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The Old Man tells another of his stories

Libby's heard this one a thousand times

Dateline: Monday September 19, 2011 (Day 1,399)
Location: Out Camping with Friends
Reporter: George Armstrong "Old Man" Custer


Been a long time since we've done Story Time with Uncle Custer.
Let's knock out a bit of business first, then I'll share a story from my misadventurous life.



Kara Beth has run another Grab Bags promotion, to raise money for the Dept of Interior's Meals on Wheels and other programs which benefit new players and all Americans.
The contest has ended, with participants sending in $100 for each Grab Bag, and receiving prizes ranging from Food to Cash to Weapons and even Houses.
It's a great fundraiser for a great cause.


Last week, I piggybacked on this fundraiser by issuing a Challenge Coin challenge. A small group of sponsors picked up the gauntlet and sent Kara Beth money, nearly matching the Grab Bags' net profit, bringing her total take to almost $30,000.

This challenge continues: send Kara Beth a straight donation of $300, drop her a note saying that you do not want a Grab Bag, and I'll send you five Q5 weapons and a really tacky WHPR Coffee Mug.
I've kicked it off with another $300 donation of my own.

My personal thanks go out to Code0011, Jaywalker71, Nuiessa, TomT, IstLtHawkeye, Doe22, Myrielle, BeDva, and my beloved Libby, for joining me in supporting America through donating directly to Kara Beth last week.



Does your Bazooka collection look like this?


Last week I brought up the notion of throwing a "Bazooka Party."
I started to communicate with our leaders but in the course of my insane RL work week I pretty much dropped the ball. I'll see if I can pick up where we left off.
If anything can be arranged it'd likely be for Tuesday, so watch this paper and your Shouts column for an announcement.

No Challenge Coins will be awarded for participation in this event if it does come together.
I will make a cool graphic to include in that day's edition of this paper, for those who might wish to add it to their forum sig lines.


Okay, so let's settle in for a little story.

I've told this one a couple times recently... it's a fun one.

1984 was a landmark year for me. I'd left Oregon after my second venture there, headed to Connecticut to clear my head, spent the summer out on Cape Cod, then after a short visit back in Michigan headed to Key West for the winter. Flying into Miami, I took a cab to the South Miami Greyhound station for the last leg of the trip.

You know how you meet all sorts of interesting characters while traveling... maybe other travelers see me as that person. The Greyhound station in South Miami at 2am definitely had their share of interesting characters. There was this friendly fella at the bus station who sold me a little, er.. herbal headache remedy... so after securing my backpack and ticket in a locker I strolled down the street to sit on a city bus bench, kill some time and... partake.

Along comes my new friend, and he's got another friend with him. "Oh, joy!" I thought, "an opportunity to pass the time and learn about local culture." I really didn't want to travel with any herbal remedies on me anyways, so now we could burn it all up together.
I stand to greet my new friend. He asks for a cigarette, so I pull out my pack and extend my left hand with the open pack in it. He asks for a light, so I pull out my lighter, and offer that with my right.

While I'm standing there with both hands full out in front of me, his buddy had moved closer to me. He lifted my brand new leather jacket, and stuck me with a pretty big knife.. deep and hard-- I've taken falls and been in wrecks and broken some ribs, and this was at least that hard a hit. I saw white, my head started spinning, instead of "hey, what the fu..." there was bloody foam was coming out of my mouth. They hustled me around the corner to a dark doorway... took my jacket, boots and wallet, and ran off.
I maintained consciousness, barely, and assessed the damage... yep-- bloody foam coming out of my mouth and from the hole in my side... one lung struggling to suck air while the other was pushing blood milkshakes, this was definitely a problem. Taking off my shirt, I tore a strip and rolled it up to stuff into the hole. Then, wrapping the rest of the shirt around me, I staggered back to the Greyhound station and into the bathroom to clean up... control the bleeding and put a clean sweatshirt on over the mess. Wouldn't want to upset my fellow travelers with such a sight, ya know.

Of course the night man called the cops. After an hour or so they came and and took me for a ride around the neighborhood to look for the assailants. I convinced them it was just a scratch and I really needed to just catch my bus. They seemed anxious to write this whole thing off, and I caught my bus for the long ride to Key West.
I spent the winter setting up a jewelry store, stringing freshwater pearls and semi-precious stones, drinking to great excess, and recovering. No doctors, I got a thing about doctors.

