Wednesday, November 02, 2005

All Hallows Eve

All Hallows Eve

November 3, 2005

Dear Comrades;
    It has been sometime since I have addressed you, and I do apologize for my absence. It would appear that my Clark Kent alter ego has kept me busy of late. Rather than bore you with tales from the local neighborhood Trauma Center, instead I shall focus with this communiqué on an episode that happened very early on Sunday morning. As it so happened, the Subkommander had just arrived home around 1:30 am from a rather bracing Motorradfaht in the middle of a brisk autumn night. I had returned from a midnight run in the Blue Ridge Mountains (a rather harrowing tale in an of itself, including heavy fog and curving mountain roads astride a BMW Dakar) and was listening to some music on my headphones when I heard a very loud cracking noise, as though someone were attempting to break into something, outside the heavily reinforced, slit Lexan window of The Bunker.
    Of course, I ceased my recreational music activity and listened keenly to the sounds of some person (or persons) were attempting to break into my next door neighbor’s porch. I heard no voices and could see no one since they were on the opposite side of a wooden fence, a tall one that obscures the view from anyone looking into the back yard. But I could clearly see the door being crashed and battered in a way to make the lock or hinges give. In fact, the hooligan was making a bit of a racket, and I am surprised I am only one that bothered to alert the authorities to his presence. Naturally, my first inclination was to lock and load my shotgun and creep warily outside to surprise the enemy in the act of sabotage. I had even planned the short speech I was going to give once I had the drop on the criminal, up to and including racking a round into chamber, a noise which has a rather intimidating effect on the most aggressive of criminals.
    A point of clarification is in order here. Although I hold the rank of Subkommander, I have never particularly been a big fan of firearms. I am not opposed to them, and indeed, believe that the right to keep and bear arms is a valuable civil liberty. As such, I support it wholeheartedly. After all, I am a native Virginian, thus being a proper southerner would cause me to also have a genetic predisposition to firearms.  However, as a rule, I don’t go out into my back yard in the middle of the night carrying a loaded weapon capable of blowing a hole in someone the size of a baseball.  I have this to be a sound policy to follow, and see no reason to alter it either now or in the foreseeable future. And since the local authorities would take a dim view of such activity, with the local Gendarmarie in this locale reasonably competent, I resisted my urge to live out a Dirty Harry fantasy and called the cops. The following unfolded within 50 feet of my observation post here in The Bunker:
     I could see the cops pull up in the apartment complex behind mine, and could even see them depart from their vehicles. Flashlights in hand, illuminating a cool Halloween night, the light darting along the lawn and the sides of the apartments as they approached the perp. I watched in silence, with the light out, so that my presence would remain unbetrayed. The cops were curiously unstressed, no weapons out, just walking along quietly with their torches on. The rounded a fence and walked down the short slope of the ground, surprising the scoundrel in mid bash/slam/bop to the fence.
COP 1: Okay pal, just hold it there and keep your hands where we can see em…
CULPRIT: OH…I know what you’re thinking. And I totally understand what you think is happening but I have an explanation…
COP 2: Buddy, have you had much to drink tonight?
CULPRIT: Uh…well…not much…I mean…uh…um… I might have had something to drink…I think…A couple of beers, maybe…
COP 2: You got any ID on you, pal?

   It was at this point that the criminal walked away from the fence, and hence out from under his protective cover, that I could finally see who the local Johnny Laws were talking to. It was a thoroughly intoxicated frat boy wearing an ankle length red dress and a diamond tiara in his air, like some kind of “Princess Di meets Godzilla” fantasy he was finally able to fulfill, fueled by distilled spirits, hormones and incredible stupidity.
    Apparently, the jolly young lad had been out drinking excessively during the course of the evening, attending several frat parties at the local university, many of which were costume in nature, and hence the assumed rationale for this particularly boy’s  raiment. During the course of the conference between the cops and the frat boy, they ascertained his name (Jordan S) and the name of his friend whose house he was breaking into (Charlie H), his major (Horticulture), his age (20), and various and other assorted facts regarding this fools life. Fortunately for Jordan, Charlie showed up out of nowhere a few minutes later, not quite as intoxicated, but also not wearing a dress. After vouching for his friend, the cops let Jordan go. However, Jordan, being an essentially brainless, and thus typical frat boy managed to annoy the cops to some degree at this point, rating a stinging tirade from one the cops, telling him that he could still throw him jail for being an underage drunk and stop acting like the spoiled, entitled little dick that you are and you better drag your sorry ass inside and go to bed and God help you if I ever catch drunk in public again, you schmuck!
   This got Jordan’s attention. So he did just that, retreating into the house with Charlie, dress and tiara intact.
    That’s the latest from the Bunker. More later as it happens.

              Your most humble servant,
                 Subkommander Dred


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