Settling old scores

The new content on this blog is probably going to slow for a while as I'm starting to compile, edit, hack and otherwise muck around with what exists in the hope and plan of this project as book underway. With that in mind, there are some writings and artwork done earlier that I'm incorporating into this. Some of those stories are about my being a lame kid. While the writing still needs some editing, here, below is one piece with an illustration done last night. I'll leave the context hanging and just put the piece up as is. For your consideration:

.177

Really, who could blame ‘em? As a typical Canadian response to townhouses, strip-malls and snow banks, my parents began to take annual Caribbean winter vacations. Formerly family affairs, these getaways became parent only furloughs. More to the point, in their absence I became the house’s benevolent dictator, ruling over my sister and our dog Charlie with a gentle but power-hungry hand. Mum also left a freezer stocked with TV dinners for Shell and myself. The Hungry Man entrées an appropriate size to assuage her guilt at leaving us to trudge through dirty snow banks, dreary school days and each other’s company while she topped up on sun burns and pool-side margaritas. Surely though, she knew they wouldn’t be the only ones knocking back the booze.

I couldn’t care less about the basement shin-digs Shell invariably threw. She had her role as ne’er do well libertine and I had mine as curmudgeon in waiting. Still at the Peach Schnapps and sparkling wine stage, the carnage that might have been unleashed seemed minimal, but just to be sure I spent those evenings on the living floor with a machete. Watching horror movies with the crudely fashioned but sufficiently intimidating blade laying across my chest, the young’ns had to step over my display of passive canine territoriality to gain entry.

Dear friends of my sister,

Do not fuck around. I’m in charge of the house, the dog and the fridge full of food. Also, you might have noticed I’m working my way though a stack of boob-munching cannibal flicks, and I’m wearing tiger-striped camouflage pants.

Thanks, her older brother

On this night though, the party stepped up to 80 proof and the Crown Royal pulled the Byron skids in like ants to road-kill raccoon. Whatever the fuck went on below was of negligible interest to me, but Shell at least had the sense to try and kick out some of the more antagonistic skids before holes were punched into unfinished drywall. Muffled yelling rose from the basement and they came upstairs but, emboldened by the hard and sweet rye, wouldn’t leave the house. Pressing pause on Cannibal Ferox, maybe I threatened them with the machete.
“Okay guys, out you go.”
“Says who, you?”
"Me and Mr. Pointy, yeah. C’mon, take it down to the river or somethin’.”
“Dude, we’re not going anywhere. That machete has fucking tassels on it.”
“Oh, Jesusfuckingchrist, just go okay!”

And even though they did leave the house, it was only to gather at the parking lot’s battered dumpster to smoke and nurse their anger. Taking matters in hand, up to my second floor bedroom, Shell and her cohorts were left to stew over teen house-party-disaster yet to be averted. Flicking off the lights and climbing to the top of my bunk bed, I quietly lowered the window facing the parking lot, now with a clear line of sight to the dumpster.
Lying on my belly in the dark and reaching down, I pulled up the Russian air rifle – a memento of Montrose’s expansive landscape.

Tugging the barrel sharply downwards, the rifle revealed the breach and charged its single lung. Opening the ammo tin I plucked out a mushroom shaped .177 pellet. Popped it in the breach, closed the barrel and was ready to go. Clean and simple.

Rolling back to the window, I lined up my target in the iron sights. Partially exhaling and squeezing the trigger mechanism past the spring release, there was a click and a sharp pop as the .177, spiraling across the parking lot, hit one of the kids below the “O” of his DIO t-shirt. He yelled out, and in my darkened room I rolled away from the window feeling fairly pleased with my accuracy and also feeling adrenaline’s twitchy side-effect disrupt my attempts to continue my regulated breathing.

This is the skill and discipline that any trained killer needs to master.