NuclearNed
Raconteur
This afternoon, I was on my first lap around the yard with my push mower when I felt an explosive jolt in my right calf muscle. I didn?t actually see the little perpetrator, but years of painful experience have taught me two things: 1) I had bumbled into a yellow jacket nest, and 2) I urgently needed to flee with arms flailing to some safer place. I ran inside the house and summoned the wife for her assistance. Ever since I found out I?ve developed a potentially life-threatening allergy to bee stings, I have come up with a routine for what happens next. I took a full strength dose of antihistamine, and then spent the next 20 minutes fervently praying for my life to continue as scheduled, uninterrupted by sudden death. If 20 minutes pass and I?m still functional at the end, then I?m in the clear to exact whatever vengeance I deem necessary on the little hellions.
I?m pleased to report that once again, the bees suck at killing me. After a couple of congratulatory high-fives with the wife, my thoughts turned to more stimulating topics, like heaping piles of bee carcasses.
I walked outside to survey the scene of the attack. The stealthy little bastards had been able to hastily set up a forward operations camp in a small hole between a couple of bricks outside my kitchen window. Usually during my daily patrols I would have noticed the nest building activity and would have easily neutralized the threat. Unfortunately, I?ve been out of town for a couple of days, allowing enemy activity to proceed unchecked. The situation was grim. Normally my preferred method of extermination would be to drown the intruders with gasoline, but such a highly flammable chemical applied directly on my base of operations might create extremely adverse affects (like having to explain to the wife why I was dousing the house with gasoline). This job needed to be handled with care and precision. I was going to need something special. I decided I was going to have to call in Colonel Sizemore.
B.B. King has his beloved guitar, named Lucille. Thor has his fierce war hammer, named Mjolnir. The Dukes of Hazzard have the General Lee. And I have Colonel Sizemore, my trusty can of bee spray, a tough-as-nails killing machine, and a beloved old friend.
I first became acquainted with the Colonel last summer during a major enemy incursion deep into my territory. I was in dire need of a specialist who would be able to commandeer the situation and dole out widespread death indiscriminately. His credentials were impeccable, if not somewhat unbelievable. Nobody could blame me for being skeptical when he boasted of being able to take out multiple targets with a single shot from long range. Killing a few straggling members of the enemy seemed reasonable, but he claimed that he was able to take out entire nests by himself. He had a threefold specialization: 1) kill the enemy instantly, 2) leave no survivors, and 3) poison the enemy?s territory, leaving it useless to them. I figured I would give this youngster just enough rope to hang himself. I paid the Wal-Mart lady my hard-earned cash and hired the Colonel?s services.
I must admit that I was immediately impressed the first time the Colonel obliterated a wasp nest single-handedly with merely a few well-placed shots. My admiration for him grew as the summer simmered away and he untiringly decimated waves upon waves of the best that the enemy could offer. The other chemical agents in my garage lost their good standing, while he was allowed to bunk in a place of honor. In a matter of days, bees for miles around knew his name; they spoke it with fear and dread. A friendship evolved, and soon he never left my side. Unfortunately, as the battles grew more frequent and fierce, I noticed that Colonel Sizemore seemed to grow weary. His shots grew increasingly erratic. His ability to kill at a distance visibly diminished. He became weathered and exhausted. Finally, winter arrived and I released him from his duty. At long last, he was able to take a break from the carnage for a while.
This afternoon, I roused the old warrior from his well-earned rest with a gentle shake. After I apprised him of the situation, he assured me that he still had enough fire in his belly to complete this task that I gave him. He slowly climbed back into the saddle and prepared for one more adventure into the battlefield. Somewhere deep inside, he had to have known that this was going to be his last ride.
The old Colonel and I strode side by side to the enemy nest. Fearlessly, he jumped into the frenzy of battle, and for a while looked just like his younger gallant self. While enraged soldiers threw themselves at him, with exacting precision he quickly dispatched them to their eternal fiery damnation. He was merciless, killing young and old, male and female, soldier and civilian. He was a glorious spectacle of warcraft and destruction. But as the battle wore on, his strength rapidly left him. Soon, though the job was complete, the enemy was dead or dying, and their base was in utter ruin, the Colonel was barely able to draw breath. He was completely spent. With me at his side, he coughed out a final puff of poison, then gasped no more. He had selflessly given his life in defense of all I hold dear.
Before I could even mourn his passing, a fat-bodied queen struggled out of the nest hole. Though poison blurred her vision, her gaze locked on mine. We each could feel the hatred of the other, and both of us knew that one and only one of us could control my property. As she prepared to spring and deploy her venom, my boot sprung unbidden into action. Enraged by the loss of the Colonel, the boot stomped and smashed until the queen?s bulbous body was nothing more than a messy stain on the ground.
