Chigger stepped out of the brush to get a better view of the helicopter. It was rocketing skyward at a crazed tilted angle suitable for an ICBM but all wrong for a helicopter. Years of redneck shenanigans had taught Chigger that anything that went skyward like that would return to earth in a spectacular manner. (Chigger still had parts of a dishwasher embedded in the roof of his trailer. Lesson learned.)
Unfortunately, his attention was split between the crazy helicopter and a robed freak doing some kind of hippie sprint down the middle of the road. Gripping his phone and envisioning YouTube millions, he couldn’t decide whether to record the gravity defying helicopter or the wingnut jogger.
Achmed, for his part, wasn’t going to stop running… ever. Death, fully equipped, highly motivated, and giggling like a schoolgirl, was on his tail. When the lanky redneck with a cell phone in one hand and a shotgun in another appeared in his path Achmed didn’t even break stride. He did, however, try to communicate.
“Getthehelloutoftheway!”
Chigger frowned. Just his luck to encounter a hippie who spoke a weird foreign language. To Chigger the thick Pakistani accent was no more intelligible than pops and clicks coming from an African bushman.
“Speak English!” Chigger shouted.
“IamspeakingEnglishyoustupidredneck!”
Chigger shook his head. What was becoming of the world when a man couldn’t video a mysterious black helicopter in peace without some dude from Foreignplaceistan hassling him? He drew a breath to demand English in a louder voice, but it was too late.
Thud! Chigger went down as Achmed steamrolled him.
Chigger was skinny as a rail but as tough as only a redneck poacher can be. He came back up with a grunt and leveled the shotgun at Achmed’s fleeing back with one hand while still holding the phone in the other. His forehead had an Adidas tread firmly imprinted between his furrowed brows. It was time to patriotically shoot someone!
Achmed glanced over his shoulder, “Beawarethereisasoldiercomingthisway!”
Chigger grunted. Random foreign warblings weren’t going to deter him. He tucked his shotgun into the crook of his shoulder preparing to do the kind of one handed shotgun wizardry that made him a god among a close-knit fellowship of highly armed but generally unwise friends. He steadied his phone to get the best video. A saner man would consider it unwise to record the activity of shooting someone in the back; but Chigger was not known for pondering the likely outcome of his ideas. He lived by the creed “hold my beer and watch this”. This is why Chigger, a man with a net worth about the same as a used ATV, became a rock star while telling stories in a bar. Chigger’s stories were always amazing; even more so because they were invariably based on something he’d really and truly done.
“STOP!” A voice commanded.
Chigger stopped. “Fuckin game wardens.” He grumbled.
He turned, expecting to find his eternal nemesis, a Smokey bear uniformed nitwit from the city carrying a Game Warden badge. Chigger seemed to attract them.
Instead it was a soldier. He was dressed entirely in black and huffing and puffing under a full tactical loadout that belonged more on a beast of burden than a human being. (Extreme Greeters prided themselves on carrying enough ammo to inflict at least twice the damage any rational person would deem necessary.) Chigger dropped the muzzle of his shotgun towards the pavement lest he wind up “accidentally” shot.
“Why?” Chigger complained. He was disappointed. Achmed had disappeared around the bend, the helicopter was probably in low Earth orbit, and he hadn’t gotten to shoot anything at all. What a bummer!
“Because he’s…” The greeter paused, unable to break free of his conditioning.
“He’s what? Running from assholes who fly around in unmarked black helicopters? Afraid of illegal domestic para-military SWAT teams? Yah! I know all about you jackoffs. I read Zero Hedge.” Chigger challenged. He was still holding his cell phone, recording every moment.
The greeter grimaced; it’s not easy to break free of deeply embedded conditioning. Finally, after a difficult internal struggle, a beautific fixed smile came over the greeter’s face.
Chigger stepped back. He was just crazy enough himself to know precisely what a person looks like when they’re about to cross an internal Rubicon. Captain Tacti-cool here was 10 pounds of crazy packed into a 5-pound bag and Chigger felt it in his bones. A man who’d wrestled an alligator while naked and covered in Cheetoes had met his match. He was truly afraid.
“He’s an Islamic terrorist!” The greeter beamed, proud of his accomplishment. “There, I said it!”
“A skinny hippie in a bathrobe is a terrorist because you shot up his convenience store?” Chigger might have been afraid but he had history with law enforcement. From Chigger’s point of view the purpose of law enforcement was to annoy him personally and nothing else. A lifetime of acting on his viewpoint had been a self-fulfilling prophesy, but he held firm to his internal code of ethics. He refused to accept the authority of anyone who would interfere with his God-given right to kill geese at midnight anywhere he wanted. After all, he was a free man!
The Greeter was completely unaware of Chigger’s internal logic. He was too pleased with himself for overcoming two barriers in close succession. The most recent involving vocabulary and that coming on the heels of becoming a dark vigilante at odds with society as a whole. He repeated it just to savor the moment. “Yes! He’s an Islamic terrorist! Also, I’m Batman!” The greeter enthused.
“Suuure.” Chigger was unimpressed. He’d seen this sort of problem before. The unholy coupling of a job as a tactical mall ninja and an overfunded weightlifting meathead was fertile ground to grow the kind of man who thinks he’s a flying bat. He tried to save the man from himself. “Where is your cape? I don’t see a rocket car. I think you’re just a nutcase with a budget. Let’s forget the whole thing and go shoot wildlife.” He coaxed.
(It should be noted that this is one of the few times in his life when Chigger was the voice of reason and it was actually caught on video. Statistically speaking this was like catching the Loch Ness monster and Sasquatch playing chess.)
Unfortunately, Chigger wasn’t used to the role as “sane person in an argument”. He was totally ineffective as the voice of reason.
“I’m Batman and I’m chasing an Islamic terrorist.” The Greeter beamed. “And when I catch him I’m going to greet the living hell out of him.”
Chigger knew he’d been out crazied. “Well okay then,” he stepped aside, “have at it.”
The man was gone in a flash. Despite being heavily laden he was a strong runner. Chigger pondered the odds. Would the terrified foreigner or the tacticool nutjob win the race? Regardless it would happen out of range of Chigger’s camera. He shrugged and walked towards the store, still recording every step. He now had a video that included a hippie from Foreignplaceistan and a Tactical Jackass. His YouTube site (maintained on his behalf by his buddy Whacker) would get a lot more hits this week. He hoped it would go viral.