Campfire Stories, CLEAN version


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Combat-wombat
July 11, 2003, 10:21 PM
Okay, I missed my favorite TV show to practically write a novel but I hit the "Submit Reply" button to find out that it didn't get posted because in the meantime, it got closed. :mad: :banghead: :cuss:
Okay, keep it clean, maybe I'll get the energy to take another hour out of my day write another story :mad: , but maybe not. I'm not mad not mad at the mods or anything for closing it, just kind of upset I went to all that work for nothing. Whatever, just post your clean stories here.

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Ewok_Guy
July 11, 2003, 10:37 PM
Could have hit back then copied and saved/pasted it.
Now how do you feel? :p

Moparmike
July 11, 2003, 11:00 PM
Actually, it does sometimes wipe it out if you hit 'back'.

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."

Combat-wombat
July 11, 2003, 11:26 PM
Moparmike:I've seen that a couple of times, and I love it.

CB900F
July 11, 2003, 11:32 PM
Fella's;

I don't know if this was the only place that story was published, but I do know that it was published in The Blue Press. The Dillon Precision catazine.

900F

Telperion
July 11, 2003, 11:50 PM
Thomas sat alone upon the cold stone, shivering slightly in the chilly pre-dawn air of this April morning. The flashlight was turned off, resting beside him on the bare granite of Coffin Rock, and involuntarily he strained his eyes in the gray non-light of the false dawn, trying to make out the shapes of the trees, and the mountains across the river. Below, he could hear the chuckling of the water as it crossed the polished stones. How many times had he fished there, his grandfather beside him.

He tried to shrug away the memories, but why else had he come here except to remember. Perhaps to escape the inevitable confrontation with his mother. She would have to be told sooner or later, but Thomas infinitely preferred later.

"Mom, I've been expelled from the university, he said aloud in a conversational tone. Some small night animal, startled by the sudden sound, scurried away to the right. "I know this means you won't get that upgrade to C-3, and they'll probably turn you down for that surgery now. Gee, Mom, I'm sorry." It sounded so stupid. "Why?" she would ask. "How?"

How could he explain that? The endless arguments. The whispered warnings. The subtle threats. Dennis had told him to expect this. Dennis had lost his parents back in the First Purge back in 2004, and his bitter hatred of the State's iron rule had failed to ruin him only because of his unique and accomplished abilities as an actor. Only with Thomas did he open up. Only with Thomas did he relate the things he had earned while in the Youth Reeducation Camp near Charleston. Thomas shuddered.

It was his own fault, he knew. He should have kept his mouth shut like Dennis told him. All of his friends had come and shook his hand and pounded him on the back. "That's telling them, Adams!" they said. But their voices were hushed and they glanced over their shoulders as they congratulated him. And later, when the "volunteers" of the Green Ribbon Squad kicked his ??? all over the shower room, they had stood by in nervous silence, their faces turned away, their eyes averted, and their tremulous voices silent.

He sighed. Could he blame them. He'd been afraid too, when the squad walked up and surrounded him, and if he could have taken back those proud words he would have. Anyone is afraid when they can't fight back, he'd discovered. So they taught him a lesson, and he had expected it to end there. But then yesterday had come the call to Dr. Morton's office, and the brief hearing that had ended his career at the university. "Thomas," Morton had intoned, "You owe everything to the State." Thomas snorted.

The light was growing now. He could see the pale, rain-washed granite in the grayness as if it glowed. Coffin Rock was now a knob, a raised promontory that jutted up from a wide, unbroken arm of the mountain's stony roots, its cover of soil pushed away. There were deep gouges scraped across the surface of the rock where the backhoe had tried, vainly, to force the mountain to reveal its secrets. He was too old to cry now, but Thomas Adams closed his eyes tightly as he relived those moments that had forever changed his life.

The shouts and angry accusations as the agents found no secret arms cache still seemed to ring in his ears. They had threatened him with arrest, and once he had thought the government agent named Goodwin wouId actually strike him. At last, though, they had accepted defeat and turned down the mountain, following the gashed trail of the back-hoe as it rumbled ahead through the woods.

At home, he had found his mother and father standing, ashen faced, in the doorway.

