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"Long and Nasty Tales" (standard:Creative non-fiction, 13458 words)
Author: Saxon ViolenceAdded: Dec 19 2012Views/Reads: 1576/1034Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Working on the "Long and Nasty" Railroad in the early '80s... "Long Ago, Far Away and So Much Better Than it is Today".

Long and Nasty Tales 


I was working on the Long and Nasty Railroad, installing Ribbon-Rail,
that's Rail in long continuous sections—down around Beattyville, 
Kentucky. Everybody went home on the weekend, except me. I stayed in 
the Camp Cars, 'cause it was a long drive home and I preferred to rest. 

Well I had two .45 Autos back then—both 70 series Colts. One was a Blued
Government Model, the other a Satin Nickel Combat Commander. Both of 
them had their grip safeties pinned—something all good Pistoleros do. I 
seldom went very far without one or the other of my companions. 

I got the urge to go exercise my trigger fingers. I have one on each
hand and they used to get real cranky, if they didn't get to go 
shooting two or three times a week. So I took my Guns and a rucksack 
containing two or three hundred rounds of hardball and went walking 
East down the Tracks, looking for a likely place to shoot. I went a 
mile—or two—or five—outside of town—don't remember. 

I found an interesting small stone bridge—a natural formation, I'm
talking about—about thirty foot up a stone Wall. I stood there and 
fired most of my appointed practice rounds at the little stone 
doo-hicky, hoping that I could make it fall. 

I hadn't started reloading yet but I fully intended to soon; yet I left
my brass laying all on the Tracks—looking all shiny, like a bunch of 
lost Krugerrands. Some chucklehead had told me that you couldn't reload 
S&W brass and I believed him—how was I to know any different? I left 
beaucoup good brass lying around 'cause of that peckerwood. 

I reloaded my Guns. Now this is a pivotal detail of my story—or it
matters not at all—you'll have to decide. Back then I still believed in 
the Hollow Point Placebo for Handguns and I thought that Winchester 
Silvertip Hollow Points were the most potent Placebo, by far. I knew 
that they weren't really Silver—nonetheless, the term "Silvertip" was 
prominent in my mind. 

My Pistols Reloaded; I started back. Part way, a small trail caught my
eye. It was wonderment to be sure. It was steep and strewn with jagged 
rocks. It looked like a dried up streambed but it'd have to be a 
powerful stream to carry such big rocks down. 

I followed the streambed some indeterminate distance into the woods. It
seemed real hard to walk on with all those sharp stone surfaces lying 
slightly catawampus to the ground that way. It felt like trying to walk 
in an antigravity house. And of course it was choked with a charming 
assortment of poison ivy, blackberry, and wild rose and chigger weeds 
on every side. At the end of the trail was a Big Old Cave. 

Time out for a Public Service Announcement: 

I'll try to put this as delicately as I can but your friend and humble
narrator used to alter his state of consciousness by chemical means—O 
yes! Now I've said it. 

I used to take speed like M&Ms. I'd layer them for effect. Two Yellow
Phentermine Tablets in the morning, along with two or three Caffeine 
Tablets to fly fighter support. Then exactly two hours later, two White 
Crosses—Black RJS, Pink Ladies, Speckled Pups, Butterfly Speed that 
also contained Phenobarbital—and made my ears ring. 

I once quoted Skeeter Skelton's remark about the good old days, "Back
when Gila Monsters were six-stories tall" to a friend. 

"Remember them well, " quoth he. " That was back when Blotter Acid was
fifty cents a pop. Now that I think about it: I believe that's why the 
Gila Monsters were six stories tall back then!" 

Well the cave's entrance was over twice as tall as me (six foot). It was
wide enough to drive at least four cars into it abreast—assuming that 
you had some way to get the cars there in the first place. 

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