Three Days With The Boys
Ages 6 to 60+
"Four Generations of Iguanas"
THE PICTURES:
THE STORY:
A MAN’S GAME – ALL MAN ALL THE TIME
December 17-19, 2994
* vincit omnia veritas
By Tom Skelly
John “Harris is my name–hunting is my game” arrived twelve minutes before his scheduled arrival time. This is good. No, this is BESTO! A man that arrives late, even a well-intentioned HOMBRE, should suffer the fate of Paul Newman in “The Hustler”. The dreaded “thumbs” doctrine. This is a serious breach of MANLY protocol – Article #12, read it for yourself! Boys, I don’t make this stuff up.
Five rapid minutes and John and I load his stuff into my truck for the journey. One quick pit stop for a tall coffee and sweet roll, and we are heading Norte on the freeway. This is beautiful morning to drive and but for that nasty sunrise, right into my eyes on the 91 freeway, it was pure pleasure.
Well you know it had to happen. It seems Perry Mason forgot one small thing, called LUNCH. This was discovered when he adjusted his thinking cap to block the strong sun’s rays. Do we return for the bag of groceries or continue. That is the question. Well Mr. Harris claims he can make up for his bad behavior by having me stop at a store along the way. He was thinking of Barstow which was 190 miles off our route, so I suggested we might find what we need in Indio where I was prepared to stop for fuel.
We agree on Indio, but after much searching, and following directions from natives, we ended up in Coachella Mexico, which borders Indio. Market Basket. You are all familiar with that chain. Well my friends, at this one, no one speaks English, and the store pipes in only Mexican music. Kinda fking wonderful! Well my good man is quite up to the task, he’s from Los Angeles, and before long he trots down the many isles in search of lunch, condiments, oatmeal for his healthy breakfast, and last but not least, a throw away camera.
Well I will tell you this boys, this man arrived in this country in nothing but his pantalones, and but a few Indian coins in his pocket. Now at this late stage of his life he finds luck in abundance, for in this god forsaken shithole store in Coachella Mexico, he buys a throw-away camera that actually takes pictures and has replaceable film just like an expensive camera. This is about to be some adventure. Of course I’m not holding my breath on the lunches.
Well after a great deal of palaver, and solving most of the world’s most pressing problems, I found myself over-shooting the damn road off of the highway. Déjà vu all over again! Made a friggin huey and returned to the dirt road, drove one half mile and stopped for a brewski. John once proclaimed that if ever he climbed the ladder to Emperor, he would pass a law making it a requirement for drivers to drink beer during their passage in the outback. For these and other thoughts, I do love this man.
John, having traveled this road for the very first time asked how far it was to the camp. I replied at least 65 miles total on three different roads. Well our first one was freshly graded and I was able to maintain 50mph in between refreshment breaks for adult beverages. This schedule was exhausting. Made the turn north on the 12 mile sand wash and switched to 4x4 high. No problems on this extremely soft transition. John reported, as the road deteriorated, that he didn’t think some of his old desert transportation would be capable on this leg of our travel.
As we approach Earthquake Camp I asked John how high he thought Painted Rock was from this view. He replied “about thirty feet”. We passed though the pipe markers and descended into the wash below and immediately discovered a covey of quail running directly across our path. We both agreed to lock and load and make the attempt. It took a few moments to ready ourselves and begin the chase. We caught them on the slopes leading up to our camp and pressed them as fast as we could climb. Normally this doesn’t bother me one bit, but we jumped to action, after sitting on our sorry asses for the last five hours. Well needless to say, our tongues were hanging out, but the birds were fit for the run up hill. I got off a few shots at one flyer, and immediately sighted Quietman driving towards us from the canyon beyond. It seems he arrived before us and was scouting for birds. I hate when he does that.
I, usually not at a loss for words, needed my mouth for another purpose at this moment, and that was to sustain my life. Talk about winded. We passed John and continued to try and acquire some birds to no avail. We both agreed to return to the truck and drive it up the slope and to our campsite.
This then is the moment to enjoy a refreshing brewski. We each had an Alaskan Amber fresh from its journey on a jet plane from Juneau. Is this livin?
We set up camp in twenty minutes and agree to hunt the remainder of the afternoon beginning with the area directly north of us. The weather was 75 degrees with crystal clear skies and no wind. Picture perfect. The only negative factor in this whole area is the abundance of the many species of cactus close to camp. They thin out as we leave the area of the rocky terrain.