"They took your grandpa," his father said in disbelief. "Just after you left, they put him in a van and took him."

"But they said they wouldn't!" Thomas had shouted. He ran across the yard to the old man's cottage. The door was standing open and he wandered from room to room calling for the grandfather he would never see alive again.

It was his heart, they said. Two days after they had taken him, someone called and tersely announced that the old man had died at the indigent clinic a few hours after his arrest. "Sorry," the faceless voice had muttered. Thomas had wept at the funeral, but it was only in later years that he had come to understand the greatest tragedy of that day-that the old man had died alone, knowing that his own grandson had betrayed him.

That grandson was Thomas Adams, and he was now too old to cry but in the growing light of the cold mountain dawn, he did anyway.

Thomas was certain that his father's de-certification six months later was due to the debacle in the forest. As much as anyone did these days, they had "owned" their home, but the Certification Board would still have evicted them except for the intervention of Cousin Lou, who worked for the State Supervisor. As it was, they lost all privileges and, when his father came down with pneumonia the next autumn, medical treatment was denied. He had died three days after the first anniversary of Grandpa's death.

Thomas had been sure that he would be turned down at the University, but once again his cousin had intervened and a slot had "opened" for him. But now that's finished, he reflected. He would be unable to obtain any certification other than manual laborer. "Why didn't I keep my mouth shut" he asked the morning stillness. In a tree behind him, a mockingbird began to sing its ageless song, and as if in answer, the forest below began to twitter and chirp with the voices of other birds, greeting the new day.

No, what he had said had been the truth and nothing could change that. The State was wrong. It was evil. It was unnatural for men to be slaves of their government, always skulking, always holding their tongues lest they anger The State. But there is no "State," Thomas considered. There are only evil men, holding power over other men. And anyone who speaks out, who dares to challenge that power, is crushed.

If only there was a way to fight back!

Thomas shifted on the stone, hanging his feet off the downhill side. His feet had almost touched the grass that day, but now, although his legs were certainly longer, it was at least ten inches to the scarred rock surface below. As he kicked his heels back and forth, he could almost hear his grandfather speaking to him from long ago...

"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.

"You see the way this stone points." the old man was saying. "You follow that line one hundred feet..." Thomas' heels were suddenly still. For many minutes he did not move, playing those words over and over in his mind. "...Follow that line..."

What hidden place in his brain had concealed those words all of these years. How could the threats have failed to dislodge it. He stood upon shaky legs and climbed down from Coffin Rock. In his mind's eye, he could see the old man pointing and he walked down the hill and through a clinging briar patch, counting off the paces. The round stone did seem solidly buried, but he scratched around near the base and found that the rock ended just an inch or so beneath the surface. "One man with a good bar can lift it," Grandfather had said. Thomas forced his fingers beneath the stone and, with all the strength in his 21-year-old body, he lifted. The stone came up, and he slid it off to one side. Cool air drifted up from the dark opening in the mountain. Thomas looked to the right where the scars of the State's frustration ended, only 15 or 20 feet away. They had been that close.

He squatted and stared into the darkness and then remembered his flashlight. In a moment, he was back with it, probing into the darkness with the yellow beam. There was a small patch of moisture just inside, but then the tunnel climbed upwards toward the ridge. On hands and knees, he entered.

It was uncomfortably close for the first 20 feet or so, then the cavern opened up around him. The men who had built this place, he saw, had taken a natural crevice in the granite rock, sealed it with masses of poured concrete, and then covered it with earth. The main chamber was bigger than the living room of a house, and they had left an opening up near the peak of the vaulted roof where fresh air and a faint, filtered light entered.

Wooden boxes and crates were stacked everywhere on concrete blocks, up off of the floor, stenciled with legends like, RIFLE, CAL. 30 M1, 9MM PARA, M193 BALL, 7.62 x 39MM, and 5.56MM. He pushed between them and crawled to the wall where he found cardboard boxes wrapped with plastic sheeting. They were imprinted with strange names like CCI, OLIN, WW748, BULLSEYE, and RL 550B.

