And now... for the hawg hunt story that very nearly din’ git writ...
This one wuz dang close!
Ole Hatchet-Puss Charlie an’ Your Humble
Obdn’t &tc were up in the Low Country of South Carolina. Low Country is real-estate talk fer swamp. Right near the ocean. Even
the creeks have tides, and they are fresh water. TINS.
We were on an
ole railroad bed from the Civil War era. There were no tracks or nuthin’,
but it was a straight-as-a-string berm wide enuf fer a dirt road that
went right through the swamp.
Charlie dropped me off (I had a folding
chair and my honkin’ huge blackpowder rifle—it is .58 cal and shoots
555 grain bullets). Note that a 30.06 shoots 150 grain bullets, folks.
This is a BIG gun. Hawg gun.
So I sits there on my foldin’ chair inna
100 degree sunshine (the onliest way to find shade would be to lift
yer foot an look under it). Been there about 30 minutes, when
I saw a deer about 200 feet away, munching on the grass in the middle
of the railroad dirt road thingy. It wuz NOT deer season.
Bored, I
figgered I’d go a-sneakin’ to see how close I could get. Now, the
funny part is, there ain’t no cover on toppa an ole railroad track,
as you might imagine. And as far as you could see, there was
a big ditch on either side of the berm, full of black, icky water.
Can’t you just picture the pore bastids a hunnerd and fifty years
ago in the blazin’ sun, diggin’ that by hand? YIKES.
Waal, Pilgrims...
Ah got about 75 feet away, and I noticed that on the far side of the
deer, there were two big oinks!!
So I keeps on a-sneakin’, trying to
get a shot (damn’ deer wuz inna way). Finally, the deer noticed this
haggard-lookin’ sweaty thing a-sneakin’, takes a good look...
...and
bolts away, right over the top of the oinks. Shitdamnhell. Pissfartpoop. The oinks run offa the berm and into the thick swamp. So I sits
right down there amongst the chiggers and waits.
For a half-hour. That
is all my patience is good for to do anything. I creaks up to
a standin’ and creakin’ position, and turns around to go back to my
chair.
Right there by my chair, is a BIG oink! He had circled around me inna jungle, and came up right where I had
been a-sittin’ and a-sweatin’! He goes all stiff, lookin’ at
me... and I kin see he is about to do a Jesse Owens. So I brings
up my cannon, and cuts loose with a wing shot. Damn’ thing knocked
me on my ass as usual, but I see Porky go down, squealin’. YAY!
I throw down my gun (black powder,
d’ysee, no good fer two shots) and start runnin’ after the hawg. It had tumbled down offa the berm, run through the black water, and
was climbing (somewhat awkwardly) the slope on the other side.
So,
with the knife that The Fabled PC had given me fer Christmas in my
hand, I went chargin’ arter him through the icky. I could see
that I’d hit him inna head, but the bullet had bounced off (he turned
to look as I fired), traveled under his hide, and broke his front
leg. Reached out and grabbed his hind leg.
REALLY
bad move. I am serial, here.
That damn’ hawg spun totally around
in a tenth of a second and charged. He hit me inna chest (remember:
I wuz down a steep slope from him). Down goes Unca Waltie, sliding
into the stank until my head went under the black water. Drank
some. Peeyoo. That sucks, so I heaved my head up, and
there was the oink... standing on my chest, one inch from my face,
and pissed!!
With my left hand, I grabbed his ear, with my right, I
made a slash with my skinnin’ knife. Made a six-inch gash across
his forehead, and he didn’t even fargin bleed. Dang. Tried
again, and made him bleed from a five inch cut to his jowl. About
this time, he nailed me inna left forearm with his tusk. Twice. Owbitchshit!!
I could see he wuz gonna do fer me, so I stabbed with
the knife right into the bullethole in his head. He squealed
and took off... with my knife. I wuz a dead man if’n I lost
that sucker, so... I spun my legs around and down, and got up outa
the yukky black goo. My varilux glasses were somewhere in the
water... screw it—after Porky!!
(An aside here: Yeah, I know...
stoopit. And crazy.)
Chargin’ up the slope after piggy with my knife,
I caught up with him inna thick brambles (ow oo shit ow oo). He turned and charged. I only have one good leg (my left knee
is completely homemade and sets off airport alarms). But I stood
on the bad leg and timed my kick with t’other one. Got him right
onna knife. We both went down, with my left leg under his neck,
my left arm around his head (that’s when he nearly took my left hand
ring finger off with his razor tusk), and my right leg over his back.
I
grabbed my knife outa the skull, and began whackin’ everything that
looked like Porky. After several minutes, to quote that guy
from “Romancing The Stone”, he “just died in my arms”.
I lay there
pantin’, well, actually wheezin’... I wuz completely outa pants. I was totally covered in guts and blood—both mine and Porky’s. I had two large holes in my forearm, and my ring finger was sliced
half off. Porky, meanwhile had donated at least a fair half-gallon
onto me. TINS.
Charlie, who’d heard the ruckus from 200 yards away
comes runnin’ up... he takes one look and says:
“Jesus, Walt!! You
look like something from “Apocalypse Now”—Don’t get in my truck!!!”
Ya
gotta appreciate a guy like that.
On the good side, he found my glasses.
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