Being summer--the time for camping, beach parties, and other outdoor activities where a campfire in the evening--campfire stories are a great source of entertainment. So I'd like to open a thread for people to contribute entertaining stories to tell around our campfires. It can be scary, morally uplifiting, humorous, or just plain disturbing :scrutiny: . The only requirement is that it has to have some reference to THR, its members, or a well-known thread discussed here.
OK, you closet Hemmingways & Shakespeares, time to come out into the firelight... :D
(...and, hanging from the rear window, was a hook---with carbon-fiber grips! :what: )
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July 11, 2003, 11:25 AM
"....and the door slowly creaked open..."
(someone makes creaking noises...
"AND CHARLES SCHUMER, DIANE FINESTEIN, AND HILLARY CLINTON WERE STANDING THERE!"
If any of us could compete with LawDog, we would have by now... ;)
July 11, 2003, 01:04 PM
NONE of us are THAT good (...and his stuff is REAL!:what: )
But us peons can give it a college try...:p
July 11, 2003, 03:11 PM
Once upon a time, a Big Nasty Crazed Killer Mutant Zombie decided to attack a THR gathering.
He was shot, stabbed, and beaten repeatedly.
July 11, 2003, 03:14 PM
July 11, 2003, 03:26 PM
not quite! we took pictures of ourselves around the zombies corpse, and used it in a handful of pranks played on mall ninjas. you shoulda seen how scared they were at finding a dead body in the restroom! and when it was gone when they came back, boy did they look like they gone crazy!
then we buried the corpse in feiswiens backyard and gave an anonymous tip about a crazy lady burying something suspicious. :D
July 11, 2003, 03:32 PM
"...with Janet Reno. NAKED!" :barf: :uhoh: That's sure scare me awake that night.
July 11, 2003, 04:17 PM
Once upon a time, on the way back from Knob Creek, two THR folks stopped at a rest area. While sitting in the car, they maintained a good situational awareness and noticed a man who appeared to be carrying something metallic approaching. Feeling threatened, they illuminated him with 48,000,000,000 candlepower, and noticed that he was wearing a prosthetic limb, with a sharpened hook attached.
Highly tactical FRS radios were produced, and backup called. 10 seconds later, John Ross pulls into the rest area, after driving at what he considers to be moderate speed from his location 4 miles away, produces what he calls his "smallbore" and pops a single round at Hookboy... When the splatter clears, all that's left is the hook, still hanging from the van's door handle... Said hook is then incorporated into the design of a floor lamp.
July 11, 2003, 04:27 PM
One time at Mall Ninja camp..........nuff said :evil:
July 11, 2003, 04:37 PM
" . . . And now turning to the incident at Summer Camp Gunny, police were able to recover parts of the hockey-masked killer. The District Attorney said the shooting appeared to be in self-defense. However, he stated that he would prosecute several members of THR for Disorderly Conduct as a scuffle broke out at the sing-a-long over which is the better caliber to shoot axe-wielding, hockey-masked killers with, .223 or .308. And now, sports. . ."
July 11, 2003, 04:41 PM
It was a dark and stormy night. A young couple were parked in a lovers lane, cleaning their guns. Perhaps it was the incessant drum of rain on the roof, or the intoxicating scent of Hoppe's #9, or maybe we can just attribute it to the heedlessness of youth, but whatever it was; they soon threw caution to the winds and found themselves in each others arms. He gently fingering her stylish PPK and murmured throaty comments about the tightness and well-oiled loveliness of the petite Teutonic pistol. She too, was caught up in the moment and shamelessly fondled his Colt Gold Cup, awed at its massive size and classic American virility. She gently fingered his chamber with manicured fingers and licking her lips, began wondering if it would be appropriate to ask about throating on a first date... Would he still respect her if she asked? Could she still respect him if it was revealed he couldn't handle hollow-points?
They couldn't know that just a mile up the road was the secret "compound" of the Brady Center for Handgun Violence. It was their bad luck that on this night the storm had knocked out the security devices controlling access to the genetic experiments!
One of the genetically modified Uber-Pacifists had broken free and beaten three (unarmed) security guards to death with a 16 pound copy of Volume Three of the Federal Firearm Regulations. The thing was now free and making its way through the forest, peering through the mist with glowing eyes, pausing only to strangle bunny rabbits and squirrels. Its maniacal laughter echoing through the gloom - the sound paralyzing the small woodland creatures in fear... Occasional lightning flashes illuminated its twisted form; the sweaty, muscular, hulking, hairy body of Janet Reno topped with the shrieking gargoyle head of Charley Schumer - the entire misshapen form being dragged gollum-like through the mud by the grasping claws of Diane Feinstein!