He did not know what the crates and boxes contained, and was afraid to break the seals, but near the center of the room he found a plastic-wrapped carton labeled "OPEN THIS FIRST." With his penknife, he slit the heavy plastic wrapping.

It contained books, he saw with some disappointment. But he studied the titles and found that they were manuals on weapons and how to repair them, how to clean them, how to fire them, and ammunition... how to store it, and how to reload it. And here was something unusual: A History of the United States. He lifted it from the carton and crawled back to the open air. Leaning against a stone, he tore open the heavy vinyl bag that enclosed the book and began to read at random, flipping the pages every few moments. On each page, something new met his eye, contradicting everything he had ever been taught.

Freedom is not won, he learned, by loud words and declarations.

He remembered a quotation taught at the University: "Blood alone moves the wheels of history." An Italian dictator named Mussolini had said that, but now he read of a man named Patrick C. Henry who said, "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." Mao was required reading at the University, too, and he now recalled that this man - called a "hero" by The State - had once said, "Political power comes out of the barrel of a gun."

Freedom is never granted, it is won. Won by men who are willing to die, willing to lose everything so that others may have the greatest possession of all: liberty.

Mentally, he began to list those he could trust. Men who had been arrested for speaking out. Women whose husbands had been arrested and never returned. Friends who had been denied certification because of their fathers' military records. The countryside seethed with anger and frustration. These were people who longed to be free, but who had no means to resist... until now.

Thomas laid the book aside and then worked the stone back into position, carefully placing leaves and moss around the base to hide any evidence that it had been disturbed. He tucked the book under his arm and started for home with the rays of the rising sun warming his back. He imagined his grandfather's touch in the heat. A forgiving touch.

A long, hard struggle was coming, and he knew with a certainty that defied explanation that he would not live to see the day America would once again be free. His blood and that of many patriots and tyrants would be spilled, but perhaps America's tree of Liberty would live and flourish again.

There is a long line stretching through the history of this world - a line of those who valued freedom more than their lives. Thomas Adams now took his place at the end of that column as he determined that he would have liberty, or death. He would be in good company.

Oleg Volk
July 12, 2003, 12:38 AM
...written over two years ago, probably as back-writing for a longer story which never got written.



About her.

It was a warm August evening when Steve brought in his new girl. We had all gathered at Bernie's, just the guys though one of them was a woman, Agnieska. Bernie preferred his Coke with a touch of whiskey, Randy took his whiskey straight and the rest of us slurped soda by day and coffee by night.

The talk had just turned to spouses, having passed the earlier topics of guns, books and latest outrages. Steve and his date entered later than usual, her damp hair and his smiley look giving us a good intiomation of what held them up. Introductions all around, then someone cleared blueprints off a dusty chair for Cherrie, Steve's squeeze.

She was pretty in a Midwestern way, a tall busty blonde with pale eyelashes and a painted smile. Our conversation plainly bored her and she sipped on her drink as some would on a malt. They left before midnight, walking out hand in hand. Steve returned from the street for his hat and reclamed it from Sarah, Bernie's calico kitty. Sarah must have thought him ungenerous but let it pass.

"Did you see her!" Steve whispered to us, grinning "She ruts like an Easter bunny. And those tits! Don't know how you guys can stand to look at your wives after this." With those words of wisdom he departed.

Our friend has always had his priorities straight -- and preferably quite curvy. It wasn't the first time he'd dragged something beddable in but his dig at matrimony was a new twist. Agnieska snorted from over in the den. She was the cynic of our already Hobbsean social club.

The talk turned to wives from there on. Wives kept clear of our Thursday night gatherings, though invited they were, cordially and persistently. Maybe they knew how homesick we got after an evening away from home.

I looked over the assembly. Bernie was Anita's faithful man by choice made deliberately and with no regrets. He knew what he owed her. Mark Ranum, a lucky man who'd be going home to Lucy that night. Arthur, whom Steve's words put into a quiet gloom lurked in a corner. He knew he couldn't look at his wife anymore, not when a pound of ashes was all that remained: a heart attack at thirty-six it was. Agnieska, unmarried but conservatively loyal to the same woman for as long as we've known her. And I, caffienated into insomnia yet wistful for the warm spot next to my lovely Betty.

