“Buh bah buh buh bah bah….bah buh buh buh bah bah!”
In the cockpit of an Apache attack helicopter that just happened to fall off the back of a truck, Moses was having his very own Wilhelm Richard Wagner party, playing the great composer’s seminal work, “The Flight of the Valkyries” at full volume on a kick-ass stereo system.
The ex-military man turned gun range owner sang along, or rather, made instrumental sounds to distract his mind from the fact that he was flying straight into the crushing winds of a hurricane. “Buh bah buh buh bah bah….bah buh buh buh bah bah!”
Thick, heavy raindrops pelted the chopper’s windshield, mimicking the drops of sweat that rolled down Moses’ forehead. He had never been one to lose his cool, but he was growing ever more concerned by the fact that he was attempting to point his huey one way, but the wind was certain it should be going another. He gritted his teeth and gripped the stick and pushed as hard as he could, waging a one man battle against Mother Nature.
The chopper’s coms radio squawked. “Pssht…unidentified aircraft……come in…over.
Moses ignored the hail and kept right on singing his Wagner. “Buh bah buh buh bah bah….bah buh buh buh bah bah!”
“Unidentified air craft…this is Air Force central command…respond or you will be blown out of the sky.”
Moses turned down the music and responded. “Boy, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You sound like you’re knee high to a pig’s thigh.”
“Identify yourself,” the voice said.
“Sergeant Moses T. Malone, United States Marine Corps, retired,” Moses said. “Who the hell are you?”
“This is Captain Barry Bostwick, U.S. Air Force, active duty. Turn back and land immediately. You’re flying an unauthorized military grade helicopter into a civilian area.”
“I’m aware, Barry,” Moses said. “That toilet gator aint gonna blow himself up now is he?”
“Excuse me?” Barry asked.
“There’s no excuse for you,” Moses said. “Son I was running all kinds of special ops long before you had hair on your nuts. Snatch and grabs. Run and guns. You name it. I bailed out Uncle Sam out of more jams than I can count so I won’t hear any more of your insubordinate lip. Let me guess, you got yourself a pretty starched uniform without a speck of dirt on it because you used your connections to rise to the top without wading a single toe into the shit…am I right?”
Barry scoffed. “How did you…look, we’re not here to talk about me.”
“I knew it,” Moses said. “You brass types are all the same. Plenty of brass in the phony medals on your shirt, not one scintilla of brass in your balls.”
“Do you have any idea how many laws you are breaking right now?” Barry asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” Moses said. “Between state, federal and local laws and regulations, I’m willing to wager upwards of 1,098. Am I close?”
“I don’t know,” Barry said. “I didn’t count them all out myself either. How the hell are you flying an Apache attack helicopter?”
“Fell off the back of a truck,” Moses said.
“It fell off a…sir, land that chopper right now or we’ll blow you out of the sky,” Barry said.
“Oh yeah?” Moses said. “You and what Air Force?”
“The Air Force,” Barry said. “The real live actual air force will blow you to bits.”
Moses peered through the rain soaked cockpit window. “I’m calling your bluff, boy. I don’t see a damn thing and Lord knows you all aren’t going to send a couple of multi-million dollar fighter jets into the certain doom of a hurricane just to take out my sorry ass.”
Barry accidentally left his thumb on the call button as he talked to other Air Force personnel in the command center. “Shit, he called our bluff and…oh, shit…is this thing still on? Look man, I don’t care what you have to say, land that thing now.”
“Can’t,” Moses said. “Gotta gator to kill.”
“The toilet gator?” Barry asked.
“Is there another one?” Moses asked.
“Wow,” Barry said. “We’ve been watching Cole Walker fight that gator on TV all day. I put fifty bucks on the gator in the office pool.”
“Well son,” Moses said. “Prepare for your wallet to be fifty simoleons lighter, because I’m gonna rip that lizard a new one…maybe a hundred new ones. Now get off the squawk box and let an ex-marine do his duty.”
“I guess we can look the other way for awhile,” Barry said. “But you’re still in a metric shit ton’s worth of trouble.”
“You know son,” Moses said. “I don’t think I am. All those laws you say I broke? I got a defense.”
“Really?” Barry asked. “Let’s hear it.”
“The Second Amendment,” Moses said.
Barry laughed. “Please.”
“I have the right to bear arms,” Moses said.
“The right to bear arms, yes,” Barry said. “The right to an Apache attack helicopter? No.”
“Well,” Moses said. “I suppose that might be a namby pamby liberal pantywaist interpretation of the Second Amendment, the kind someone who wants to crawl up inside Hilary Clinton’s vagina and take a nap might make.”
“Don’t give me that,” Barry said. “I’m a conservative, sir. I just don’t think the Founding Fathers anticipated the invention of the Apache attack helicopter. If they had, they would not want them in the hands of private citizens.”
“Yeah, well,” Moses said. “The Founding Fathers didn’t anticipate that there’d ever be a thousand pound toilet gator running amuck through downtown Sitwell, Florida, being all impervious to regular gunfire now did they?”
“I suppose not,” Barry said.
“The Founding Fathers wanted us to be able to protect ourselves with force commensurate to the attack being waged upon us,” Moses said. “If you’ve been watching that toilet gator in action, then you know this fabulous flying machine of death, destruction and mayhem is a more than reasonable option to defend against that surly beast.”
“Be that as it may…”
“Son,” Moses said. “Just thank me for doing that job for you. You all are watching the news. You’ve seen what that gator could do. You all should be sending all the fire and are power you got at that thing, hurricane be damned. But you’re all pussies, so just sit back and let a real man show you how it’s done.”
“Shh,” Moses said as he switched off the call. “No more talking.”
Moses turned up his Wagner. “Buh bah buh buh bah bah….bah buh buh buh bah bah!”