We jumped some birds near the island, and as we crossed the road to the flats leading to the large Monolith, which is directly east of our location. This is a target rich environment, and on each hunting trip to this area we are amazed at the number of coveys that inhabit it.
We hunted until late afternoon then made the great trek back to camp to prepare for this evening. Kevin “the Dull” will arrive sometime around 1800 hours, and Quietman tells us that Russ will be joining us later this evening, closer to 2130 hours.
Our sun set early and the chill was immediately felt in camp. December 21st is not only the first day of winter, but also the shortest daylight period in a year. Today being the 17th, we are dark pretty early. There will be almost a half moon this weekend, which allows us to walk around camp without a flashlight most of the time.
At 1810 headlights are seen coming across the flats towards our camp. They passed through the pipe markers, and immediately the cry of a wild ass thirsty Mofk was heard, as the truck plunged into the wash below. Everyone of the gang in camp returned the cry as best they could repeat. Pretty sorry bunch of rebel yells if you ask me. When my secretary used to throw her typewriter, she yelled better. Punks!
Let the celebration begin. The Honorable Mr. Harris and I began the process of turning seeming worthless pieces of Dove breasts into a super gourmet extravaganza. Yes, we are making Dove Jalapeño, for these losers. Can you believe it, that we would actually feed these wonks. Well sometimes it’s the Christian thing to, even when you know they will come back. One bite of this extraordinary flavorful feast and you will never get rid of their kind. Hell, It’s almost Christmas, and in this spirit we both turn too, and do the deed.
Well Lucky Harris is a human dynamo when it comes to selecting a Jalapeño half, and mating it with a Dove breast of a similar size, and then joining the two quickly and skillfully with a toothpick. Something they never taught him in law school. It was during his years as a street bum, before his bar exam, that he learned this skill. It seems he was one of the few in the freight yard that had the ability to sew up men after mutual combat. This of course is not widely known, that is why you read it here and now in these pages devoted to truth at all costs.
The Jalapeño Dove recipe I might add for clarity in this missive, is an old family recipe brought over by John, and was sewn into the liner of his pantaloons. The meal dates back to the time of the Sepoy mutiny. It seems John’s relatives worked directly under Gunga Din and watched closely as the officers of the Black Watch regiment waived the Jalapeño Dove under the noses of captured muslim warriors. It was the only torture condoned by amnesty international. I know, you guys think I pull this stuff from my ass, but you are dead wrong. The next time you visit the Punjab War Crimes Museum in Deli, you will have the answer. Bunch of smart asses!!
Jon and I worked together as a finely tuned machine. In time, the Jalapeño Dove were ready for the deep fry. We filled two large plates, used all the Jalapeños, and had some Dove left over for our stew tomorrow. The only distraction during this work was the dancing flashlights emanating from the Roe Rock Rats that were scampering over the large rock monolith called Painted Rock. How they make it from point “A” to point “B” without injury is beyond my understanding. It must be those velcro shoes John buys for the kids just down the street from where he lives, at that shithole Korean discount center. No shoe over $2.95. How else can you explain how two kids six and seven never misstep on such a surface. Bravo for them. They will no doubt be in an Olympic event some day, and if they add rock climbing, that will be their dual gold.
This night is long and tiring. It is very hard for your eyes to remain open after a dinner like we just had. I’ll bet I could sleep on a bed of nails after that without complaint.
Well “Kevin the dull” got the fire going and it seemed at this moment that we brought plenty for two nights. I can never quite trust him though. If I go to bed early Kevin will stay up late and burn most of my wood. Putz! I will try to do my duty tonight and remain awake.
A bunch of tall stories went around this campfire tonight boys. You had to be there. Let the bullshit flow. Each in turn tried desperately to outdo the previous story. They all make me sick. I have dedicated my entire life to truth and here they mock me so. This is the way it is in the Mojave. You must learn to cope.
At 2140 hours, lights were again seen coming across the flats toward our camp. I however was in my bunk trying to recover from wading in deep shit around the campfire. It had to be Russ they said, and sure enough it was. No wild ass cry from him on his approach, just the hum of a Chevy well broke in. I pretended to sleep as they all glad handed Russ, then the shit got deeper and “Kevin the Dull” crossed the line on firewood. I knew he would.
This night these clowns rallied around Russ, who was wound from his drive, and mounted up in his Chevy for a Coyote hunt up the canyon. I haven’t a clue as to the time they returned or who exactly went. Russ and Kevin I am sure of because of their MO. The others are gray to me.