Perhaps on another night it would have just made its way to New Jersey or California to find breeding material. It was not to be! The thing suddenly froze and sniffed the wind, unconsciously exuding musk as it sensed the object of its most profound hatred! It had heard the distant "snick" of a magazine being driven home, accompanied by a faint cry of ecstasy... It sniffed again to detect the unmistakable scent of Hoppe's and Break-Free wasping on the midnight air. The deformed creature quivered momentarily and squatted to exude more musk in preparation for battle, its front paws combing the glistening substance through the thick hair on its legs and back. Prepared now, the skull-like head of Schumer suddenly rose to howl out a Banshee cry of rage and unreasoning hatred! It began slithering through the tangled underbrush towards Lovers Lane...
"What was that noise?" he murmured, and paused his bore-swabbing long enough to look fearfully out the fogged windows of the truck, wondering if he should step out and examine the nearby woods with his tactical mag-lite.
"I'm sure it was nothing but a coyote with its testicles caught in a barbed-wire fence." She replied breathlessly, "Please don't stop now when you've almost got my bore burnished!"
She looked up at him with wide blue eyes, pleading with him.
He smiled and resumed driving the brush deeply into her tight chamber with long, slow, even strokes.
A pair of glowing eyes peered from the underbrush, narrowing sudenly as they focused on the Ford pickup with the fogged windows. The creature bared its fangs in an evil grin and began its death stalk!
Part II, tomorrow!
July 11, 2003, 04:48 PM
Take a cold shower and get outside of your house. For all of our sakes. Get some fresh air. Go shooting.
July 11, 2003, 05:13 PM
Keith is showing some LawDog-like tendencies, here. Can't wait for tomorrow's installment.
Excellent use of double-entendre.
July 11, 2003, 05:49 PM
then we buried the corpse in feiswiens backyard and gave an anonymous tip about a crazy lady burying something suspicious
Dang ya, spacemanspiff!
You gave away the sequel!
Perhaps on another night it would have just made its way to New Jersey or California to find breeding material
Mommy, I'm scared....
July 11, 2003, 06:40 PM
:scrutiny: WWAGD? What Would Art's Grammaw Do about this thread?
Heisenberg may have been here.
July 11, 2003, 07:23 PM
have a hot flash? :D
July 11, 2003, 07:34 PM
Did he just say that?
July 11, 2003, 07:45 PM
Guys, this is awesome. Keep it comin'!
July 11, 2003, 07:46 PM
Call in an AIRSTRIKE on this thread before it overruns the countryside!:rolleyes:
Napalm is GOOD! :evil: :neener:
July 11, 2003, 07:49 PM
Geez Keith, I thougt "gun porn" was just photos! :D
July 11, 2003, 08:40 PM
The storm broke at last; the clouds parted and an enormous yellow moon shone forth to illuminate the scene.
The two young lovers lay entwined in the cab of the truck, spent, but not quite sated by their orgy of gun maintenance. He gently stroked her smooth butt with his left hand... Until suddenly realizing that his sweaty fingers might mar the exquisite bluing of her custom PPK, he withdrew his hand and lit a Marlboro, hoping she hadn't noticed his faux pas. He looked down with satisfaction at the massive glistening piece lying in his lap, inert now, but ready for more action... He tucked it into his holster, cocked and locked.
She too was feeling strangely wistful and restless. She idly stroked her still warm and wet trigger for a moment, sighed and abruptly slammed a fresh magazine home. She looked deeply into her lovers eyes, winked and adroitly de-cocked it, without hesitation, and without shame. Now ready, she suggestively slid the gun into its black leather Fredericks of Fairbanks Bra-Holster she wore beneath her cheerleader outfit...
The slithering mass of corrupt political flesh oozed along the ground towards the truck. The moon lit up the bulging eyes, now focused with unblinking hatred on the two young people who had eyes only for each other.
The young man suddenly began to ask the question he'd had since he first met her, but became tongue-tied and turned away, embarrassed. He was afraid to go too far on a first date like this.
She smiled warmly at him, already knowing what he wanted and ready to surrender to his every desire on this hot summer night; "What is it, darling? You can ask me anything!"
Still blushing, he grasped her hands and blurted out the question; "Would you like to go over to the dump and shoot rats with me?"
She flung herself into his arms and cried; "Oh yes, my stud! I've wanted to slap leather with you since the moment we met! Maybe I'm shameless, but I've got three extra boxes of hardball in my purse along with a .410 derringer and a box of Federal rat-shot!"
Her reply brought a lump to his throat. Without saying a word, he sat up straight and started the truck.
The beast reached out and grasped the door handle, inches from the oblivious young woman.
The truck spun its wheels as it sped out of Lovers' Lane and headed down the highway to the county dump.