Okay... so 1994 was another landmark year for me. I'd left my job in South Carolina to chase love up north in Michigan, but that all went badly and I found myself back down at my familiar suburbs delivering furniture. I'd sold my big International bread truck (kinda big for a personal vehicle, but that mutha rocked!) to make rent between jobs, and was taking the city buses while saving up for a new truck. My daily route had me changing buses at a particularly dangerous corner in the city.

It was February in Detroit, so there was plenty of snow and slush, and the sidewalks were icy. One day on my way home, a couple kids approached me. One asked for a smoke, then a light, while his buddy moved around to my side. Before I realized how familiar this scene was, the second kid pulls a damn gun on me.
"Okay, okay, take it easy, boys..." Now, most people are right handed and keep their wallet in their right back pocket. But I'm left handed. So out of my right rear pocket came my box cutter. With a big cross swing, I opened up the first kid's shoulder, and we all fell on our asses on the ice. The second kid had had his finger on the trigger, so when he fell... BOOM!

Now.. these were kids. Stupid punk kids. The pistol was a .32 cal, which is nice for up close defense but it's just not a proper offensive weapon. That little fat slug slammed me right on the shin, and pissed me off. We all got up, and I chased those boys half a block before the shock gave way to pain. I'm sure you've run your shin into a coffee table or something, you know how much that hurts... this was like that, except on fire. Of the four or so times I've been shot, I gotta say this one hurt the most.
So I limp on back to the main road, to the bus stop, find a place to kneel down and pull up my pant leg to assess the damage. Strangest thing I'd ever seen, the slug was stuck in my shin bone like a cork.. so of course I used my blade to pry it out. Idiot... damn stupid idiot-- now that hole starts gushing like an open fire hydrant, the shock returned, along with triple the pain.
Off comes the heavy winter coat... and the light jacket, and the sweatshirt, and the thermal shirt, and finally the t-shirt. It's February, remember, with sideways ice blowing and a wind chill around 20 below-- probably all that kept me conscious. Back on go the layers, and I used the t-shirt to wrap up my leg.
Cop car rolls up, they want to take a report and drive around the neighborhood-- more deja vu, but this time I wasn't playing along. My bus came up, and I told the officers they'd be welcome to call me if anything came up but for now either I get on that bus or they're driving me the 15 miles home when we're done chasing ghosts.

Got off the bus a stop early, hit the drug store for supplies, went home and climbed in the bathtub to make repairs as best I could. Oh, did I mention, I got a thing about doctors...
So the next morning at work-- yes, I dragged my ass to work-- I came up with a plan to get some time off with pay. While loading my truck, I pulled down a wall of furniture... a hutch, a headboard, a nice big dresser-- big noise. I gently lifted the dresser and laid down under it and hollered for help. Warehouse fellas came and pulled me out, carried me to the office. Big boss takes one look at my leg and says, "That's a damn bullet hole, you didn't get that injury in my truck! Now, you either get back out there and load up and do your run today, or you go home, but you sure as hell ain't getting Disability for this." Yeah, well... I never did miss a day of work over it.

Is there a moral to the story?
Don't take any crap from punks.
Don't go for pointless joyrides with cops.
Don't do doctors... well, you're welcome to, but I don't.
Nah... there's no moral to the story, it's just another adventure in this insane journey I'm on.


Announcements:


My gal, Libby, has set up a newspaper but hasn't published any articles yet.
You might subscribe ahead of time, though, to be sure and get the first edition when she's ready.

Shout of the Day:

Story Time with Uncle Custer
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/storytime-with-uncle-custer-armed-robbery-1865957/1/20
the man is truly insane.

ReShout it!

Regarding Donations to the Challenge Coins project: Stop Donating stuff.
I have plenty enough donated stock left over to cover helping out a few noobs here and there.

If you want to join the any branch of the USMilitary, the Training Corps is the place to start.

Do you have what it takes to be a Marine?
4000 strength, rank of General, 940 minimum influence per fight with no weapon



Lieutenant George Armstrong "Old Man" Custer
eUSMarine Corps Media Officer

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Semper Fi, America!
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