Reveille this morning is approximately 0620. I got the coffee going in my brand new 12-cup SS pot. Even with the larger size this would no doubt be a two pot morning. Their heads were huge this morning. I wish I brought a pair of symbols. For breakfast this morning I would make a grand fandango, consisting of 18 eggs, jalapeños, sliced Lindsey olives, one large brown onion, one can of diced chilies, one large handful of bacon bits, one bag of Lil Smokies, and salt and pepper. Such a deal!!
Well before long, each in turn was draggin ass. Their bellies were full and the second pot of coffee was brewing. These guys would rather lay around camp grabassin, then actually go out and hunt. I am convinced of that. I do have to admit. It sure is fine sitting around talking, and let all that food settle in. I’m sure the food, coffee, and the small bowl of Advil Kevin gave Russ cleared his head.
Time’s a wasting! We mount up and start our walk. Kevin and the Honorable Mr. Harris join me in sweeping the first set of hills to our front, While Quietman and Russ will join us later by truck. We sweep the area south of the first island, and I told the guys to slow down as I swept the area quickly between the Island and the mountain. They agreed and I made my entrance to the area behind the island. As soon as I did I kicked up a covey of Quail and shot at one heading for the island, and quickly turned to down one going toward the mountain. I was just picking up my second bird when I heard John Harris yell that a bird was heading my way. I looked up and sure enough he was at my three o’clock. I had just enough time to straighten up and fire twice, the first directly over my head, and the second bent over backwards. The second shot was the magic, and I saw him fall in the rocks on the mountain. However, on my own I might have lost the bird, but “Indian John” had a fix from a different perspective, and vectored me in on the bird. Bingo! Great start this morning.
Snivelers may not apply in this realm of hunting. This is the first extreme game, and it is played “for keeps”. Weasels, dipsticks, renegades, democrats, and sorry asses need look towards baseball, Nintendo and golf for their game, for this is the game, and the season for hunters.
We swept north and then had Quietman and Russ arrive. The five of us fanned out on line and began heading east towards the area in between the Monolith and the second island. I was on the north end with what I can remember as “Indian Harris” in the middle. As we made our way across the open area I could see Russ and Quietman began to run. I knew they saw birds on the ground to their front. I heard the shooting and then a cloud of birds rose up and I could see them clearly fly north. I was now the closest to them, and was in a dead run to close on them wherever they decided to land. Quail don’t fly far, so I new I would be near when they landed exhausted.
They flew further up slope than I have ever seen in the past. The guys were still running east. I got a landmark on the mountain to lock onto when I saw them all land. As I made my final approach to this area I found myself alone. Slowly I started to hunt the area and within a moment birds in two’s and three’s began to take flight. I was dropping them at first but soon they were down to singles and with my ears they were just ahead of my ability to hear their wings on takeoff. Still I bagged a few, then it was singles only. This really was a target rich environment. There were birds everywhere and I was all alone. It was meant to be. When I looked south I couldn’t even see the guys, but I did hear their firing.
On two different occasions I hit birds flying directly east into the monolith. I did not find either, and it should have been easy. In my search for the downed birds I climbed higher to look down on the area below, so as to find my birds. While looking down in the area below I saw what appeared to be a white bone. When I gave up on the birds I climbed to a lower level and once again looked for the bone. The area I was in was a large donut shaped jungle of thorny matter without an entrance to the center. This reminded me of the South African Commando, making a lager at night to defeat attacking tribes, or wild animals trying to get the horses. It is impregnable for the purpose it was designed. I climbed down and placed my shotgun in front of me and pushed my way to the interior of the donut. At first I saw the skeletal remains of a large animal, but as I turned around what I saw really blew me away. I counted eleven complete skeletons of Desert Big Horns. I could not believe my eyes. This was not unlike Tarzan when he discovered the legendary elephant burial ground. When done examining all that was here, I selected the smallest Ram’s head to take back with me. This was no easy chore. I was two miles from camp and I still had hunting to do. For a while I placed the skull on a large rock and continued to hunt the area. I got two more birds but again I could not recover them. Frustrated I recovered my skull and began to carry it in the direction of camp.
As I walked back I was presented with many, many opportunities on singles and doubles, taking off usually right behind me. With the additional burden of carrying the heavy skull I could not aim properly and missed every bird. There were times I fired all three rounds from the hip, and at other times I fired at an odd angle with only one hand on the shotgun. Pathetic!
