Rapscallion
11-05-2006, 03:45 PM
I was over at a friend's house last night - had to drive about 130 miles after a ten-hour shift, and I nearly missed the event of the weekend, but it was good.
There's a sort-of tradition. I get invited by said chum every year to a fireworks do (November fifth or close for Guy Fawkes night - we've been burning effigies of terrorists for generations...), I get there, and am then told how much it's costing me for having driven all that way to pay for fireworks. It was actually much cheaper this year, what with other people having budgetary considerations (not my problem this time - the tables have turned and stuff).
That's right, folks - I got to blow things up.
We retired to the local playing field, where we shouldn't have done what we did, but nobody's complained yet. Many children abounded, as you might expect, since the biological clocks have been ticking in the region for some time. I and another guy were the usual two 'expendables' (as I like to think of us), since he's bred and I am in no danger of this. I was introduced to a third chap who was going to help us light the fuses. He answered to the name of 'Skippy', and he was a British soldier freshly back from Iraq. Nice guy, but apparently he was very freshly back. A firework had gone off a street away that morning as he was walking with his girlfriend, and he'd leapt into a bush...
Despite a lower budget, we had many more boomy things. Roman Candles were as lame as ever, fizzy things sparkled for a while, and rockets were more than a little impressive.
"It's lit! Run!" cried one guy.
"This one's almost caught - I'll be with you in a minute," was a common reply.
"Bury this deep," I read, the text residing above a line. No spade, no intent of taking one, and hope sprang eternal. Of course, it fell over once the fuse was lit, and since neither Skippy nor I knew what it did (sparkled or take heads off), we scarpered.
Well, the problem is that I don't run so fast, and he's a trained soldier, used to diving out of the way of exploding things. He executed a marvellous dive and roll through my right leg as I made an ungainly exit.
Turned out to be something that would have hurt - quite a bit. Damn, but we laughed.
A rocket launch tube decided to fall over, and though there were cried of panic, we three expendables laughed a it skittered along the ground and exploded in the grass. I went back in the morning, and it had left some incredible scorch marks.
I got talking to Skippy later. Next year, he promised to bring some stuff from work. However, he told me about a scar just above his eye.
He was part of a squad detailed to enter a house and arrest suspected insurgents inside. He was on point and had to kick the door down. The kick was ... somewhat misjudged. Only the lower door hinge broke - the top one held, but it twisted. The top of the door pivoted out and slammed into his forehead just above his eye.
Blood coursed down his face as he swore repeatedly. The Iraqi family inside just stared at him. All the guys with him who were supposed to be covering him were curled up laughing.
I like this guy.
So, how was your Saturday?
Rapscallion
There's a sort-of tradition. I get invited by said chum every year to a fireworks do (November fifth or close for Guy Fawkes night - we've been burning effigies of terrorists for generations...), I get there, and am then told how much it's costing me for having driven all that way to pay for fireworks. It was actually much cheaper this year, what with other people having budgetary considerations (not my problem this time - the tables have turned and stuff).
That's right, folks - I got to blow things up.
We retired to the local playing field, where we shouldn't have done what we did, but nobody's complained yet. Many children abounded, as you might expect, since the biological clocks have been ticking in the region for some time. I and another guy were the usual two 'expendables' (as I like to think of us), since he's bred and I am in no danger of this. I was introduced to a third chap who was going to help us light the fuses. He answered to the name of 'Skippy', and he was a British soldier freshly back from Iraq. Nice guy, but apparently he was very freshly back. A firework had gone off a street away that morning as he was walking with his girlfriend, and he'd leapt into a bush...
Despite a lower budget, we had many more boomy things. Roman Candles were as lame as ever, fizzy things sparkled for a while, and rockets were more than a little impressive.
"It's lit! Run!" cried one guy.
"This one's almost caught - I'll be with you in a minute," was a common reply.
"Bury this deep," I read, the text residing above a line. No spade, no intent of taking one, and hope sprang eternal. Of course, it fell over once the fuse was lit, and since neither Skippy nor I knew what it did (sparkled or take heads off), we scarpered.
Well, the problem is that I don't run so fast, and he's a trained soldier, used to diving out of the way of exploding things. He executed a marvellous dive and roll through my right leg as I made an ungainly exit.
Turned out to be something that would have hurt - quite a bit. Damn, but we laughed.
A rocket launch tube decided to fall over, and though there were cried of panic, we three expendables laughed a it skittered along the ground and exploded in the grass. I went back in the morning, and it had left some incredible scorch marks.
I got talking to Skippy later. Next year, he promised to bring some stuff from work. However, he told me about a scar just above his eye.
He was part of a squad detailed to enter a house and arrest suspected insurgents inside. He was on point and had to kick the door down. The kick was ... somewhat misjudged. Only the lower door hinge broke - the top one held, but it twisted. The top of the door pivoted out and slammed into his forehead just above his eye.
Blood coursed down his face as he swore repeatedly. The Iraqi family inside just stared at him. All the guys with him who were supposed to be covering him were curled up laughing.
I like this guy.
So, how was your Saturday?
Rapscallion