STOP!!!

     If you are sensitive, have an aversion to un-nerving stories (true or un-true), cheer for a liberal university (sooners, longhorns or most Cali schools), vote democrat or have socialist thoughts, or you have morals and just don’t need to be dumber after reading some stuff–then please, do NOT read any further.  Stop!!  Please.  

This story may be true, partially true and/or completely made up.  One or more of the people involved in this story are no longer with us.

In the words of Gandalf the Grey, “You shall not pass!”

Yet,

          here you are,

                                   still reading.    You were warned.

    In a time, that is beginning to feel like a long time ago, yet in a lot of ways, still seems like yesterday (the late 90s.)  It was late spring.  There was a native that was/is a local legend.  We’ll call him LJ.  Master of the Smoker, partaker of a cold beer and always a good time.  He hollered at me one day and said, “Whatcha got going on Saturday morning?”

I replied, “I actually don’t have to be anywhere.”

“No judging contests or animals to buy?” he asked.

“No.  Why?  What do you have going on?”  My interest was now piqued.  

He said that he had to dispose of some animals for a guy in Kansas.  With head cocked, I asked, “You mean butcher some animals?”   

“No.  No.  Just dispose of some.  Can’t butcher ’em.  He just wants them gone.  Be here bout 7 am.”

What in the hell kind of deal is this?

     Before 7 am on Saturday morning, I rolled up to his place with my Mountain Dew in hand.  LJ was sitting on the steps, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.  We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments at which point a pickup towing an old BullMobile gooseneck trailer pulled up and began unhooking.  LJ walked up to greet him.  I walked to the back of the trailer to look at the contents.  HOLY CRAP!!!

      Once unhooked, the customer got back in his pickup and yelled out of the window, “I’ll be back in an hour or so with another load.  What in the sam hill is getting ready to happen here?”

      I looked back in the trailer then looked at LJ.  “Ostriches!?  You’re getting paid to dispose of ostriches?!?  How are you going to manage to do this job?”

       He looked at me square in the eye and said, “I’m not!”

“WHOAAA there cowboy!!!!  I ain’t getting in a trailer with those birds.  No way!  I’ve heard Doc Pollard talk about dealing with brain injuries from ostriches.”   

He laughed and said, “You ain’t getting in either.  I just thought that you would enjoy the show cuz this don’t happen everyday.  And by the time this is done, I figure Johnson will need somebody to save him.” 

This was during a time that the ostrich market had crashed.  It had been hot for several years in the early 90s but now they were worthless.  There was NO market left.  Nothing.  This customer had too many birds to just “off” them himself, so he was paying for the work to be done.  He couldn’t afford to feed them and there were no buyers for them.  

Wait.  What?  RUSM?  Johnson is coming to do this.  You’ve got THE Johnson coming this morning.  Sure enough, about 7:10 am, I heard a vehicle crossing the nearby train tracks.  Johnson’s black, topless Jeep wrangler rolled up.  Johnson was early 50ies but he looked 80ish.  He stood about 5’9″ and was down to about 130 lbs.  Hair slicked back and wearing a white (somewhat stained) t-shirt tucked into his jeans.  He was smoking a cigarette and had an open Budweiser–the King of Beers.  He walked up to the trailer and looked in.  He took a drag off the cig, then a couple of swallows of Budweiser then said, “Good morning men” as he headed up the steps into the building.  He came back with the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, beer in his left hand and a 8″ roast slicing knife in his right hand. 

        I was like, “Dude, you are NOT getting in that trailer with those birds!  They will kick the crap out of you.  This will not work.”

         Johnson nodded his head and said, “I’ve got this.”  He then set his beer on the bumper of the trailer, took a puff from the Marlboro, slid the back sliding gate open, grabbed his beer and climbed in.  “Shut the gate”, he growled.  I slid it mostly shut while barking warnings.  LJ leaned on the other side of the trailer, looking, watching and grinning.  He too knew that this was NOT the way but Johnson had to learn.

        As Johnson slowly advanced from the back of the trailer towards the front, he held the knife out towards the birds while he tightly clutched the can of beer.  His lips firmly held the cigarette.  The large birds were all facing him but backing up…backing up until they were tightly packed.  Crowded.  One bird was left out of the pack, almost like a point man.  This bird found itself in a stand-off with a beer drinking, cigarette smoking, knife wielding purveyor of death.  It was 1on1.  The bird was backed up and Johnson was trying to gauge when to strike.   Wait? 

