Anyhoo, off we trundle through the field, carrying our two ... crates ... of fireworks, mentally rubbing our paws and giggling.
The first problem came when we literally couldn't find a place to set up. Everytime we'd think we found a decent spot, someone else would plonk down an artillery tube less than ten feet away and begin launching explosive stuff willy-and-nilly.
Finally we got located. We unshipped our mortar tubes, and began wiring a sequence pattern for the first barrage, when Aidan yelled, "Fire!"
Chortling indulgently, Chris patted him on the shoulder and bellowed above the sounds of thousands of pyrotechnics going off, "Patience!"
"Patience, my ass," bellowed Aidan, pointing, "
Fire!"
Yeppers. Waist-high wall of flame roaring our way, gamely pursued by two aging pumper trucks.
I'm told that the sight of seven very large white guys, carrying two vaguely coffin-shaped crates whilst hauling ass across a field followed by a grass-fire, followed in turn by two pumper trucks, had the ladies in stitches for the rest of the evening.
No comment.
Anyhoo, once the flames were beaten into submission by the VFD, we set back up, loaded our first pattern and launched it successully into the sky.
Many ooh's and ahh's followed, and we began a hearty round of congratulatory hand-shaking, in the middle of which Conor began to frantically slap the lids back onto our crates.
We were somewhat puzzled by this, until someone pointed out a fairly large-ish artillery tube about 15 feet away. Laying on it's side. With a sparking length of cannon fuze disappearing into it's depths.
Which we could see,
because it was pointed right at us.
Brothers dove left. Kin sprinted right, and Conor just dropped flat in-between the two crates as the tube launched and the big red ball impacted about six feet short of our cases of low-grade explosive, arced over the top, bounced again about 20 feet further on and detonated in a beautiful burst of red and blue fireballs in the middle of a group of people who seemed to have been setting up about six strings of Black Cats.
At least, I hope that's what they were doing, 'cause that's what happened.
From the mighty cheer that went up, I can surmise that this feat met with approval from a great many people. I can also surmise that more than a few of them had been steadily violating the "No Booze" rule and were probably pissed as newts.
Anyhoo, someone, whom I don't know, but apparently unrelated to the survivors of the artillery shell/Black Cat incident, decided that this required a stern response, right smartly.
Counter-battery fire came in the form of
two artillery shells and a smoke bomb zeroing in on the culprits.
Passing over our crates in the bloody process, I might add.
This, of course, necessitated answering fire missions of several minutes duration, culminating in an artillery shell bouncing gracefully from roof-to-roof of several innocent vehicles merely watching the display, before detonating spectacularly above a hapless Plymouth Neon and bringing the attention of Johnny Law.
With the appearance of the local PD
and the SO
and DPS, the combatants were dispersed nicely, allowing my family to emerge from our various possitions of cover, and begin to -- once again -- set up our display.
By God, we got off two full sets of launches, and I was just getting into the proper spirit of things, when I get punched between the shoulder blades with a flaming pick-axe. Next thing I know, I'm face down in the dirt, can't breath, mouth full of dry grass, and the distinct smell of flaming cotton fabric wafting gently in the non-existant breeze.
Trust me, I know what a burning cotton shirt smells like. Don't ask.
I can also see, from my somewhat skewed perspective, what looks like a high-school-maybe-college-age girl with a mildly perplexed look on her face as she tugs on the sleeve of a slightly older man standing next to her.
He turns, and in the rockets red glare and the gentle illumination of bombs bursting in air, I can lip-read her say to the guy, who has been setting up
another four-foot tall, sub-orbital, ballistic missile: "
Baby, I think the rocket fell over."
B****.
Next thing I know, my relatives are dumping the contents of one crate into the other crate, picking my gently smouldering carcass up, dumping it into the emptied crate, picking up both crates and --once again -- taking off at a dead run across the field.
Now, remember the description of the crate from the last post? Now. Imagine you are the distaff members of the Clan. Your male relatives - minus one - come running past the SUV you have wisely holed up in. They are carrying - still one relative short - a large crate matching the description given above, with limbs, and bits and parts hanging over the side
because I don't bloody well fit, thankyouverymuch, heave the crate and aforementioned bits into the back of a pick-up and drive off at a high rate of speed.
Yeah.
They caught up when Mat stopped the pick-up at the closest cattle tank, and they heaved me and my crate into the water, to make sure that no bits were still warmer than they should have been. Kind of put the kibosh to the rest of the night.
*sigh*
And we've still got fireworks left over.
LawDog