How could we stand looking at our wives, really? The youngest of our spouses was just over fifty, the rest older yet, the age of wrinkles and restful laurels. I saw then that the conversation gave way to reflection. My coffee cup bottom showed but I stayed put. Mark tightened his grip on the empty pop can, then changed his mind and set it on the slab floor noiselessly.

I knew Bernie's story, we all did. Heck, most of us had prayed for a marriage like his. Luck or divine favor, we did marry like he did. Sometimes, not frequently, never predictably, he would say "One time..." and our heads would lean closer to his. "One time," he would say "this calamity or that happened." He would pause, sip his whiskey-rich soda and continue, always with the same words: "...and my wife solved it."

(part 2 forthcoming)

Mark settled in the depths of his favorite arm-chair and propped his head up with his hand. He liked Bernie's stories yet his attention had a touch of patience to it. No one's wife would top his, he knew firmly. He had only to touch his scarred his back to be reminded of that.

Back before I knew him, his son needed a kidney. I forget the ailment that caused both of his own to cease functioning but the kid was hooked up 24/7 and not doing well at that. Mark gave one of his, both for expediency and to reduce the risk of rejection. Ten years later, right before I met him, the bill for his earlier deed came due. His one remaining kidney, overworked and without a backup, was failing as well.

After the surgery, he was surprised at his wife's absence at his bedside. She returned home a week after he did, thin, tired, missing the same kidney that he now had on his right. Mark started to speak and she told him "Don't talk about it." He must have tried to speak regardless, because she repeated herself in a voice that was a command.

Since then, Mark was had gone through bad time. For months, he felt like a charity case of his own making. We told him to knock off the moping but depressed he remained. We don't know what happened then but one day he came in a man able to smile again. For all we knew, Lucy told him to show some appreciation for the best gift she could manage under the circumstances.

Someone stirred in a corner...ah, that would be Jeffrey. He was the tough guy of the lot until last year. He'd quit stringing for AP then and semi-retired to a quieter life. He planted flowers by day and taught photography at night school twice a week. It wasn't his job that made him quit, though.

Jeff used to work around events. A newsworthy event was anything that produced plenty of flames and corpses, all essential ingredients of marketable news images. His down time was when peace prevailed, which is to say that he rested infrequently. The last vacation he took was on Borneo simply because a guerilla war he expected never materialized. After a week of waiting, he reserved a suite at a nice hotel in the ostentatiously clean tourist trap nearby and phoned his wife Marie to come join him for R&R.

Seems that the guerillas did exist after all. So did the counter-insurgency troops. Both sides sides had something to hide and they obviously knew a journalist when they saw one. Jeff and Marie got kidnapped right at the terminal after he picked her up at the tiny airport. Four rough men wearing uniforms so dirty as to defy identification shoved them into two jeeps and took off into the bush.

Jeff was in the lead vehicle and faced forward. He didn't see what happened behind him and neither did his guard or his driver. Marie told him later that her guard stood up to look ahead. As his palm shielded his eyes from the sun straight ahead of them, she pushed him from the moving jeep.

For the three men up front, the first sign of trouble was the shot from behind them. The clouds of dust hid the other vehicle as it skidded to a stop, its front wheels off the clay road surface and into the thorny undergrowth on the left. The driver next to Jeff backed up to see what happened.

Long-term survival of journalists depends a lot on a finely honed paranoia. Jeff, at that time twelve years in the field, was no exception. When his wife stepped through the settling dust, he fell out of the jeep and away from his captors. His was still falling, trying to brace for the impact of the ground, when the AKS in Marie's hands shook in an epileptic fit of a long burst.

From his worm-eye view, Jeff saw her feet move past him, her light sandals already grimy. He heard two more shots muffled by the hair of the recipients. "Drive, dear" she said to him then "You know I can't drive stick." On the way back, he ran over the man she had tossed overboard. They took the next flight out, a chance passage of a creaking old Junkers in from Hong Kong, and have not left home since.

