...scouting for turkeys...
... a Ruger LCP .380...
my pistol must have fallen out...
Better be packin more than Love Potion #9 this Spring. Theres a turkey out there that just gained 10 pounds and a west coast strut.
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https://youtu.be/6DIv0_WvXNY I got the gun back. It was a seat of the pants impromptu buy-back program of sorts in a south Georgia swamp this morning. A young punk turkey's life for the gun. I was back on the beat this morning three days after losing it Friday. The mean streets. I heard a ruckus and snuck-up on a flock of Gangsta' Jakes. The scene was illuminated by a dim street light. That's right. A swamp street light. One of those blinking sodium jobs. The head jake held the gun to the skull of an armadillo. The punk had seen too many Hollywood flics. The gun was held with the grip parallel to the ground. The armadillo was shedding enough leprosy tears to fill a go cup. Armadillos are known carriers for Hansen's Disease. That's right. Your nose is going to fall off leprosy.
"Drop the gat" I said.
"Huh?"
"The piece"
"Huh"
"The heat"
"Huh?
"The gun, three toes." This punk is dumber than a bucket of Kentucky Fried. Three feathers short of a full fan...
He hesitated. Sweat was dripping off his dewlap down to his wattles. His spindly legs were shaking. "you know what I got in the gun, beak lips. And I'm pointing it at you. I'll fill your loose ship up with pixie dust to where the sun doesn't shine on your lips."
"You've screwed up mixing the metaphors, sir. And one of them is entirely inappropriate for network family viewing. Maybe okay on cable. YOU drop the gun or the 'dillo drops. The rat ate my sister's eggs." he bluffed.
"Let me correct you, feather butt. Actually he's not a rat, not a rodent or marsupial. He's in the same family as anteaters and sloths. I got no love lost for combat rats. Now or never. My pistol for your life"
Here's where he dropped it. The armadillo scurried off without a thank you and I missed my shot at it. I never did like possum on the half shell. Damn pixie dust patterns too damn tight for snap shooting. Buy back complete and it's home sweet home for the gat. Little did the tree sleeper know I don't shoot jakes. I walked away with my trench coat snagging on cat briers. Down the road my Mickey Spillane edition trench coat (in Mossy Oak) tangled in my front wheel of my mountain bike and over the handlebars I went. Life in the mean woods.
