairs, turn on the big screen TV, whip open the DVD player and slap in "Saving Private Ryan," fast forward to the beach scene, crank the volume to VERY LOUD and run downstairs, broom the boxes to scare the possum, heft the rifle, place the crosshairs on his left shoulder, and I wait. To the thundering cadence of German artillery and 80mm mortars exploding, to the staccato chatter of MG42s raking the shore, I gently squeeze the trigger. BANG!
Yes, even .22s are pretty loud in a small basement. But I know that to the neighbors, it is just another shell from the USS Texas landing on a shore battery in Vierville.
And presto -- no more possum! .22 LR -- One shot, one kill! Let the caliber wars begin. The possum has been vaporized! (Or hidden somewhere because he is gone and I can't find him nowhere no how.)
Grinning, I think of all of the city laws I have just broken:
Possessing a loaded firearm within city limits,
Discharging a weapon within city limits,
Hunting without a license,
Hunting after sun down,
Hunting possum out of season,
Maybe even failure to call a city animal psychologist to find out if the poor critter is just afraid of coming out and getting in touch with is feminine side or his alternative sexuality.
I smile at the thought and rest easy knowing the possum won't be dining on my $800 Corbin motorcycle seat tonight. Now to just find the SOB before he starts stinking up the Place! Unless...
Unless I missed him. God, tell me I didn't miss him!!! How could I possibly miss him with a scoped rifle at 20-feet (not yards) and where the hell did he go?
__________________
