Thursday, September 11, 2003
POST 911
Winged Demon - Blowtorch of Mass Destruction - Metamorphosis - Resurrection.
Doc. Rummy takes a big swill a corn fire and sets down his pint and draws his blowtorch, lights it up and begins a waving it round the bunkhouse like a fourth-a-July sparkler. There was also a fella they called "Perley Boy" there too and he opened up a cupboard and commenced to launching cans a beans at the winged demon that was by now diving at the cascade of electrical sparks and Doc. Rummy's propane deployment. Then it happened. One of Perley Boys bean can missles went awry and knocked the propane torch clean out of Doc. Rummy's grasp. The darn torch went a skitterin' and a clankin' across the floor knockin over Doc. Rummy's pint of shine on the way and come to rest right next to Paulie Jug-Ears tinder box full of tip-fiddle rearrangements and trail-maps to the promised land. The whole mix of volatile stratergeries and homespun went up like a refinery, ignitin' the blankets and beds and the checkered curtains and the Hubris Bat which was now trailin fly-paper and swirling around the room like a burning campfire ember caught up in a dust devil. I heard that Colin Powers fella at this point tellin Ms Condi on the phone that sure as shootin' gunslingers in Dodge there is batshit all over this place down here and he'd collected a few samples for prospectin' sake, and then he just slammed down the phone and he grabbed up his batshit soiled saddle bag and his batshit splattered hat and walked out the door and sat down on a old upside down bucket to stew in his own batshit for a spell.
Ms Condi was a high tailin' it down through the yard toward the bunkhouse imbroglio at this point, flappin' her arms and making quite a noisy racket as she came all the while shouting about how no one could ever have imagined that a tipsy rogue Hubris Bat in a Circle W bunkhouse could result in such calamities and any such misunderestimations of such calamitous possibilities would be due to some sort of misunderstanding of the importance of snake oil and moonshine on the part of naysayers and those who seek to undermine the rebuilding of burnt-up bunkhouses in general. Yup it was quite a stir but that ain't the end of it. Nope, not by a longhorn.
The rest a them boys came stampedin' out of that bunkouse like a nest a wasps smoked outta a rotten hole in a old hickory. First one scampered out was the boss hisself and the others followed right behind. Paulie Jug-Ears comes out a shriekin' and a wailin' and a waving Uncle Karl's smoldering socks over his head like Uncle Karl had just been scalped by a buggy fulla' Kansas Yankees and that Tom Delay feller come a skitterin' out on all six legs and scurried off to the fringes to cool out under a big damp sack of corn pone. Ever one of 'em made a break for it, one after the other, even Barney, who'd locked on to Uncle Dicks knickers and was dragged snarlin' and thrashin' to salvation while Uncle Dick whupped on him with his fish-pole. Ever one of 'em boys 'cept Uncle Karl. They'd forgot to snatch the rest of Uncle Karl from the fray and it looked to be too late to save him or mount any kind of he-roic rescue on account of the rapidly ripening holocaust.
Well, as you might imagine it was all pretty much bedlam what with all the smoke and heat and yellin' and Perely Boy all flustered over the bean can misfire incident and G.W. swattin and cussin' and accusin Barney of all sorts a disloyalties and subversions and species warfare and other disobiedient qualities and behaviors while Uncle Dick took to lookin' real pale and clutchin' at his chest like a Southern Baptist Conventioneer at a can can dance and the twins was a rollin around drunk in the underbrush with some of them PMC fellers from the DynaCorp crop duster crew and Doc. Rummy was a babbling away about unknowns and unforseens and known unforseen unknowables and spilled swamp root and other such convoluted ditherings and what have yous and what have you nots when suddenly there was a big crackle and a moan and another big crackle and the roof of that batshit blinkered Silver Spoon Circle W-SS Ranch bunkhouse started to give way altogether.
Everyone just hushed up and became quiet at that point and turned to watch as the roof gave way to the rapidly advancin' pyrolysis. And sure nuff....as that roof commenced to cave and the flames shot up into the darkness that darned bat came a flyin' out of the smoke and the simmer and the pother screechin' sumpin' awful-like a crazy woman at hangin', wings flappin and trailin a burnin' flypaper streamer and writing a trail of sulfurous black doom in the big Texas night sky like a bottle rocket dispatched from the abyss. Yup, that critter went a whirlin' up up up into the sooty firmament and blazed off into the darkness like a dying lone star comet. And just as everyone was watchin' the dying comet from the abyss careen off into the west the roof caved in and the walls of the Circle W bunkhouse folded and sparks and smoke and exploding cans of beans went splatterin' up after it. And low and behold when the final can of cluster beans had delivered its scalding sticky payload and the flames collapsed onto themselves and the ash and sparks and sizzle began to recede there was Uncle Karl just a standing right there in the center of it all, lookin' a sickly translucent yellowish color like a great big boot blister about to pop! Yup, a scorched phoenix amid the glowing coals and spent aluminum bean cans, leering back at the whole gawking rubberneck Silver Spoon outfit like a bone picker eye-ballin a pretty girls party dress. And a set of oily jet black wings fanned out from between his shoulders and two piked protrusions poked from either side of his forehead and Saint Elmo's fire danced around the cornuted bone like atomic halos circling two little moons and Uncle Karl stood there gurgling bile like Old Nick hisself. A half-broiled Belial arch-angel hellborn of an archetype and resurrected from the relics of some terrible charred attic, returned to lead his batshit battered colony into the promised land.
