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Original weird story

amlovell@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Anthony M Lovell)
(original, smirk, wealth stereotypes, swearing)

This has gone the rounds in talk.pol.misc and was zilched (can you believe
it?) in rec.guns.  Twas also in rec.humor some weeks back - original

(This one is not quite ROT13, but it is close, so be warned.)

  I was looking for a friend's apartment in Trenton and was highly lost.
I'd taken the bus and had no idea where I was going - what I did know
was that gentrification had not reached this portion of the city.  The
neighborhood was completely devoid of pasta vending shops with ferns in
the windows.  There were yellow caution signs on the roadside that read
"Caution Rough Neighborhood".

  Being a Republican, I didn't stop off somewhere to ask for directions,
but instead stayed the course.  I soon found myself in a dark, remote
alleyway.  A shadow separated itself from the trash lining the walls,
and it was wearing a gang jacket.  

  "Yo!  Got any spare change, man?", he inquired brusquely.

  "Heh heh.   I was going to ask you the same thing." I gulped in an
effort at offhandedness. 

  It failed miserably and more figures suddenly appeared from points
around the compass I wasn't carrying.  They were all gang members.
You could practically SEE the exclamation point appear over my head.  I
started to hum.  Right away, this tipped them off that I was not taking
this encounter well at all, because I wasn't humming with my mouth.
Rather, my whole frame had begun to resonate like a tuning fork.

  "Maybe he's got some spare BILLS!" exclaimed one as he took out an
alleycat I could have sworn was too large to be concealed.  The mass of
them closed in on me.  Unless they instituted affirmative action
principles in their gang recruiting, I guessed that they were not about
to initiate me into their little clique.  I was audibly perspiring.

  I saw they had crossed the line.  It was time to take action to defend
myself - to stand up for RIGHT in a fit of violent derring-do.  I
gulped once more at the lump in my throat and pulled out my 9mm
Schnauzer, Ruger.  In one fluid, practiced motion, my thumb switched the 
safety from the "Heel" position and I let off a warning shot.

  "ARF!" said Ruger.  A large, even integral number of eyes widened in
surprise as the toughs stopped their advance to ponder this unexpected
development.  "Drop the cat!"  I demanded, but the cat was already
scampering away yowling.

  As an aside, I'd better take a little time to explain the history of
the Schnauzer and Ruger in particular.  The Schnauzer was first developed
in the Krupp Kennels in Hamburg back in World War I to answer a
developing need for a small dog for use in the trenches where larger
dogs such as the battle-proven Rottweiler could prove too cumbersome.  
The British already had such a weapon in their Dobie (pronounced "doughboy") 
and the Germans had nothing to counter it.  The 9mm auto-Schnauzer was the
first effective response.   Small, mean, and outfitted with a dripping set
of large ivories, a Schnauzer was highly devastating at short ranges
and could clear a bunker in about ten seconds if you could squeeze him
in the fireport.  Even after the war was lost, the Schnauzer proved to
be a popular instrument of home and personal defense.  Hitler's Beer
Hall Putsch might have been a success if he hadn't been obliged to check
his Schnauzer at the door as no dogs were allowed in the bar.  Snubnosed
and jam proof, it was widely copied by breeders from around the world
and remains a popular model among collectors today.

  I'd had Ruger since he was a pup - he was my first dog.  I remember
Mom didn't want to have a dog in the house at all.  But Dad gave him
to me and taught me how to clean him and handle him safely.  It
took some time to overcome my fear of such a dangerous possession, but
soon enough I was out in the woods killing chipmunks and squirrels with
Ruger.  I wrote articles for dog magazines whenever I could and went to
shows with Ruger and was QUITE an enthusiast.  He was always at my side, 
faithful and ready to defend me if the time for such ever arose.  I even
slept with him at the foot of my bed.

  The echoes of that warning shot reverberated from the alley's walls
and I could see the resolve of my would-be attackers melting before my 
eyes.  (It was such a feeling of POWER!)  I kept Ruger's muzzle pointed 
at the roughneck who had issued the most direct threats.  I was shaking 
as much as they were.

  "The jig is up!" I cried, immediately disappointed in myself for
scarfing that corny line for such a pregnant moment.  I made a mental
note to alter that little bit of this saga if I lived to relate it at
the weekly NDA meeting in Princeton.  "I think we're going to take a
little walk down to the station, my friends."  Hee hee - "Don't mess with
me, you doody-bunchers," I thought to myself as I revelled in the awesome
control I'd established over these crooks.  I swear I had what seemed to be 
the entire East Coast chapter of Satan's Pimps quaking at my disposal.
But then something terrible happened.

  The humiliation of the proposed trip was too much for the ringleader to
consider.  Before I could react, he presented a scruffy Pit Bull and
said, "Waste the fucker, Tyrone!"  My life flashed in front of my eyes
without commercial interruption as Tyrone tensed to spring...

 and JAMMED!  The mangy little fluffball sat down and scratched his gonads.

  I yelled out "Freeze!" and had them kick the cur over to me.  I
examined him for a minute.  It was just SO typical.  Pit Bulls are
giving dog owners a bad name and it's no wonder.  Real dog owners
call them Saturday Night Specials - they're cheap, simple (I mean
SIMPLE), and dangerous.  Tyrone here was unkempt and probably without any 
license whatsoever.  Poor folk use them for protection or to commit tiny 
street crimes (this story being a case in point).  They never brush them or
clean them [Tyrone's scratching was probably parasites] and so you're
just ASKING for a jam.  As often as not, the owner himself winds up
being bitten.  I took the dog - he was going to impounded and destroyed.
With disgust I noticed that this dog had a scar showing he'd been fixed
to be fully automatic.  Playing with fire, there, pal.

  So it all came out in the wash.  You know the story - Tyrone was
destroyed and the slimy punks were probably on the street later that
night.  If the No-Dogs-Allowed lobby had taken Ruger from me, who knows how
this might have turned out?

(From the "Rest" of RHF)

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