Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Booze, Guns, and Bombs

There we were, surrounded and out-numbered by four incredibly pissed off Butler County Sheriff Deputies, pointing their issued guns directly at our faces. I vaguely recall asking myself how I got into this mess, just as my thoughts then drifted back to the time shortly after all of the alcohol had been imbibed. When my then-girlfriend Chelsea, her 15-year old brother Curtis, his friend Blake and I made the conscious decision to have a mid-day bonfire for no reason whatsoever in semi-wet conditions.

But this was not designed to be your standard bonfire, in fact we had a dozen or so two-liter sized metal bottles of pressurized propane for what can only be assumed was our potential camping needs, and we planned on putting them to good use.

In the beginning, we were having great fun sitting in Chelsea’s backyard, watching Curtis chuck the propane bottles into the fire, and just as their casings began to hiss, shooting them with his father’s 44-magnum and exploding them into 20 foot tall, roaring fireball clouds. Judging by the time of the polices arrival, they must have been called shortly after the fourth mammoth explosion, just as the neighbor began to become frightened that we might next turn our drunken pyromaniacal gaze toward her house.

Mere seconds after we realized that they had arrived, one cop was aiming his weapon directly at my face and shouting unintelligible obscenities, while another attempted to apprehend Curtis, who was still holding the gun in question, and was vainly attempting to duck behind a half dead pine tree. At that moment, I was convinced that this was the last time I was going to see him alive, and looking back, I believe I made the correct assumption.

It wasn’t until the cop followed him around the tree, and threatened to bring his life to an abrupt stop that Curtis thought it wise to throw the gun to the ground. He was then immediately tackled by the bulbous pig, thrown into handcuffs, and stuck into the back of the cruiser before dialogue of any type could take place.

After the short interrogation in the back of the squad car, the shortest and stubbiest cop (from here on out I’ll just refer to him as “Stubby“) then focused his undivided attention upon me. “How old are ya boy?” He shouted in my face. Before I could even finish my sentence explaining that I had just turned 18 he interrupted me with more berating. “Ya know that makes you guilty of corruption of a minor? I could take put you in jail right now, but if you just be straight with me, I won‘t take ya in.” I then informed him that I had just arrived and was ignorant of any goings on, save for the fact that I heard an incredible roar that I believed to have been coming from somewhere down the road.

It soon became obvious during my grilling that this swine had not put together the fact that between the fire and the place where the gun had ultimately landed, sat a half used package of propane bottles. “Ah“, I thought to myself, “his powers of deduction are even below my wildest expectations.” He was obviously native to this region, he actually believed that only the gun was being shot, he had no clue to the mamoth explosions.

So after “Stubby” grilled Curtis’ friend, my girlfriend, and myself once again, the officer told us that there was no need to jail Curtis, because as he said, “Juevy is full.” Despite the fact that juenenelle hall was full, they would still bring him up on charges to which would require him to make a brief court appearance. “Thank god. I thought to myself. I won’t have to explain to his parents why they have to bail him out of jail.”

Before “Stubby” shifted his attention back to Curtis who was in one of the now three squad cars in the neighbor’s driveway, he told us (including Curtis’ mother on the telephone) in no uncertain terms that they were going to continue to scare the bejesus out of him, but that he would not be arrested. So, of course after he was out the front door, we did the only natural thing- we stared out the side window of their house and cackled like school girls about the fact that Curtis was clueless, scared shitless, and in no immediate threat of being jailed by the cops that were harassing him.

It is for this reason, we took many hilarious photos of the cops interrogating him. After all, what would be better than to sit back after this with a few beers and crack up over the photos of this fine incident after the pigs had left.

We were having an amazing time watching the cops barade Curtis. They put fingers in his face, waved their hands around in the air, yelled, preached… the whole bit. Then rather abruptly, they put him back into the car.

“Their really going all out, I said, must really be giving him a scare putting him back in the car like that….pulling out the drive way like that….down the road….oh hell.” Soon enough the car was out of sight, and “Stubby” was walking back to our house. “Their taking him in” he said.

We immediately asked why they had the terrible change of heart, and he refused to respond. Having a somewhat short temper, I repeatedly asked him why such a thing would ever occur, and he danced around the question with multiple answers, all resembling- “It was up to the arresting officer”. With the same amount of skillful tact that they had used for this whole proceeding, the stubby bastard then reminded me of the “break” that they had given me and walked away.

Unfortunately, all of this occurred on a Friday, and juvenile court does not convene until Monday. Even worse yet, we later discovered that there is no bail system for minors in trouble with the law, and that poor Curtis would indeed be spending the weekend in Butler County Juvenile Hall.

Fortunately for Curtis, “Juevy was a walk in the park” as he put it. But perhaps even more fortunate for me, Chelsea’s parents immediately forgave me for not stopping a drunken 15 year old from wielding a firearm and blowing up what was essentially bombs in their backyard. Today Curtis and I still get together, and after a few rounds and shots, begin retelling the story for anyone (and usually no-one that cares) that will listen, and it always starts out the same way. “There we were, surrounded and out numbered”

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