Doc. Rummy takes a big swill a corn fire and sets down his pint and draws his blowtorch, lights it up and begins a waving it round the bunkhouse like a fourth-a-July sparkler. There was also a fella they called "Perley Boy" there too and he opened up a cupboard and commenced to launching cans a beans at the winged demon that was by now diving at the cascade of electrical sparks and Doc. Rummy's propane deployment. Then it happened. One of Perley Boys bean can missles went awry and knocked the propane torch clean out of Doc. Rummy's grasp. The darn torch went a skitterin' and a clankin' across the floor knockin over Doc. Rummy's pint of shine on the way and come to rest right next to Paulie Jug-Ears tinder box full of tip-fiddle rearrangements and trail-maps to the promised land. The whole mix of volatile stratergeries and homespun went up like a refinery, ignitin' the blankets and beds and the checkered curtains and the Hubris Bat which was now trailin fly-paper and swirling around the room like a burning campfire ember caught up in a dust devil. I heard that Colin Powers fella at this point tellin Ms Condi on the phone that sure as shootin' gunslingers in Dodge there is batshit all over this place down here and he'd collected a few samples for prospectin' sake, and then he just slammed down the phone and he grabbed up his batshit soiled saddle bag and his batshit splattered hat and walked out the door and sat down on a old upside down bucket to stew in his own batshit for a spell.
Ms Condi was a high tailin' it down through the yard toward the bunkhouse imbroglio at this point, flappin' her arms and making quite a noisy racket as she came all the while shouting about how no one could ever have imagined that a tipsy rogue Hubris Bat in a Circle W bunkhouse could result in such calamities and any such misunderestimations of such calamitous possibilities would be due to some sort of misunderstanding of the importance of snake oil and moonshine on the part of naysayers and those who seek to undermine the rebuilding of burnt-up bunkhouses in general. Yup it was quite a stir but that ain't the end of it. Nope, not by a longhorn.
The rest a them boys came stampedin' out of that bunkouse like a nest a wasps smoked outta a rotten hole in a old hickory. First one scampered out was the boss hisself and the others followed right behind. Paulie Jug-Ears comes out a shriekin' and a wailin' and a waving Uncle Karl's smoldering socks over his head like Uncle Karl had just been scalped by a buggy fulla' Kansas Yankees and that Tom Delay feller come a skitterin' out on all six legs and scurried off to the fringes to cool out under a big damp sack of corn pone. Ever one of 'em made a break for it, one after the other, even Barney, who'd locked on to Uncle Dicks knickers and was dragged snarlin' and thrashin' to salvation while Uncle Dick whupped on him with his fish-pole. Ever one of 'em boys 'cept Uncle Karl. They'd forgot to snatch the rest of Uncle Karl from the fray and it looked to be too late to save him or mount any kind of he-roic rescue on account of the rapidly ripening holocaust.
Well, as you might imagine it was all pretty much bedlam what with all the smoke and heat and yellin' and Perely Boy all flustered over the bean can misfire incident and G.W. swattin and cussin' and accusin Barney of all sorts a disloyalties and subversions and species warfare and other disobiedient qualities and behaviors while Uncle Dick took to lookin' real pale and clutchin' at his chest like a Southern Baptist Conventioneer at a can can dance and the twins was a rollin around drunk in the underbrush with some of them PMC fellers from the DynaCorp crop duster crew and Doc. Rummy was a babbling away about unknowns and unforseens and known unforseen unknowables and spilled swamp root and other such convoluted ditherings and what have yous and what have you nots when suddenly there was a big crackle and a moan and another big crackle and the roof of that batshit blinkered Silver Spoon Circle W-SS Ranch bunkhouse started to give way altogether.
Everyone just hushed up and became quiet at that point and turned to watch as the roof gave way to the rapidly advancin' pyrolysis. And sure nuff....as that roof commenced to cave and the flames shot up into the darkness that darned bat came a flyin' out of the smoke and the simmer and the pother screechin' sumpin' awful-like a crazy woman at hangin', wings flappin and trailin a burnin' flypaper streamer and writing a trail of sulfurous black doom in the big Texas night sky like a bottle rocket dispatched from the abyss. Yup, that critter went a whirlin' up up up into the sooty firmament and blazed off into the darkness like a dying lone star comet. And just as everyone was watchin' the dying comet from the abyss careen off into the west the roof caved in and the walls of the Circle W bunkhouse folded and sparks and smoke and exploding cans of beans went splatterin' up after it. And low and behold when the final can of cluster beans had delivered its scalding sticky payload and the flames collapsed onto themselves and the ash and sparks and sizzle began to recede there was Uncle Karl just a standing right there in the center of it all, lookin' a sickly translucent yellowish color like a great big boot blister about to pop! Yup, a scorched phoenix amid the glowing coals and spent aluminum bean cans, leering back at the whole gawking rubberneck Silver Spoon outfit like a bone picker eye-ballin a pretty girls party dress. And a set of oily jet black wings fanned out from between his shoulders and two piked protrusions poked from either side of his forehead and Saint Elmo's fire danced around the cornuted bone like atomic halos circling two little moons and Uncle Karl stood there gurgling bile like Old Nick hisself. A half-broiled Belial arch-angel hellborn of an archetype and resurrected from the relics of some terrible charred attic, returned to lead his batshit battered colony into the promised land.
