04 July 2005, 04:45
DigitalDanExposed!
In keeping with our long tradition of tabloid journalism I have been forced to reveal truths so painful as to induce CATatonic dementia inverse to sex with Heidi Klum, proprotional to the slug moment of inertia, tan^3 arc radian rho.The ever gifted writer, Mr. Sherlock, of N.S. fame has revealed my identity, no doubt deduced from the photo I posted in "The hazards...". I scarcely thought it possible, but in retrospect I note that several of the crats in that picture were in fact issuing sign language to the photographer, in a sense a simple last will and testament. Well, I guess an explanation is in order.
Some might think that in fact I am a secret collaborater with the Secret Society of Birman, and on the face of it, it is hard to argue. I look at the picture and see a scruffy swamp rat, his worldly possessions in a Radio Flyer wagon, and bereft of friends save for half the world's supply of pussy. I couldn't expect any of you to see anything else! The truth is of a different colour I assure you, and here is the tail....
Back in time, near abouts 1850 or so, a fella built a house out on Chickory Island, and unincorporated part of the Gulf of Mexico. Fine house is too, for it stands today, essentially unaltered. It has withstood hurricanes beyond counting, the War of Northern Agression, pestilence, drought, carpetbaggers, and things dark as obsidian, heartless as I-95... Well, the owner was a benevolent holder of slaves and when emancipated they remained behind as employees. There were few places more comfortable known to them and three squares of seafood and plantation produce beat hell out of the circumstances certain to befall wandering freemen in that era. Then one day the owner died. I have no idea why, how or what happened to the place immediately after that.
In 1950 one Louie McCallen purchased the island, the house and contents. Today it still holds the residue of his illustrious life and successes, the pump organ, the pictures of Geo. Washington, A. Lincoln, clothing and accutraments of decades, nay, more than 5 generations gone by. On the hottest of days you may step inside and find the closed house cool and comfortable, the whispers of spirits long freed whispering tales of tails, both fish and feline.
"AH HA!" you say, "..we're getting back on track!" True. Felines. They kept the rat and snake population under control, they ate scraps, mostly fish, and they PROSPERED!
They fornicated, they multiplied, they numbered more than the stars in the dark night sky! Oh, the humanity!
They found the cemetary a favorite haunt, and at any point in your travels past same, enroute to the house, one might suddenly be surrounded by a sea of upright tales, a buzz of purrs and soft sibilant hiss of impending CATastrophy. They were prone to sudden attack without provocation, for such is the nature of crats. 
Now a brief sidebar here: While Louie was supporting the crat population, he was making his own. Did a good job of it too, for his heirs have spread far and wide, affecting lives in this country in ways as forceful as they are subtle. Having done such a wonderful thing with his life he took his leave and now rests with the others amidst the oaks and cedars on Chickory Island.
You're not lost, not yet anyway. Ya see, some of his spawn spread to high places, becoming cogs in this marvelous thing we call our gubment. They see all, know all. It occurred recently that there was a crat problem on Chickory Island, and given our concern for terrorist activities it was decided that action was necessary. Birman's exploits were known, in fact he was recently seen in the company of Sheik CAThroid Ahmed Felionahhmedica, a member of the lower skill set living in the middle east who teaches jihadists how to catch bullets in flight. It is thought that Birman is looking for tips on how to muff the catch, duplicitious bastard that he is... AND he had been seen on Chickory Island!
Concurrent with this event, apparently by cosmic coincidence, I was identified to the Dept. of Homeland Security as the person most likely to eradicate the problem on Chickory Island without bringing attention to the matter from the likes of PETA, HSUS, Genghis, and the National Geographic Society.(I'll have words with Tick later on) To say nothing of China. To put it simply, they made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
So, what you see in the photo is me, trolling for crats. Tuna IS the magic lure, vagrancy my best disguise. It is what they are comfortable with, what they know. My drunken stupor was a nice touch I thought, and it greatly improved my singing by the way. I'm even better in the shower. That tip is proferred freely, take it to heart.
