I haven't updated a THING on this site for three years, as you may have noticed, and at this time I am writing a new chapter of A Day in the Life of… (Tails, if you must know).
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with neither Sega, Sonic Team, Troy-bilt, Crossman corp., Chrysler Motors (Chrysler, Plymouth, Dodge, Jeep, Eagle), General Motors (Chevrolet, Pontiac, Cadillac, Buick, Hummer, Saab, Saturn, Oldsmobile, Geo, GMC), Sears Roebuck (Sears, K-mart, Craftsman brand), Microsoft, the LEGO group, the Ford motor company (Ford, Mercury, Lincoln, Volvo, Mazda, possibly Land Rover and Jaguar unless they did manage to sell those brands), any other company, nor the products of any other company mentioned. If I was, I would have posted something new a LONG time ago!
When I woke up this morning, I thought it would just be another semi-ordinary July day. I say semi-ordinary, because my grandma just died at eighty-six, and left me the house. My grandpa died a year earlier of "pulmonary fatigue" I think it's called. Grandpa's lungs just failed for no apparent reason other than his age and adult-onset asthma. Grandma's veins finally collapsed and cut off her circulation. At least they both died painlessly in their sleep. I'm not crying, I'm not nervous, I feel just the same way as I did when my aunt died three years ago. I know I'll see 'em again when the Lord calls me home as well and I face the judgment seat of Christ. I am gonna dread that. I haven't had a consistently good relationship with God, and I know it, yet I don't quite know exactly why. At least I know the problem lies in the carbon-based life form between the earth's crust and Heaven. I DO know Satan is involved though, that much is sure.
Well anyways, I get out of my half-sleep and dress myself in one of the few remaining pairs of jeans that still fit me, and head out the door. I cross the fenced in section of the backyard, to the gate under the large maple, lift the latch and open it, stroll by a mutzu apple tree in bad shape, between an evergreen and a daisy patch with an unknown thin tree in the center, and a Chinese elm that had been cut down before, as evidenced by the rotting sections of trunk around it, yet still growing, to the garden that Grandpa loved so much. I only planted legumes this year in a small part of the garden, to replenish the soil, and let the rest lie fallow (God had the right idea commanding the Israelites to give their farmland a Sabbath every seven years). When I approached the garden gate, something dashed out of the weeds. Damn rabbits! One day I'm gonna get me some pointed pellets and bag me one. Is it still here? I back slowly out of the gate and to the small, red, barn-shaped shed, being careful not to scare it away. I slide in a key and turn it to pop open the shackle of the padlock that keeps the shed closed. I open it as quietly as I possibly can, which is no easy feat, considering the door barely fits in the frame. I have to yank it open, soliciting more rustling from the tall weeds in the garden. I turn to see if the pest took off, but I see nothing but the weeds moving unnaturally. It's still there.
I step inside, catching a whiff of the unique smell generated by gasoline, old wood, old tools, old chemicals and garlic simmering in the humid heat that is characteristic of a central Indiana summer, glancing at all of the spider webs and all of the insects caught in them. I look to the right of an old wooden bench with assorted nails, tools and a galvanized steel funnel, behind a hand-crank grinder, among other long-handled antique tools. I swear; the contents of this shed could fill a whole museum exhibit. There's a small plow blade, a lard press, pump-sprayer, and a wheelbarrow tub from the twenties or thirties, a manual one-wheel weed rake and a gas-powered Troy-bilt rotor-tiller (which still runs by the way; a bit temperamental, but once it runs for a bit, it does a great job) from the seventies, and countless other antique tools and devices. I quickly find what I'm looking for. It's a long handled tool with an end that forms a straight bar perpendicular and has four curved spikes that are quite sharp. I don't know what it's called, but it's used to dig out weeds, or at least that's what my grandpa and I used it for. This will be perfect for skewering that thing that's been eating all of my peas! I make my way back to the garden gate as quietly as I can, with a rustle in the weeds confirming that the pest was still there. The gate is already open; its rusted chain-link panel is drooping over, and bottom board swung out at an angle, and I KNOW I closed it yesterday. I gently push the chain-link aside and sneak into the garden, weed rake (that's what I call it) tipped back of me (I think I shoulda got the axe instead). I get close to the spot where I think the thing (it might be a person, come to think of it) is, and raise the rake high. I see something run and I swing the rake hard into it.
"YEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Rabbits don't sound like that.
"SHIT!"
People aren't blue!
"YEEEAAAA! Who the hell are you?"
The animal I speared was about two and a half feet tall with blue fur and quills. Quills? Is it a porcupine?
"Wait… you can talk?"
Hmmm, a blue talking animal with quills… I think that fits the description of…
"Of Course I can, who are you?"
When the animal turned its face to me, I recognized immediately who it is… though I can't quite believe it.
"Uh… I'm the guy who lives here. What are you doing in my garden Sonic?"
Yes, that's right. I stabbed the Blue Blur in the back with a weed rake.
"Eatin'! Why'd ya have to go an' stab me with that… thing?"
"I thought you were the pest that's been eatin' all of my peas!"
"Hey! I didn't eat ALL a' them!"
Then blood started to roll out of the four puncture wounds in his back.
"Oooh. I gotta take you back to the house and take care of those!"
I picked Sonic up, carefully so I don't get poked by one of his quills, slung him across my right shoulder and quickly walked him back into the house, through the back door of the garage where the car I inherited from my late grandparents is still parked, up the steps, across the family room, and slumped Sonic over, face-down, on an arm of one of the dining room chairs, and stepped into the tiny kitchen to get a paper towel. I soaked up the blood, and tore off some quills around the wounds to get a better look.
"What'chya doin?" Sonic reacted.
"Removing some quills around where I hurt you. They'll grow back," I explained, "Ooooh, those suckers are deeeeeep." I couldn't see exactly how deep through all the blood filling them, but I knew it wasn't gonna stop on its own anytime soon.
"Stay like that," I instructed Sonic, "I'm just gonna get my soldering gun."
I knew the best chance I had was to cauterize the holes, so I stepped back into the garage, over to the small table to my left, in front of the natural gas water heater, across from the washer and dryer against the front wall and right up against the garage door rails, and picked up and old, red, plastic box. I brought it inside where I left Sonic slumped over the arm of a chair, bleeding.
"What'chya gonna use a soldering gun for?" sonic questioned.
"I'm gonna cauterize those holes," I explained.
"Do WHAT?"
"Burn 'em closed to stop the bleeding," I clarified as I open the box, pull out the black soldering gun, and start to unwind the cord.
"Am I bleeding that badly?" Sonic queried as his blood ran down his back, his tail and started to trickle onto the worn, brown carpet.
"'Fraid so," I replied as I plugged the tool into an outlet behind the table.
I squeezed the trigger to heat up the tip. This turns a light on under the tip to let you see what you're soldering a little better. For me, it's just an indicator that the tip is heating up. After about fifteen seconds, a little smoke started to rise in a small ribbon. I kept the tip in the air for another ten seconds to sterilize the tip. It still wasn't clean. It had black lumps from bits of plastic and solder I used to work on my portable Playstation 2.
"Take a deep breath Sonic," I instructed as I position the tip right above a hole filled with blood. Sonic takes a deep breath, and I plunge the tip into the wound, moving the tip in a circular motion as Sonic tenses up from the pain. I pull the tip out, my finger still holding down the trigger as I stare inside. I see a lot of brown scale as Sonic releases his breath. The scale is washed away as a small patch of flesh starts bleeding again.
"I still have a little to get in that hole," I inform Sonic, and he takes another breath as I stick the tip, now getting red-hot, into the wound to close up the spot where blood is beginning to trickle out. Again, I plunge the hot tip in, this time releasing the trigger, and burn the little patch shut. That's one down, three to go. Sonic releases his breath and gets another one as I stick the hot tip into another hole. This time I get all of the exposed flesh. I repeat the procedure for the other two holes, and as I do, I notice that two straddle his spine very closely.
"Y'all right Sonic?" I ask.
"It burns," Sonic complains.
"The bleeding stopped though. Get in the shower. You need to clean those off."
Sonic moves towards the hallway that comes off the main hallway, into the bathroom door, and closes it. I unplug the soldering gun and set it on top of the case in a spot where the tip can safely cool.
"Yes, that's right. I stabbed the Blue Blur in the back with a weed rake."
I STILL can't believe I wrote that line! Not only do I stab Sonic in the back with a weed rake, but I burn the holes closed with a soldering gun! That's almost redneck engineering at its finest, but there wasn't any duct tape nor WD 40 involved.