I had to give up further hunting and proceed directly back to camp. Along the way I began to see small movement well south of my position. This had to be them so I changed course and headed directly toward the figures. Before long we were reunited and even at a distance I could clearly detect “Horn Envy”. Yes, here we are, not that huge of a distance from the Ponderosa, and these men, out from under the spell of Hoss and Little Joe begin to behave badly. I guess they never read the Ten Commandments. Remember, “thou shalt not covet”. It’s number ten!! Bunch of damn bufoonskis! Well I got the horn and they can kiss my pearly white ass. Those are my thoughts!
Well maybe that was a bit harsh. After all I have been walking all morning and forgot to bring any water or cerveza on this morning’s hunt. When I left camp I was so stuffed with food, and drank three large cups of coffee, I didn’t think I needed too. I was wrong, for when we got to John’s Excursion I was immediately offered a cold brewski. So strike the last few lines. They are all a pretty fair bunch of pards to share a hunting trip, although I’m not quite sure about Indian John.
Well One beer led to two. You know the drill. Soon I was done carrying my prize, for Quietman offered to place it in the rear of his SUV for the trip to camp so the rest of us could continue the hunt. This has been an outstanding morning for sure.
We all arrive at camp and those with birds begin the chore of cleaning. I however must sit my tired ass on something soft and marvel at all the busy work going on.
This noon Perry Mason is going to perform a miracle. He is going to make barbecue pheasant sandwiches for lunch, and believe it or not he pulls it off. Now you would think at this point, that this is not really a hunting trip but an eating adventure. Well it sure has elements of both and that’s what makes it so great.
As I watch these guys I feel I am a pretty good judge of character. However one stands out that I am concerned about. I was at Guadalcaditch before it was a canal, and believe I am a pretty good judge of horse flesh (Marine hardware). All right maybe only the hindquarter. Whatever! Now my sources tell me that Cooley is legendary in the Corps, for he cant find his ass with a flashlight. It’s not that his light is dim. He can’t find it with any aid. Rumor Control tells me that he had trouble when his Squad lit him up with all the hand lights available. I read a blurb in the “Leatherneck” the other day and it said Sergeant Cooley is no longer in search of his ass. My advise Mr. Cooley, is to “let your fingers do the walking”, and never ask for assistance from those you deem trustworthy. You might just wind up in a tell all missive. I’m done!
This afternoon we split up again. Russ and Father Roe will place their candy asses in John’s vehicle for a drive to other locations. Some good, some bad, some even MAY be legal. The remainder of the gang will repeat, or try to, the same route of this morning. Remember this whole place is a target rich environment, but not every patch of ground contains birds at any given time. At a point on every day, I believe there are birds on every acre.
For this outing I bring along four brewskis and two Gatorades. I am living my dream. How and under what circumstances I found each of these men is a deep mystery. It is one of those things that will be revealed to me near the end. Maybe at the Pearly Gates, maybe not. I count my blessings not in hardware, or profit, but in relationships. This group of five, and the two futures, are the best a guy could hope for. One damn fine group of men to adventure with that is for sure. In a pinch your six is safe. Is there any wonder the Piutes have not attacked. Another brewski my good man!
On our second crossing of the day the activity is less but we are on our game and vigilant. If you hunt as much as we do, you must remain alert for the eventual motion of a bird on the ground or in flight. It is stressful to the novice, but not to this gang.
The hours pass as we cross the miles in search of birds. We make contact but not as much as this morning. Mr. Harris is determined to bag a few cottontails on the return trip to camp. He has not enjoyed that flavor is some time and eagerly anticipates the harvest.
In the distance we can see John’s Excursion every now and then. They cover lots of terrain in a shorter time than we do; however I will not trade my walking for any conveyance. I’m living my dream out here.
Mr. Harris seems to be enjoying himself on this trip. He wears a shit eatin grin most of the time. This is his first time here, so I wondered if he would embrace it. By the look on his face, he has. He and I are the seasoned citizens of this group, and when I look at John, all I can think is Old age is no place for sissies. He has the right stuff or he would not get the invite.
We are taking a break on the edge of a major wash in this area. Three tired
hunters sitting on the edge of a ten-foot drop into the wash. They drank water while I enjoyed my last brewski. It is always a routine pleasure for us to find an out of the way location to rest and enjoy the fantastic view while reminiscing the hours we just spent in the field. My problem is that I lost my ass at the turn of the last century, and have little left to comfort me when I sit on hard ground.
