So as of May 1st it’s been two months exactly (roughly to the hour as of this writing, too) since ol’ Misfire McCoy here sent his lower left leg to heaven prematurely with his shotgun, and things are going better than you might expect, barring a lot of waiting and government inefficiency. The county presumably paid for my emergency bills yet now the man is taking weeks at a time to simply look at me, look down at my leg, look back up at my face and say “Yup, definitely not sorcery or a prank. Here’s the paper you need to progress to the American Disability Acts’ Ice Kingdom stage! Beware the dragons!” Is it truly so hard to check your mail, you bureaucratic butt-muppets? But that’s old news.The world still turns and as do my 22″ gold wheelchair rims. I want gold wheelchair rims, Obama! C’mon! All I need is $50,00 in taxpayer money to live kinda like an average dude, but SOMEHOW that’s asking too much. Sheesh…
While I have yet to begin physical therapy/rehab at a clinic due to my benefits, disability coverage and Medicaid STILL being”processed” (nary a single blue handicap parking tag), I have started”Slap Therapy”, a warm-up regimen of sorts for the prosthetic being fit that’s simply just wailing on the bottom of the stump to deaden the nerves and allow me to put all my weight on it with no discomfort and thus learn to walk again. Though I can testify to it making a lot of progress, it’s “Slap Therapy”, a kind of”therapy” you’d usually find at a Cenobite bondage club: smack the end with you hands like it owes money to Grandma until you’re a seething mass of frustration and pain with a “leg” that feels like it got a charley horse while under anesthesia but in a distinctly painful way. Lather, rinse, curse God and repeat until the artificial limb is ready to be attached and first tried out.
That brings me to riveting my peg leg (or however they do it) onto my leg for the coming walk-again-like-a-big-boy classes, as well as the inevitable Read the rest of this entry
There was a man outside throwing stuff into the back of his truck. Wrench sets, tools, wood, just random things- and this wasn’t the first time. Tweakers often try to rummage through the large collection of years of auction-hunting for copper and anything else of value, so when I saw him I immediately grabbed my shotgun from my room, loaded it up (three magnum buckshot and two AA birdshot loads) and ran to the foyer. I opened the door slightly to see if he would notice, and sure enough he pulled his truck around and came back to the pile to thieve.
Jumping out the door, wielding my gun and screaming “GETONTHEGODDAMNGROUND MOTHERFUCKER! DOITNOW GODDAMMIT!” like a wild man, I put the side of his head in my sights and racked in a round just before he took off running to his truck yelling Spanish. He might have a gun, I thought, or maybe just yelling “don’t shoot!” Legally, I had the right to take the shot, but I didn’t want to kill someone over stolen tools. Yelling back all manner of curse words and reaching for my phone, I dove back into the small, enclosed foyer and went to call the police.
Holding my pistol-gripped WesternField 550ABD (Mossberg 500 clone) by my side, shaking from the adrenaline while still observing proper weapons safety (finger off the trigger, pointed downward, the usual lot). I held up my iPhone 4 and dialed nine, one, one and BOOM! Read the rest of this entry