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|"Long and Nasty Tales" (standard:Creative non-fiction, 13458 words)|
|Author: Saxon Violence||Added: Dec 19 2012||Views/Reads: 1638/1089||Story 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 REAL OR NOT? 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. Click here to read the rest of this story (1656 more lines)
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