And I, what do I do when Bernie gets to talking up his wife? I sit and think about mine. I've saved my own life a couple of times, though I wonder if the saving would have been necessary had Betty been around. She's always had a better nose for trouble than I used to. Still, my lifesaving has been all my own work. Betty just made my life worth living.

Moparmike
July 12, 2003, 01:15 AM
Sounds like there should be a 3rd part to it pipsqueak. If there is, I would like to see it.

Elmer Snerd
July 12, 2003, 03:06 AM
Singing around the campfire is also a hallowed tradition.

With apologies to the Charlie Daniels Band, Skunkabilly, and hallowed traditions:

The Devil went up to Cali
He was looking for a soul to steal
He was in a bind with ol' Feinstein
And he was willin' to make a deal
When he came across this young man
Holdin' an HK and shootin' it hot
And the Devil jumped up on a hickory stump
And said "OW! That brass is hot!
I guess you didn't know it
But I like carbon fiber too
And if you'd care to take a dare
I'll make a bet with you
Now you shot pretty good pistol, boy
But give the Devil his due
I'll bet a Beretta of gold against your soul
That I'm more tactical than you."

The boy said "My name's Skunky,
and it might be a sin
But I'll take your bet, and you're gonna regret
I'm the tactical-est that's ever been!"

Skunky load up all your mags
And shoot your pistol hard
'Cause hell's broke loose in Cali,
And you left your SHTF pack in the car
And if you win you get this shiny pistol made of gold
But if you lose the Devil gets your soul

The Devil opened up his case
And said "I'll start this show"
And fire flew from his fingertips
As he began to load
And he swept the gun across the crowd
and they began to hiss
Then a tactical team of demons joined in
And it sounded something like this...
(You only need guns for hunting!)
(The Second Amendment is for the National Guard!)
(Guns cause crime!)


When the Devil finished Skunky said
"Well you're pretty tactical, old son,
But sit down in that chair right there
and let me show you how it's done!"

Shoot IDPA, run boys run
Feinstein and Schumer want to grab all your guns
"Assault weapons" will be the first to go
Then anything they don't like you know

The Devil took off his Brady hat
Because he knew that he'd been beat
And he laid that golden pistol
On the ground at Skunky's feet
Skunky said "Devil just come on back
If you ever want to try again
'Cause I told you once, you son of a (bleep),
I'm the tactical-est that's ever been!"

Combat-wombat
July 12, 2003, 03:15 AM
Heh, that was really good, Elmer!

Skunkabilly
July 12, 2003, 03:41 AM
Hey Satan, Schumer and Feinstein....

Made this for you Elmer considering you re-wrote a whole song for me...:D

Now I just need to mix it with a banjo and Duke of Lawnchair has to mix some of his DJ whick whick whickey whick action into it....

http://www.thehighroad.org/attachment.php?s=&postid=374173

Weimadog
July 12, 2003, 02:54 PM
Elmer Snerd
Then a tactical team of demons joined in
And it sounded something like this...
(You only need guns for hunting!)
(The Second Amendment is for the National Guard!)
(Guns cause crime!)


That was funny! :p

My wonderful Gun Rights supporting wife, who is tired of me always talking about guns, laughed out loud when I read the part about tactical team of deamons!

Ho ho ho.

Weimadog

seeker_two
July 12, 2003, 06:46 PM
Snerd: YOU ARE A GENIUS!!! Well done...:D

THIS is what I wanted my original thread to be. Guess I should have put the old "PG-only" warning on there.

Keep up the good work, guys...

Combat-wombat
July 12, 2003, 07:44 PM
Okay, just found this on my PC from a year or two back. Yeah, I know it's pretty crappy writing, but wasn't putting my effort into it, I had to write it for school and I put it off until the last minute. It was writing under pressure, from a 12 year old. But hey, the point's pretty good. Anyway, here you go.