That section of roadway, once traveled by horse and buggy, lies midway betwixt house and cemetary, I am facing the cemetary. That is where the Metal Storm 9mm cannisters were set up, all 6 of them. 
Some time had passed since the crats had seen ol' Eb, their benefactor who lived in the shanty a little further down the road. Actually, none of them had ever seen ol' Eb as he had passed on years before, and now lived only as a legend spun by idle crats in the cemetary. These things I know from careful recon, days spent in the summer sun and shadows of rotting trees, feeding blood sucking bugs with nary a swat. I learned their lore, I saw my path. So one fine day last June I walked down the path pulling the wagon, open cans of tuna drawing some but not all of the creatures. Their legend had returned in the flesh, for I was ol' Eb. It is difficult to say how hard it was to not open up with my Parker 12 sawed-off, but I kept it in my pocket, along with my twitching finger. A deep breath, remembering the goal, I took my leave of them by the Cemetary, the Cans of fish tossed to them as they massed to attack.
So it went for 5 days, and on that day I had a combat photographer(MOS 84 Charlie Mopic) slip ashore from a skiff just before I walked down the trail, wagon and crats in tow. A single photo for posterity, it is all he got. Only a second after the shutter snapped he was set upon by them all, a brief "Aaiiieee" his only sound before being stripped to the bone by their snarling maws. A chill ran up my back, a mosquito whined by my ear and one single rivulet of sweat coursed down my back. In that frozen moment of time I knew that a single mistake would lay my bones besides Barnie's, a fate beyond death as far as I was concered. I really hate crats!
Their hushed purrs returned, they began to meander back to the wagon. I took a step, then another, fearing each would be my last.
But as they say, each journey begins with a single step, and it wasn't long before the first stones of the cemetary came into view, as did the green cannisters set in defilade pattern, 60* deflection. Now at least I could take them with me in the worst case, my thumb resting on the button of the detonator. 
A grim smile was my only consolation and company, each step growing more resolute, more purposeful. A mosquito landed on my nose, a Tiger Mosquito. Big black bastard, white strips on her legs. I really hate them too, but I stilled my impulse to crush my nose at that moment, let her take my blood. A higher purpose was at hand. Finally I was in the heart of the kill zone, my fingers slipped from the handle of the sacrificial 80 year old antique wagon. Behind me I heard a furry rush, hisses and growing crescendo of CATerwahling cries. My steps began to quicken, to reach out to the saftey of the gate 50 yards ahead. At that point I would be out of harms way, the spray of bullets to come directed elsewhere. It was my KATmandu, my sanctuary. At 20 yards I broke into a run, thumb begining to press down...
The sky filled with egrets and herons, gulls screamed insults and in the distance I heard a dog bark after that awful roaring rip. I turned to look back seeing only a haze of smoke, leaves drifting to the ground. Not a sound, not a mew or hiss. I pondered performing a BDA, then decided it better left to Washington and their satellites. 15 minutes later I was in my truck, another 10 minutes after that well on my way to singing in the shower. Cold whiskey in a hot shower is a good thing!
So you see, I'm not a traitor. I serve the cause faithfully, quietly(sometimes) and without fanfare. I wouldn't have posted this but for the risk of doubts caused by my inopportune posting of that silly picture. BTW, it was retrieved by a Delta Force Team, the camera that is. Barney's bones, and dog tags too. And now I realise that is why he died, his dog tags barked once too often. I'd told him a dozen times to put a muzzle on them, but you know how those artistic types are...
Dan
Pres., TYHC(NSA Chapter)
http://www.Sneaky.Pete
Parts of this story are true, names changed to protect the innocent from gross embarrassment.
So the truth comes out 
Hardly has a speck of rust on it. It is almost spooky how well everything is preserved in the house.