As we found a pathway into the wash for the walk back. I heard the sound of a diesel engine. That can only be John and he ain’t QUIET. I fired a round from my shotgun and sure enough, in a moment John and Russ peered over the edge and gave us their itinerary. They would continue to hunt into the next canyon while we made our way back to camp and cleaned birds. The remaining walk was without incident. We all arrived by a different route, and settled into some soft chairs to celebrate our greatness. Many miles in the field and with a pretty fast pace to kick up the birds makes us all deserving of our earned rest.
Moskowitz started the fire late. That is good since lots of tonight’s wood was burned last night. Thank you very much, for all of you campfire aficionados.
Tonight’s dinner will be a Grand Slam, knock your socks off camp stew. I started with four cans of Trader Joe’s beef stew, added a can of sweet corn, diced chiles, sliced jalopenos, left over dove breasts, sliced olives, two cans of chile with no beans, add thirty Costco meatballs, a pinch of salt and pepper and just a dab of Tabasco sauce. Done! All we have to do now is wait for the brew to heat.
Everyone is around the campfire this evening and Quietman has become an Ace. He commands the high ground with the light from the fire as an ally and using his CO2 Gamo BB gun he quickly earns his place in the Mouse Murder hall of fame. They were dropping like wood on the fire. If they were rare, they are now extinct. Years from now they will speak of the very special species of painted Rock field mice found no where else on this planet. On 18 December the species vanished. I’ll sleep well tonight.
The chow bell was rung at 1930 hours and this crew manned their forks. We have plenty tonight even with five hungry mouths to feed. You could hear a pin drop this evening while we ate. There was only one urgency this evening and that was FOOD. The dishes were all washed in a timely manner and in no time at all the camp was cleaned and ready for the evening to settle in around the campfire. The sky was filled with stars even with a half moon showing. Cool tonight, probably down to 35 degrees. Not bad. At least there is no precipitation. Taps 2200.
I awakened early this morning but did not get up directly. I waited, listened, and concentrated for movement around camp as I always do before getting up. Sure enough I heard some clunker moving about so I got my Tomcat ready. Well what do you know. It seems I caught Father Roe on his way to a costume party. He was dressed like a “made for TV” ninja warrior. Instead of swords he had a Ruger 10-22 hanging by a sling from his back and another rifle in his hands. Now here I am the deafest man in camp when this guy comes stompin along, and he grabs my attention. Only in the Mojave boys!
Reveille this morning was 0630. Coffee was the first thing to make even before I relieved myself. It takes a lot of heat for a long time to heat 12 cups. When I looked over at Jerome he was a sight. Even without his glasses he had four eyes. I sure hope he looks somewhat better when the sun comes over the rock.
It is the coldest time of the night, just before sunrise. Today it is right around 30 degrees. This morning we will have sweet rolls for breakfast with coffee and grapefruit juice. A good healthy breakfast by my standards. Out here, that’s all that counts. We are all up and about in degrees. The bad thing about Sunday is that we know we are leaving on this day, so we must roll our bags and put away those things that will not be used further on this trip, like the cots, and stove, once coffee is complete.
My Ram’s skull has been sitting for the best aspect when the sun comes up. I fear a visit on Sunday by the ranger, and him seeing my prize might not be a good thing. I consciously made a decision to hide it, but forgot to actually do it.
When we all left for the field it weighed heavy in my thoughts. To get it this far and have it confiscated would really be unthinkable. We hunt across the same terrain as yesterday. Birds are in abundance in places, and we are in contact a respectable amount of time. This day is a joy walking and I think all of us feel good after three days of hard walking. As the days go by in the field I always feel stronger and more capable. I think that is a common thread between us.
We were all running about when we found a large number of birds on the far side of the second island. They broke up and flew up onto a bench. It is here that we pursued them and we all split up on singles. Kevin went south while Russ and Indian John and I swept a canyon. There were plenty of birds here and before long we were all scattered. While shooting a bird at one point it fell directly in front of Russ. He saved me the walk and we continued. I shot a second bird and Russ at the same time. It appears he was over a rise in the direction of my shot and one BB struck him in the hat. Great LESSON LEARNED. Always wear shooting glasses to protect your eyes from damage. WORDS FOR THE WISE!!