Jane Peterson was a large supporter of gun control. She listened to Sarah Brady, Diane Feinstein, and Chuck Schumer, and was a member of the Million Mom March.
“Who needs guns anyway?” she would ask herself.
“Only those militant NRA extremists.”
Every morning she would wake up early to watch CNN. The reporter would go on about some malicious crime, the evil assault weapon that was used to commit it, and how anyone could be the next victim. Because of this, Jane never felt safe and thought that gun control would make her, as well as many others, safer. She would drive her 8-year old son to school, fearing that some maniac with an AK-47 (she had acquired the catchy names of some guns while watching CNN constantly) would mow him down while going on a rampage.
“Be safe, Matthew, and have a good day at school!” she would yell after him.
Basically, Jane was just the average soccer mom, without a clue as to what went on outside her little world of modern suburbia, except for what she saw on the news. As she drove around in her minivan with the Million Mom March sticker on the back, she never even thought about the possibility of her own government betraying her. She did not even know what the Second Amendment was. She was just one out of the millions of ignorant gun control supporters, who was clueless about what the NRA’s point of view was.
“No one needs those ugly assault weapons, they have no sporting purpose!” she would think to herself.
Across the street from Jane was a man named John. He was just a normal guy with a wife and a son. Jane had no idea that he was a gun owner, because she thought all pro-rights gun owners were skinhead extremists who were isolated from the rest of the public. John voted pro-rights and anti-gun control, but he was only a minority, especially in Maryland. He had a few guns, but he couldn’t get many more due to recent legislation. Well, at least he had the ones he did.
Cheryl Hilton was the senate majority leader. She was elected as the senator of Maryland by the millions of people like Jane. Cheryl was a very bright person, with an IQ of about 170. This allowed her to quickly advance in politics, from a small town councilwoman to mayor to state assemblywoman, and eventually to senator. No doubt about it, Cheryl was smart. Smart enough to take over the world.

“So, how’s Matthew doing in school, Jane?” asked John’s wife, while they were having cocktails together.
“Oh, he’s doing great, Sheri. How’s your son doing?” Jane replied.
“He’s doing well, too,” responded Sheri. “On another topic, what do you say we take a trip away from the kids? We could spend a nice weekend down in D.C. with our husbands.”
“Well, for one thing, Dave is on a business trip. But really, I’m kind of short on money.”
“Oh, relax. John and I will pay.”
“Really? You shouldn’t.”
“No, it’s fine. Consider it a done deal.”
“Well, thank you very much,” Jane said. “I know a good babysitter, so I’ll take care of that.”
“Okay. Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon. That should give us enough time to get dinner in D.C. I’ll see you later!” Sheri walked Jane out.
“Bye, Sheri, thank you very much!” Jane waved good bye.

Cheryl Hilton woke up at the sound of the alarm at 6:00 AM. She carried on with her normal morning routine, drinking her coffee and eating breakfast. However, today was no normal day. Today she would destroy the greedy American way, and the rest of the world along with it. Today she would create a communist empire that would go down in history.
“Victor! Today is the day! Are you ready?” Cheryl asked, over her cell phone.
“Yes, my troops are ready,” he replied.
“Good, I will tell you when to go,” she confirmed.
Victor Czesmir was a rogue Russian general. He had thousands of troops at his disposal, whom he could tell that America had just attacked Moscow, and they needed to fight. Victor was easily convinced to attack America. He and Cheryl had come up with a plot to reinstate communism over the whole world.
Cheryl slowly applied pressure to the brake pedal as she rolled into her parking space. She walked into her office and immediately picked up the phone. She dialed the number for White House security.
“Jim, I need to talk to the President in person. It’s urgent,” she demanded.
“Okay, Cheryl, I’ll tell the guards to let you in,” he assured.
“Thanks, Jim,” she replied.
Cheryl drove the short distance to the White House and hopped out of her car.
“Cheryl Hilton? Jim told me to let you in,” said the guard.
“Okay, good. Thank you,” she said to the guard.
“Mr. President! I need to talk to you in private quickly!” Cheryl said in an urgent tone.
“Alright, I’m busy though, so make it quick,” replied the President.
“Mr. President, it’s about HR 5053. I just think that…”
In the middle of her sentence, Cheryl quickly drew her Beretta 92FS, aimed it at the President’s chest, and pulled the trigger 3 times. The pistol had an Omega PC2 suppressor on its threaded muzzle, and only made a nearly inaudible puff. She dragged the dead President into the bathroom, and grabbed his I.D. Card.
“This will come in handy,” she mumbled to herself.

