THE Real Story of That Trip: Part 6

The Cult—Born Into This

MoTW—Live Free Or Die Harder

So there I was, staring down the barrel of a shotgun that was held by an
old geezer with the serious shakes.

(If you've never looked down the barrel of a shotgun before, have a
friend go to the local hardware store and pick up a metal pipe. Then,
have him hold it out so one end is pointing directly at you. You should
stare directly into the pipe and VIOLA, you'll have gained the guilty
pleasure of staring down the barrel of a shotgun. For added pleasure,
have him hold the pipe with shake hands and you'll be exactly where I
was, except not on a highway in the middle of nowhere parked alongside
an old pickup truck loaded up with hundreds of chicken coops filled with
(surprise, surprise) chickens.

OR

Have someone point a shotgun at you. Either way works.)

I tried to come up with something sparkly witty to say but ended up
with, "But why?"

"Why? Because I'm sick and tired of people like you taking over my
land!"

"I'm not trying to take over your land! I'm just trying to deliver beer
to the state fair!"

"THE state fair?"

"Ummmm……yes?"

He pulled the shotgun back into the truck and tucked it back into its
hiding place (wherever that was).

"Tell you what," he said as he resumed his chin scratching. "Take your
pants off and we'll see what my chickens say."

"What?"

"BREAKER TEN NINER NINER EIGHTER NINER NINER!"

"What the hell was that?" asked the old man.

"Just a CB. Give me a second here……….go ahead Duckie."

"Killed those fuckers! Ran them the fuck right over. Ain't gonna be no
more of that 'Viva Viagra' shit, at least not in that neighborhood no
more."

"I guess that's good," I said and then noticed that the old man now held
a bow with one of those Rambo arrows with the exploding heads notched
and pointed directly at my head. "I think I'm in a bit of trouble here,
Duckie."

"You? No way!"

"Look, I'm sitting here with one of those exploding Rambo arrows pointed
at my head and this guy wants me to take off my pants for some reason so
his chickens can do something to me. What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?"

"What state are you in? If it's Nebraska, he's going to use those
chickens to pleasure you, but it'll actually be more pleasurable to him
than you if you know what I mean. And I think you do."

"That'll suck."

"Why don't you just drive away? You out of gas? Only a moron runs out of
gas. Only a moron doesn't know how to read a gas gauge. You're not a
moron, are you?"

"Gotta go, over and out!"

I looked at the old man who was now holding a chicken and smiling.
Weighing my options, I found that I didn't have any but the one so I got
out of the car and, right there in the middle of that busy highway, took
off my Levis and Underoos and walked over to the truck.

COMING NEXT: Was I to be chicken-pleasured in Nebraska?

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