Ruble/Quarter Plugger

Through the neck, Washington.

Through the neck, Washington.

Admittedly, this particular career began more as a volunteer position for me.  There is nothing a small child loves more than to finger the still warm bullet hole in a shiny new ruble, and being something of a Bearer of Joy, I took it upon myself to travel the cities, towns, villages and unincorporated watering holes of America, with my trusty six-iron on my hip, tossing coins in the air and plugging them right through the center.  Kapow and Kablam!  There is nothing more revivifying than the sound of gunshots on a dewy spring morning, at a crowded county fair, or in the dead of a winter’s night.  At the time (1949 or 1950, if memory serves), I was still dealing with a lot of anger over War Admiral’s downfall at the hooves of the cursed Seabiscuit at Pimlico.  Only shooting holes in Soviet currency could console me.  I’d toss that Lenin-headed coin into the sky, pretend I was looking into the eye of that devil’s steed Seabiscuit, and mentally send the cretin back to his maker.  However, the times were changing, and no longer could a broken man or woman set up camp on the town square exercising a firearm from sunup to sundown.  After a rude police escort out of Decatur, I decided I’d take my show to the only part of the country able to not only accommodate,  but appreciate my proclivities:  The Mountain West.

Indeed, this move opened up new horizons to me.  Little did I know that one could wear the same stained, fringed leather suit day after day, as I had been bowing to convention and donning 3-piece linen suits back east.  (Not something to be wearing if one wishes to avoid meat stains.)  And since every Mountaineer, or “Westerner” to those of you east of the Continental Divide, owns  a few assault rifles and handguns, I was often joined in my pursuits and the dusty streets rang with the happy din of ricocheting shot and shells.  Men, women, children and trained cattle monkeys all possessed a keen eye and a genial respect for a man with a grudge against a horse… the Mountain West is truly the most egalitarian culture on the planet.   Of course, the workaday concerns of these fine people often intruded on our therapeutic shootouts, and it was always with great reluctance and not a little regret that I left each rugged outpost, each rendezvous, each fort.

It was around this time that I made the switch from shooting rubles to quarters.  I had nearly spent my fury over the horse race, but as always a new frustration loomed.  This was the culmination of a feud I had with the state of Wisconsin and their brewery zoning standards.  As a result, I became a Communist, and began shipping trainloads of shot up quarters to the Senator of that mitten-y state.  I also underwrote about 60 Russian nukes.

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