Strike with what?  The birds reach with his beak or it’s feet is longer than Johnsons’ reach with a 8″ knife.  This is stupid.  “Johnson, that bird is getting ready to kick the shit out of you.  Get out of there!”  LJ agreed, “Johnson, I don’t think that this will work.”  

Johnson feigned a knife strike towards the birds neck.  The bird dodged.  His head was weaving back and forth.  Up and down.  This wasn’t a fair fight.  At this point, it was evident that even if Johnson had a Bowie knife, he was going to get his ass kicked by a 6′ tall piece of poultry.  

Once again, Johnson feigned another couple of knife strikes, just to get a measurement.  Left then right.  The bird dodged, dipped, ducked and dived.  Now, Johnson stepped into the next lunge.  He meant to do harm with this strike.  But NO!!   That bird pecked him right in the forehead.  Oh Son-of-a-gun!  Johnson lunged again and this time the bird pecked his shoulder and kicked him in the thigh.  He dropped his beer.  The kick ripped Johnson’s jeans.  He was staggered, vision blurred.  At this moment, Johnson stumbled backwards as I slid the gate open.  I grabbed him and drug him backwards out of the trailer.  LJ slid the gate shut.  

       All the while, the birds stayed tightly packed with the one soldier still weaving his head back and forth, up and down.  That bird was ready for more.  

       Johnson got up from the ground, cussed about his broke cigarette and spilled beer.  No mention of the ripped jeans or his bloody face.  Or the fact that he just got his ass kicked by a bird.  However, he was pissed.  I tried telling him that this was not the way. 

      Johnson headed towards his Jeep.  I tried to stop him.  LJ yelled, “Let him go.  He’ll be back.”  Johnson fired up the Jeep, opened a beer and headed back into town.  LJ and I talked about how the rest of this was going to go down.  I could NOT have imagined what was to happen next.  

       Once again, I heard the Jeep cross the train tracks.  Johnson got out, took a chug of beer, reached in the back of the Jeep and pulled out a football helmet.  A helmet like Joe Theisman wore while playing for the Redskins (remember that team).  An old helmet with a single bar face mask.  I wasn’t sure if that was enough protection.  He then placed a cigarette in his mouth, grabbed the same knife and put it in his back pocket–point up.  Then he reached into the bed of the Jeep and pulled out a… oh my, this might work, but is this right… yep–he pulled out a wood baseball bat.  

      He then marched to the trailer, without a beer, slid the door open and climbed back into the gladiator’s arena.  Once again, I partially shut the sliding door and barked some warnings.  I felt like Rocky Balboa’s brother-in-law as Rocky fought Ivan Drago in Rocky IV.  I was barking something but the fighter wasn’t listening.  Johnson then stepped forward and the bird began the routine of the head bob.  Johnson held the bat up, much like a little leaguer trying to decide when to swing.  He leaned forward and the bird struck BUT Johnson ducked and then swung.  Oh lordy!   Contact.  The bird now had a broken neck.  Johnson grabbed it by the neck and pulled out the knife.  Bloody!  And it was just now 8 am.  

       Now, Johnson had a rhythm going.  Step in and engage. Then dodge, duck or dive, followed by a swing, then cut.  Next.  As he finished that trailer load, the customer pulled up with the next load.  Johnson only got hit by the birds a couple of more times.  But he finished the job….bloody, battered, torn and bruised.  Nonetheless, there were no more birds to be disposed.  The job was done.  And then he really went to drinking, smoking and cussing.  

I’m not saying it was in-humane.  I’m not saying it was humane.  I will say it was effective.  Maybe they should have just been turned out and shot.  I truly don’t know.  Today, there is probably a rescue mission for big birds.  I truly don’t know.  The internet was just getting going.  There was no video or pics.  So, according to today’s society, that means it didn’t happen.  Right?  

       Well, maybe it did.  Maybe it didn’t.  

Can you make this sort of thing up?  Have you seen the opening of The Hangover 3?  Tiger King?

I told you to quit reading.  In fact, the very first word was “Stop”. 

Believe it.  Don’t believe it.  I wouldn’t.