Bazookas, Black Hawks, barbecue

BILLY BOB Pickering hoisted the bazooka to his shoulder when he saw the Black Hawk helicopter heading his way.

BushmasterBubba Thornton stood at Billy Bob’s side with a Bushmaster nine-millimeter, fully automatic, the kind of peashooter that gives Nancy Pelosi the vapors and makes her want to wash the feet of illegal aliens for Easter, which she actually did do. Neither of our boys’ weapons were legal, strictly speaking, but they really didn’t give a sticky chaw of Bloodhound Plug about that.

Bubba and Billy Bob had gone to junior high together. They had almost finished high school when they dropped out to serve together in Vietnam, which means the boys were not young. They were old boys who had killed lots of communists.

On hearing about the federal government mistreating a rancher in Nevada, Billy Bob and Bubba tossed the bazooka, the Bushmaster and lots of Budweiser into the bed of Bubba’s old Studebaker pickup and hauled out of Tupelo, heading west. They drove straight through.

And here they stood on this hot day atop dry scrub land in Nevada, the kind of dirt where you need plenty to graze enough cattle to make a living. The rancher’s family had done that for 100 years, and now here come federal cops to put a stop to it all, which was not right.

All because of some gol-durned endangered tortoise that can’t hold his own.

Billy Bob and Bubba had not gunned down little, slanty-eyed communists to live in this sort of Tom-fool America.

Billy Bob and Bubba watched the Black Hawk approach. Flap, flap, flap. Written in big letters on the side was BLM. Billy Bob triggered the bazooka and watched the Black Hawk explode. The two boys gave one another a high-five, and there were huzzahs from other hillbillies nearby.

The following week they were charged namelessly with a hate crime because the helicopter was black. The Studebaker, however, had barreled back to Tupelo, and Billy Bob and Bubba told a great story over Budweisers at LouAnn’s Barbecue Shack out on Highway 6.