When they arrived, she couldn't help but notice the enormous piece of dead meat clinging to the side of the car - meat that they'd apparently dragged for many miles down highway 57.
"Umm, honey? What exactly is this huge piece of rotten carrion attached to the passenger door?"
He scratched his head, puzzled: then brightened and replied; "Rat bait!"
July 11, 2003, 08:55 PM
This story is not mine. I found it on the internet. Nightmarish story right before bed....
The old man walked slowly through the dry, fallen leaves of autumn, his practiced eye automatically choosing the bare and stony places in the trail for his feet. There was scarcely a sound as he passed, though his left knee was stiff with scar tissue. He grunted occasionally as the tight sinews pulled. Damn chainsaw, he thought.
Behind him, the boy shuffled along, trying to imitate his grandfather, but unable to mimic the silent motion that the old man had learned during countless winter days upon this wooded mountain in pursuit of game. He's fifteen years old, the old man thought. Plenty old enough to be learning. But that was another time, another America. His mind drifted, and he saw himself, a fifteen-year-old boy following in the footsteps of his own grandfather, clutching a twelve gauge in his trembling hands as they tracked a wounded whitetail.
The leg was hurting worse now, and he slowed his pace a bit. Plenty of time. It should have been my own son here with me now, the old man thought sadly. But Jason had no interest, no understanding. He cared for nothing but pounding on the keys of that damned computer terminal. He knew nothing about the woods, or where food came from...or freedom. And that's my fault, isn't it?
The old man stopped and held up his hand, motioning for the boy to look.
In the small clearing ahead, the deer stood motionless, watching them. It was a scraggly buck, underfed and sickly, but the boy's eyes lit up with excitement. It had been many years since they had seen even a single whitetail here on the mountain. After the hunting had stopped, the population had exploded. The deer had eaten the mountain almost bare until erosion had become a serious problem in some places.
That following winter, three starving does had wandered into the old man's yard, trying to eat the bark off of his pecan trees, and he had wished the "animal rights" fanatics could have been there then. It was against the law, but old man knew a higher law, and he took an axe into the yard and killed the starving beasts. They did not have the strength to run.
The buck finally turned and loped away, and they continued down the trail to the river. When they came to the "Big Oak," the old man turned and pushed through the heavy brush beside the trail and the boy followed, wordlessly. The old man knew that Thomas was curious about their leaving the trail, but the boy had learned to move silently (well, almost) and that meant no talking. When they came to "Coffin Rock," the old man sat down upon it and motioned for the boy to join him.
"You see this rock, shaped like a casket?" the old man asked. "Yes sir."
The old man smiled. The boy was respectful and polite. He loved the outdoors, too. Everything a man could ask in a grandson ....or a son.
"I want you to remember this place, and what I'm about to tell you. A lot of it isn't going to make any sense to you, but it's important and one day you'll understand it well enough. The old man paused. Now that he was here, he didn't really know where to start.
"Before you were born," he began at last, "this country was different. I've told you about hunting, about how everybody who obeyed the law could own guns. A man could speak out, anywhere, without worrying about whether he'd get back home or not. School was different, too. A man could send his kids to a church school, or a private school, or even teach them at home. But even in the public schools, they didn't spend all their time trying to brainwash you like they do at yours now." The old man paused, and was silent for many minutes. The boy was still, watching a chipmunk scavenging beside a fallen tree below them.
"Things don't ever happen all at once, boy. They just sort of sneak up on you. Sure, we knew guns were important; we just didn't think it would ever happen in America. But we had to do something about crime, they said. It was a crisis. Everything was a crisis! It was a drug crisis, or a terrorism crisis, or street crime, or gang crime. Even a 'health care' crisis was an excuse to take away a little more of our rights." The old man turned to look at his grandson.
"They ever let you read a thing called the Constitution down there at your school?" The boy solemnly shook his head. "Well, the Fourth Amendment's still in there. It says there won't be any unreasonable searches and seizures. It says you're safe in your own home." The old man shrugged. "That had to go. It was a crisis! They could kick your door open any time, day or night, and come in with guns blazing if they thought you had drugs ...or later, guns. Oh, at first it was just registration -- to keep the guns out of the hands of criminals! But that didn't work, of course, and then later when they wanted to take 'em they knew where to look. They banned 'assault rifles', and then 'sniper rifles', and 'Saturday night specials.' Everything you saw on the TV or in the movies was against us. God knows the newspeople were! And the schools were teaching our kids that nobody needed guns anymore. We tried to take a stand, but we felt like the whole face of our country had changed and we were left outside."
"Me and a friend of mine, when we saw what was happening, we came and built a secret place up here on the mountain. A place where we could put our guns until we needed them. We figured some day Americans would remember what it was like to be free, and what kind of price we had to pay for that freedom. So we hid our guns instead of losing them."
