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| [2006 April 19] Deep in the jungles of Nicaragua, Rudy is being chased down by a killer deer. You know, this would make hunting more of a sport and less of a passtime equivalent to bird-watching. A little bit of danger thrown in... oh, yeah there is the chance of getting mistaken for an attorney and getting your face shot off. Or getting so drunk you fall into a swamp. Or shooting your 'buddy' ''accidentally'' while '''playing around''' with a gun you swore ''''wasn't loaded'''' leaving you '''''devestated''''' and looking for an attorney.
Speaking of attorneys, buzzards are part of why Texas highways are so clean; however, they tend not to eat the bones. About six months ago a deer was ran down by a train and the corpse was left on the tracks. The buzzards ate everything they wanted, but here it is six months later and there are still bones and old skin left on the tracks. It makes you wonder what made the rest of it so unpalatable... or how a deer was run down by a slow-moving train to begin with. | |
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| [2006 April 20] Why the hell would a buzzard eat the bones? What the hell are you talking about? It's the maggots that usually consume what's left. And, if there is a carcus by a set of tracks, well, there you go. I wouldn't spend a lot of time next to a train either. Most of the time, the bones are hidden in overgrown grass, moss or dead vegetation. Eventually most of them decay into the ground, but the bones of bigger animals rarely get eaten.
Don't forget that we have prisoners who help to keep the trash off of the highways as well. | |
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Today, Rudy is sporting a Ruger 77R Mark II which is capable of delivering a 22cal slug at a velocity of 1158mps. At this range, Rudy's shot should be capable of bringing down a deer, but he's too startled (and on his back) to properly aim for a kill.
I hit him in a bad spot, but didn't kill him. I wanted him alive to realize the agony I fealt so many years ago when he took from me the most precious thing I had. I wanted him to remember through a haze of pain how long it took to bake that particular cake. I wanted him to roast in his own juices as his anger boiled over like a forgotten pot of soup. But most of all. I wanted him. I wanted him and his fake beard. I wanted his feminine whiles and his prissy attitude. I wanted him so bad... no I didn't. So I finished the job and ate his doughnut.
Quick as a rabbit I ran into the bushes. I emerged on the same side I came in at, but that didn't stop the overall impression that I'd been there... done that... and as every moment passed by a heated rage pained in the back of my skull like a torrent of ants. I couldn't go back. I'd just end up back where I started. Where I stood before was now and now was my chance to redeam myself for at least a buck fifty. And there I stood. With an empty hand cannon and a spent rod. With cardboard cutouts laughing at me from the shadowy underneaths behind the bushes. I knew... I'd been there. I'd done that. And I'd be damned if I were going to do it again. So I stood there. As a million brandishments flashed by me in a dream whirl of monumental proportions. Leaves rustled. I was beside myself. We stood there...
Originally thought of as just a scavenger, the buzzard is now the mascot of ambulance chasers across the Western world.
