Morning Coffee! ;)

[BLUEHAWK]

Speaking of which...

One day I traded my 30.06 to a guy for a 41 cal. revolver, both parties being satisfied (and mine came in its own walnut box )

An artist friend, a photographer name of Charlie, who enjoyed discussing moral issues with me, suggested something about the devil's role in society, and my new pistol, on which we waxed lengthy. A few days later Charlie phoned to inquire whether I would be willing to "kill the devil", with my new pistol, or at all.

I replied with a firm and stout, "Certainly Charles! Name the day and time and I shall be there suitably equipped!" The artist had concocted a performance piece of his own which he intended to video tape as part of his ouevre on this timeless topic, starring yours truly and the devil himself. The day was set, and the time. The location was to be a large remote ranch north in Napa county, where they raised exotic beasts (such as Emu and Peacock) for the pleasure of their company.

On the appointed day, I rose early and mounted my faithful agile two-wheel steed, pistolry in saddle bag, and made fast through the Rainbow Tunnel of Marin on towards the fateful encounter; one of the finest turnpike rides available (if taken at high speed). On one occasion, some years earlier, near dusk, I sped through that tunnel, accelerating ever so determinedly (as was my usual wont when departing the north end of the Golden Gate). The pathway up to the Rainbow is a particularly interesting one, a gradual uphill on bilateral curves and banking, then through the orifice. Upon flowing out the other end lain down upon my tank (elbows akimbo), beside me peripherally I noticed the familiar black and white colors of CHP coming decidely near. I glanced to the right side (I being in the fast lane) just where the way heads left and down at 30 or more degrees again, and our eyes met; we gazed at one another, both being so familiar with this stretch that nervous attentiveness to the incline and direction was obviated. He smiled, and through the means of his forward loudspeaker said to me, "Nice ride.", no need to reduce momentum in other words... and then he withdrew at the first Sausalito exit. Of course, I had exceeded the limit of allowable speed, and the constabulary was hard on my rear all the while... yet his compliment was an award of untellable pride. I might have pinned her back at the moment for that upcoming sweet sweep approaching going right again, but thought better of it.

Arriving at the ranch, Charles brought me to the place of encounter, a meadow ringed by the small oak trees common to those climes, and covered with beautiful dry yellow grasses typical to elevations close by the sea. There, at one end he'd set bales of straw, and in the center of the stack was a complex collage, perhaps 24 x 18" in size, depicting Charlie's concept of the devil... a nasty looking feller he was too, all snarly and disarranged, threatening everything in sight... as usual.

My instructions were to draw out the pistol, and fire at the target, killing it, whilst being filmed for posterity and Charlie's art curriculum vitae.

Feeling well armed and up to the challenge I took myself beneath an oak. The pistol was laid down in its fine box and opened for inspection; six golden colored hollow-point rounds loaded. I removed my shirt to bare chest. I took a dab of mother earth into my hand and spat into it, making a kind of California beige paste, with which I then drew three lines on each cheek and my forehead, having felt the need to call upon my forebears to bless my courage on that particular day of all days. Wearing my customary summer Stetson, adorned for the occasion with two long resplendent feathers this day, I stood and placed the pistol into my wide belt unholstered.

Needing some time to myself, I walked perhaps 200 yards uphill into the trees, asking for privacy. I warned that when I came boiling down the hill toward the devil, weapon drawn, no man or observer should get himself between me and the target for fear of errant rounds being unintentionally sprayed with unpredictable results (the 41 cal. hollow-point not being inconsiderable in its effects upon flesh)... and to keep their curious ministrations far to the side with telephoto lens in operation.

I paused up there, squinting down the hill at the silent inanimate devil on the straw. It was a lovely warm summer day, a bit of wind, beasts talking amongst themselves in the distance. My resolve having reached its apogee, I next began to run downhill at the devil, pistol drawn... until I determined the proper distance to ensure his demolition had been reached, perhaps 50 feet or so... by then my adrenalin was so pumping that perhaps it was 75 yards, I cannot be sure. I stopped, assumed the standing two-handed firing position and delivered all six rounds in rapid succession with loud report into the dread target.

To make sure the slimey fiend was disabled or dead I ran to him, tore his visage off the straw, saw my shots had been very well aimed indeed, and ripped him into a good many smaller pieces which I then tossed into the air and kicked with my boots as they descended into the dust (that satan might recall the Biblical admonition saying he TOO shall returneth to dust), whereupon he was vigorously stomped for good measure... then walked quietly away. What became of his remnants I cannot say, but it was my intention that perhaps the Emu might digest them for suitable ecological purposes, there being fibrous content in paper, allowing for the possibility that colored inks might be deemed disturbing to the upper intestinal tract.

During the post-performance interview, several minutes later, I was asked how it felt to kill the devil. I replied, "I was just doing my job."

Thereafter, a fine country luncheon of fresh fruit, vegetables, cheeses and new bread generously prepared by the ladies of that realm was had by all.