For a while afterwards, I sat nearby and cradled Colonel Sizemore in my arms. I wept openly. Every now and again, a straggler tried to return to the hive, only to be swiftly crushed in the Colonel?s honor. Finally, with a tear-stained face, I returned to the garage and lovingly tossed the Colonel into his final resting place among the other shop garbage.
Fare thee well, brave soldier. May you finally find the peace you so well deserve.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
I?m pleased to report that once again, the bees suck at killing me. After a couple of congratulatory high-fives with the wife, my thoughts turned to more stimulating topics, like heaping piles of bee carcasses.
I walked outside to survey the scene of the attack. The stealthy little bastards had been able to hastily set up a forward operations camp in a small hole between a couple of bricks outside my kitchen window. Usually during my daily patrols I would have noticed the nest building activity and would have easily neutralized the threat. Unfortunately, I?ve been out of town for a couple of days, allowing enemy activity to proceed unchecked. The situation was grim. Normally my preferred method of extermination would be to drown the intruders with gasoline, but such a highly flammable chemical applied directly on my base of operations might create extremely adverse affects (like having to explain to the wife why I was dousing the house with gasoline). This job needed to be handled with care and precision. I was going to need something special. I decided I was going to have to call in Colonel Sizemore.
B.B. King has his beloved guitar, named Lucille. Thor has his fierce war hammer, named Mjolnir. The Dukes of Hazzard have the General Lee. And I have Colonel Sizemore, my trusty can of bee spray, a tough-as-nails killing machine, and a beloved old friend.
I first became acquainted with the Colonel last summer during a major enemy incursion deep into my territory. I was in dire need of a specialist who would be able to commandeer the situation and dole out widespread death indiscriminately. His credentials were impeccable, if not somewhat unbelievable. Nobody could blame me for being skeptical when he boasted of being able to take out multiple targets with a single shot from long range. Killing a few straggling members of the enemy seemed reasonable, but he claimed that he was able to take out entire nests by himself. He had a threefold specialization: 1) kill the enemy instantly, 2) leave no survivors, and 3) poison the enemy?s territory, leaving it useless to them. I figured I would give this youngster just enough rope to hang himself. I paid the Wal-Mart lady my hard-earned cash and hired the Colonel?s services.
I must admit that I was immediately impressed the first time the Colonel obliterated a wasp nest single-handedly with merely a few well-placed shots. My admiration for him grew as the summer simmered away and he untiringly decimated waves upon waves of the best that the enemy could offer. The other chemical agents in my garage lost their good standing, while he was allowed to bunk in a place of honor. In a matter of days, bees for miles around knew his name; they spoke it with fear and dread. A friendship evolved, and soon he never left my side. Unfortunately, as the battles grew more frequent and fierce, I noticed that Colonel Sizemore seemed to grow weary. His shots grew increasingly erratic. His ability to kill at a distance visibly diminished. He became weathered and exhausted. Finally, winter arrived and I released him from his duty. At long last, he was able to take a break from the carnage for a while.
This afternoon, I roused the old warrior from his well-earned rest with a gentle shake. After I apprised him of the situation, he assured me that he still had enough fire in his belly to complete this task that I gave him. He slowly climbed back into the saddle and prepared for one more adventure into the battlefield. Somewhere deep inside, he had to have known that this was going to be his last ride.
The old Colonel and I strode side by side to the enemy nest. Fearlessly, he jumped into the frenzy of battle, and for a while looked just like his younger gallant self. While enraged soldiers threw themselves at him, with exacting precision he quickly dispatched them to their eternal fiery damnation. He was merciless, killing young and old, male and female, soldier and civilian. He was a glorious spectacle of warcraft and destruction. But as the battle wore on, his strength rapidly left him. Soon, though the job was complete, the enemy was dead or dying, and their base was in utter ruin, the Colonel was barely able to draw breath. He was completely spent. With me at his side, he coughed out a final puff of poison, then gasped no more. He had selflessly given his life in defense of all I hold dear.
Before I could even mourn his passing, a fat-bodied queen struggled out of the nest hole. Though poison blurred her vision, her gaze locked on mine. We each could feel the hatred of the other, and both of us knew that one and only one of us could control my property. As she prepared to spring and deploy her venom, my boot sprung unbidden into action. Enraged by the loss of the Colonel, the boot stomped and smashed until the queen?s bulbous body was nothing more than a messy stain on the ground.
For a while afterwards, I sat nearby and cradled Colonel Sizemore in my arms. I wept openly. Every now and again, a straggler tried to return to the hive, only to be swiftly crushed in the Colonel?s honor. Finally, with a tear-stained face, I returned to the garage and lovingly tossed the Colonel into his final resting place among the other shop garbage.
Fare thee well, brave soldier. May you finally find the peace you so well deserve.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