On the turn towards camp, Indian John once again stated he would bag a few cottontails for the cooler. We were in the wash now walking south. This has always been a hot spot at different times of the day. Just maybe we will get lucky today. Sure enough Russ an I see them on the ground far out in front of us we ran like hell trying to close on them, and still they ran. As they came to a small rise I knew they would fly over the other side. I fired two rounds and threw dirt on them and still they didn’t fly. When we got to the top of the rise they were no where in sight. I have experienced this before and started to look real close in all the bushes close to the ridge, but found nothing. Suddenly Russ kicked up a single and dropped it. We never saw another bird from this group. Amazing how they can hold so tight.
When we all returned to camp for lunch, Mr. Harris made his famous barbecued pheasant once again. We all settled into the soft chairs for our lunch and brew. A great day. Soon all I heard was “that’s it for me”, first from Jerome and then I could clearly see Russ was packing to be the first to leave. It was at this time that someone from the group spotted a white vehicle heading north into the canyon. Ranger!
I placed my Rams skull in the rocks just above our camp for safe keeping, fore when he returns south on the road he will surely drive into our camp.
At this point most everyone was busy with some type of packing for the drive home. As I looked over at Quietman he was in the middle of a grand pack. With two little hunters with him, he had lots of gear to stow.
Russ had no interest in the ranger at all, for he was planning his departure until something caught his eye. It was a Jack moving on a far hill but within sight of our camp. He quickly grabbed his .22-250 with bipod and ran to a perch on the rocks. In the sitting position he held steady for one moment and then the shot rang out. And what do you think a Marine Sharpshooter would proclaim after releasing the trigger? “Did I get him”? Kevin’s rejoinder was “yea, it’s that red mist floating in the air”. Oh, I’ll tell you what. They don’t make them like they used too. My thoughts.
The Ranger returned into view, and sure enough drove between the entrance pipes and headed to our camp. I grabbed a beer and walked in the direction he would enter. He stopped just outside our camp and got out. It was Bret; the same Ranger that Kevin and I met in the snowstorm a few weeks ago and he remembered us as well. He is young and on his guard. This time he is wearing a bulletproof vest and packing what looks to be a Berreta 9mm. The number of trucks in this camp must have placed him on guard.
Kevin and I talked to him for almost twenty minutes. His demeanor always remained professional. Seems like a nice young man. I hope he is the one we deal with for the next few years. Kevin even teasingly asked if he wanted to see our hunting licenses, and with a smile he said no. It was at this moment that Russ was about to leave in his truck. He squeezed by the Ranger’s vehicle and was gone. WEEELLLL, maybe I’m being too hasty. It seems Russ left behind his coyote and Jackrabbit shootin gun. It was just lying in an open case on the ground near my truck. I closed it and carried it over to Father Roe for safekeeping. The Ranger departed and once again he drove north to see the grave of a Navy man that was buried near the ruins of an old line shack. His headstone remains the only thing left in the area. The ranger asked directions and was going to find the site before leaving this area.
Nothing but a cloud of dust was seen at the entrance pipes before we suddenly saw the appearance of Russ’s Chevy pickup entering camp. And just what do you think he returned for. One slick shootin gun, that’s what. If he could only buy a triggerman to go with it, it would be money well spent.
Karate Joe and his gang are second to leave, followed by Laverne in his foreign job, and last but not least, my fine Ford with old ‘Rabbit Harris” riding shotgun.
Roe heads north while we go south. Kevin and I lay plans to visit another area of the Old woman on the way out. Trouble is we could not find the road while heading south. When we finally understood our mistake, we decided NEXT TIME.
After crossing the railroad tracks Kevin had a country and western tape he had us listen to in the cab of my truck. Pretty cool. We all had one more brewski while we listened to the song. Boys it’s PUNTO FINAL!
Another great hunting adventure with four guys that are both mentally and physically powerful. I do enjoy their company MUCHO. Some day we must hold another secret ceremony, in a highly secret location, and induct three new members into the HIGHLY SECRET ORDER OF THE LC’s. Yes of course, background checks, résumé, the gauntlet, and other unspeakable tests of the mind and body, and unlike the public school system we will not grade on a curve. The LC’s are for keeps. There is no way out. It is an extreme brotherhood. Even we don’t know what the letters mean, but know that at the pearly gates, all will be revealed.
Tally Ho Amigos
Great memories, with a great bunch of miserable malcontents
LC-1 Tom
* truth conquers all things
17-19 December, 2004