Sometimes Ya Gotta Be Smarter Than Your Knob

[SilverLocks]

Once again, Pa set the tone and direction of our day.

He can’t help himself. He is feral, as you know.

He has relaxed and adapted to a certain degree. He still reacts to things rather than carefully considering his audience. Even after you win over the animal with food, creature comforts, and a nice barn stall, they can remain skittish and occasionally react in strange ways.

 

The kitchen was quiet when Pa arrived at his appointed stall. His hat placed perfectly on his head. Seriously, the only time he does not have on a hat is when he is in the shower or in bed. His face wore that total look of disinterest in the world. His only thoughts were coffee and the planned trip to Wenzel Lonestar Meats for replenishment of his bratwurst and bison bacon burgers.

 

Slowly, a smile appeared.

His mouth began to water.

A mind consumed by meat is a mind vulnerable to attack.

It was ripe for the picking.

 

I stood quite innocently preparing what I consider the perfect cup of coffee. I placed the precise amount of sweetener and creamer in the cup, poured my coffee, and stirred it to verify the correct shade of caramel. I carefully returned the creamer container to its rightful place at the coffee bar.

 

Meanwhile, the mind under the ever-present hat was working to engage the mouth.

There had been no discernment.

The words simply came out.

“I liked the big knob better.”

 

I knew he was talking about the top of the creamer lid.

Unfortunately for Pa, my brain had already taken the words somewhere entirely different.

 

With a perfectly innocent smile that contained absolutely no innocence, I replied, “You have to use your whole hand to grab the knob, not just your fingertips.”

There it was.

That look.

He knew he had opened the door, and the tone of the day took a hard right turn onto the twisted path with an unpredictable destination.

He had just handed me a loaded weapon and tried desperately to take it back.

 

Left with only one round in his pitiful .22-caliber Henry, he aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger.

“Sometimes ya gotta be smarter than your knob.”

 

All that exited the barrel was a pathetic little phit—not the satisfying ring of a bullet finding its target.

The shot simply didn’t have enough power behind it to reach the target.

He knew the safest thing to do was lay down his rifle and accept the penalty.

So much for his clean match today.

 

Being Silverlocks, I simply could not let that miss go unanswered.

I reached for my favorite weapon—the .45-caliber sarcasm I kept carefully stored under the powder-blue cowboy hat.

 

I casually sipped my coffee.

He watched me.

I watched him.

 

The kitchen suddenly felt a lot like a shootout at high noon.

There was no escape route.

He was going to have to meet this one head-on.

 

I took another sip of coffee.

Then I smiled.

Slowly, I drew my pistol.

I took careful aim.

I pulled the trigger.

The shot found the sweet spot.

“That has been the problem with men all along.”

I lowered the pistol and took another sip of coffee.

 

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then I heard it.

A low rumble.

Not loud.

Not yet.

Just enough to make me pause.

 

Pa looked toward the window.

 

The rumble grew.

His eyes narrowed.

 

Another sip of coffee.

 

The sound was getting closer.

Then the headlights appeared.

Two enormous beams coming straight down the road.

 

Pa looked at me.

I looked at Pa.

Neither of us said a word.

 

The pistol had been a warning shot.

 

This was heavy artillery.

The bus was coming.

And unlike the pistol, the bus had no interest in taking prisoners.

 

Pa finally understood the situation.

He had been focused on the weapon in my hand.

He had completely missed the artillery rolling in behind him.

 

He braced for impact.

 

I took another sip of coffee.

 

The headlights grew larger.

The engine roared.

 

There was nowhere left to run.

The bus rolled over him.

 

He lay there staring up at the ceiling.

Silence.

 

He had been thrown under the bus.

This one was all on him.

 

Once again, an innocent comment had become the ammunition that got the bus moving.

 

And suddenly, Pa’s lifelong preference for mules made perfect sense.

 

You will never catch Pa riding a bus.

A mule may be stubborn. A mule may have an attitude. A mule may occasionally decide it has better plans than the person holding the reins.

But a mule has never carried Silverlocks into position for a full-scale artillery strike.

 

Most people in our circle of friends and cowboys know Pa prefers mules over buses.

After today, I think we all understand why.

[Dantankerous]

This is GREAT! And sooooooo Pa. 😉

 

You do say he has relaxed to a certain degree and he is still feral? Just what was he before he relaxed? 🤔

Edited September 12 by Dantankerous

[SilverLocks]

14 minutes ago, Dantankerous said:

You do say he has relaxed to a certain degree and he is still feral? Just what was he before he relaxed? 🤔

He operated on Keller Standard Time. He now operates SilverLocks Savings Time. 
 

Keller standard time = match starts at 9:00 he arrives at 7:30

silverlocks Savings time = Match starts at 9:00 we arrive at 8:30 and he is flustered. 

[Gateway Kid SASS# 70038 Life]

14 hours ago, SilverLocks said:

He operated on Keller Standard Time. He now operates SilverLocks Savings Time. 
 

Keller standard time = match starts at 9:00 he arrives at 7:30

silverlocks Savings time = Match starts at 9:00 we arrive at 8:30 and he is flustered. 

SilverLocks time seems very similar to Gateway time! If I am a posse marshal or match director I will show up an hour and a half early (at least) but just a shooter, I do like my beauty rest!!!

    

Regards

    

Gateway Kid

 

[Forty Rod SASS 3935]

I have always been partial to mules and got along well with them.  We sort of understood each other.  I appreciate those who do so too. 

 

Maybe that's why Tom Muley (RIP) and I got along so well.