“Thank you so much for taking me on this trip! I have to pay you guys back somehow!” Jane concluded.
“No problem. It’s fine!” answered John.
“Say, let’s go take a look at the White House. I haven’t seen if for a while,” suggested John.
“Okay, good idea,” Sheri and Jane both replied.

Cheryl went into the underground bomb shelter system under the nation’s capitol. She went in to the secret military command center. She reached into her pocket for the President’s I.D. Card and swiped it through the card slot on the computer. She had received training from the Russian general, and knew exactly how to work the machine. She took a world map out, looked closely at it and put the coordinates into the computer. Soon every military base in the country and every world capitol would be demolished. The citizens? She wouldn’t have to worry about the citizens. She disarmed them all, except for weapons with a “sporting purpose.” Ha! What fools those people were! A sporting purpose won’t save your life. Soon Victor’s troops would be in the country, and would be her new army. What a wonderful world it will be.
She pressed the red button for the countdown. She came up through the manhole to the surface and ran to her car. Washington D.C. would soon be in ruins. (She only targeted it to kill off the rest of the government officials.)

“Honey, look at that woman! It looks like she is carrying a gun!” exclaimed Sheri.
“What the…it is!” replied John.
“It is, oh, no,” screamed Jane.
“Just keep down!” yelled John to both women.
John drew his Smith and Wesson Model 19 and slowly drove up to the armed woman getting into her car.
“Is that a gun? What are you doing? You’re insane!” screamed Jane.
“Be quiet and stay down!” demanded John.

John raised his gun out of the car window.
“What do you think you’re doing?” John demanded.
“None of your business!” Cheryl yelled, and fired a shot in John’s direction. John fired one shot back, hitting Cheryl. John jumped out of the car with his S&W still on Cheryl.
“What are you doing? TELL ME NOW!” John demanded.
“The-rggrh-missile-rggrh-is gonna-rggrh-go!” Cheryl weakly mumbled.
John called 911 and explained the whole thing after interrogating Cheryl more.

The military quickly arrived. A Special Forces team quickly jumped out of a truck and into the underground shelter. There were only five seconds to go!
“GO!GO!GO!” yelled the team.
“Five,” counted the machine.
“HURRY UP!”
“Four.”
‘MOVE!”
“Three.”
“GET IN THERE!”
“Two.”
“NOW!!!”
“Launch Sequence Cancelled.”

The team had saved the world.
As for General Czemir’s team flying in old Soviet surplus personnel transport planes, they were shot down by American F-18s.

In the end, Jane learned the meaning of the Second Amendment.
“It is the right of the people to keep and bear arms,” she concluded, “even if they’re not for sporting.”

spacemanspiff
July 12, 2003, 07:58 PM
okay, someone here likely has a karaoke machine, and if so, they MUST lay down the vocals snerd posted, and get it to all of us in mp3!

Combat-wombat
July 12, 2003, 09:10 PM
Okay, campfire SONGS now, only songs. Let's see what you guys can do.:D

Combat-wombat
July 12, 2003, 09:22 PM
A Santana twist (Black Magic Woman)

I've got a black magic AR
I've got a black magic AR
I've got a black magic AR, shootin' its way through gun laws,
I've got a black magic AR, it's fighting off Feinstein and her goons.

...Aww dang it, no one can beat Elmer Snerd:D

Weimadog
July 13, 2003, 12:06 AM
Combat-wombat, I like that story! Very good writing for a 12 year old, or anybody.

Weimadog

Elmer Snerd
July 13, 2003, 01:18 AM
Thank you, you are all far too kind.
My only regret was that I couldn't figure out how to work in a banjo.

A few snippets:

Shootin' at the range,
Just shootin' at the range...

I love rock 'n' roll
So put another mag in the Uzi, baby
I love rock 'n' roll
So come on and tweak Feinstein's nose with me!

You're the gun that I want
You are the gun I want
Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!

Skunkabilly
July 13, 2003, 01:27 AM
The tactical rap:

Caps, caps I bust 'em every day
I bust them every day in a tactical way
Cocked and locked and ready to rock
1911 not a tupperware Glock

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