"One fellow I knew disagreed. He said we ought to use our guns now and stand up to the government. Said that the colonists had fought for their freedom when the British tried to disarm them at Lexington and Concord. Well, he and a lot of others died in what your history books call the 'Tax Revolt of 1998,' but son, it wasn't the revolt that caused the repeal of the Second Amendment like your history book says. The Second Amendment was already gone long before they ever repealed it. The rest of us thought we were doing the right thing by waiting. I hope to God we were right."
"You see, Thomas. It isn't government that makes a man free. In the end, governments always do just the opposite. They gobble up freedom like hungry pigs. You have to have laws to keep the worst in men under control, but at the same time the people have to have guns, too, in order to keep the government itself under control. In our country, the people were supposed to be the final authority of the law, but that was a long time ago. Once the guns were gone, there was no reason for those who run the government to give a damn about laws and constitutional rights and such. They just did what they pleased and anyone who spoke out...well, I'm getting ahead of myself."
"It took a long time to collect up all the millions of firearms that were in private hands. The government created a whole new agency to see to it. There were rewards for turning your friends in, too. Drug dealers and murderers were set free after two or three years in prison, but possession of a gun would get you mandatory life behind bars with no parole.
"I don't know how they found out about me, probably knew I'd been a hunter all those years, or maybe somebody turned me in. They picked me up on suspicion and took me down to the federal building."
"Son, those guys did everything they could think of to me. Kept me locked up in this little room for hours, no food, no water. They kept coming in, asking me where the guns were. 'What guns?' I said. Whenever I'd doze off, they'd come crashing in, yelling and hollering. I got to where I didn't know which end was up. I'd say I wanted my lawyer and they'd laugh. 'Lawyers are for criminals', they said. 'You'll get a lawyer after we get the guns.' What's so funny is, I know they thought they were doing the right thing. They were fighting crime!"
"When I got home I found Ruth sitting in the middle of the living room floor, crying her eyes out. The house was a shambles. While I was down there, they'd come out and took our house apart. Didn't need a search warrant, they said. National emergency! Gun crisis! Your grandma tried to call our preacher and they ripped the phone off the wall. Told her that they'd go easy on me if she just told them where I kept my guns." The old man laughed. "She told them to go to hell." He stared into the distance for a moment as his laughter faded-
"They wouldn't tell her about me, where I was or anything, that whole time. She said that she'd thought I was dead. She never got over that day, and she died the next December."
"They've been watching me ever since, off and on. I guess there's not much for them to do anymore, now that all the guns are gone. Plenty of time to watch one foolish old man." He paused. Beside him, the boy stared at the stone beneath his feet.
"Anyway, I figure that, one day, America will come to her senses. Our men will need those guns and they'll be ready. We cleaned them and sealed them up good; they'll last for years. Maybe it won't be in your lifetime, Thomas. Maybe one day you'll be sitting here with your son or grandson. Tell him about me, boy. Tell him about the way I said America used to be." The old man stood, his bad leg shaking unsteadily beneath him.
"You see the way this stone points? You follow that line one hundred feet down the hill and you'll find a big round rock. It looks like it's buried solid, but one man with a good prybar can lift it, and there's a concrete tunnel right under there that goes back into the hill."
The old man stood, watching as the sun eased toward the ridge, coloring the sky and the world red. Below them, the river still splashed among the stones, as it had for a million years. It's still going, the old man thought. There'll be someone left to carry on for me when I'm gone. It was harder to walk back. He felt old and purposeless now, and it would be easier, he knew, to give in to that aching heaviness in his left lung that had begun to trouble him more and more. Damn cigarettes, he thought. His leg hurt, and the boy silently came up beside him and supported him as they started down the last mile toward the house. How quiet he walks, the old man
thought. He's learned well.
It was almost dark when the boy walked in. His father looked up from his paper. "Did you and your granddad have a nice walk?"
"Yes," the boy answered, opening the refrigerator. "You can call Agent Goodwin tomorrow. Gramps finally showed me where it is."
July 11, 2003, 09:12 PM
:what: :fire: :barf: in that order......(better NOT happen!!!!!!)
July 11, 2003, 09:21 PM
Read that on cruffler.com. One of the scariest stories I'v read.:what: :uhoh:
July 11, 2003, 09:36 PM
Keith rules.:) :) :cool: :cool:
July 11, 2003, 09:44 PM
Sorry, folks. Storytime's over.
If someone would like to re-open the same topic, while keeping it clean enough for family consumption, that'd be fine. Just keep in mind that this is the High Road, not the men's locker room.
The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple. -- Oscar Wilde
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