NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #26/NN_1992_26.iso/spool/alt/peeves/16845

Internet Message Format | 1992-11-09 | 6.6 KB

Path: sparky!uunet!caen!spool.mu.edu!agate!curtis
From: [e-mail] (Curtis Yarvin)
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Subject: Squirrel
Date: 10 Nov 1992 04:12:41 GMT
Organization: UC Berkeley CS Dept.
Lines: 165
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: mamba.cs.berkeley.edu

So I saw this squirrel.

It was gamboling merrily in the middle of the road.

Well, not exactly a road.  One of these things on the UC campus
which appear to be roads, being flat, in fact paved, and of a
suitable dimension for cars, but which are covered with ominous
graffiti.  The graffiti is red and white.  The white is a crude
stick-figure sketch of a bicycle.  The red is a circle around
it, a slash over it, and the inscription "BIKERS MUST DIE -
UCPD."

I'm kidding, of course.  It doesn't say "BIKERS MUST DIE."  It
just says "NO BIKE RIDING."  Which, of course, leads one to
presume that cars, which are larger, uglier, and more obnoxious
in every way, are also prohibited.  Which is not unreasonable,
unless said car is a huge brown Mustang with Richter-scale
subwoofers in the trunk, a rap collection which fills the back
seat, a couple of happy young men of the melanin-advantaged
persuasion in the front two seats, and little red stick-figures
carrying backpacks stenciled all over the chassis.

But, I mean, come on.  It's still a goddamn road.  And I was,
in fact, biking on it. In blatant defiance of state and Federal
regulations.

And there was this squirrel.

Now I looked at this squirrel.  And he looked at me.  Yea he
looked me in the eye.  And there was no fear upon his face.
And I said to myself, something is wrong here.  Something is
fucking wrong here.  When I have to make like a convict upon
this beautiful field of asphalt, and along comes this little
tree-rat like he owns the place, something is definitely wrong
here.

I determined to teach this varmint a lesson.  To instruct him.
To show him which species, in particular, was the dominant life
form in this here ecological niche.

So I accelerated.  I bore down upon him.  I threatened bodily
harm with my perfectly-trued Araya 700c anodized aluminum
wheels.  I said, buster, you are going to run.  And I am going
to ride.  And then we will see who is mayor in this town.

And he ran.  Ran he did.  He ran right.

And then he said, no, methinketh this is not the best way to go.
And he ran left.

And I bore down upon him.  No, I thought.  This cannot possibly
be.  A billion years of evolution cannot create something so
utterly stupid.

And he ran right.  And he ran left.  And, oh fuck, I thought,
I'm actually going to _hit_ this fucking thing.

Braking would have been a nice gesture, but pointless.  I
mentioned those wheels?  Those 700c wheels?  700c wheels are
about as thin as a baby's dick.  As a marmoset's.  700c wheels
are about as thin as dental floss.  Providing a traction spot of
approximately one square millimeter plus or minus the size of a
vole's tits.  On a clear day I can almost see my braking
distance.

So I hit him.  With a soft thunkathunk.  In the head I think.

Then I stopped.

This may not have been the brightest of moves.

This was Berkeley, after all.  On a Saturday, but a nice Saturday.

The natives were not looking happy.

The natives were not looking happy at all.

The appearance of the thing was not good.  It looked as if I had
done it on purpose.  This illusion was unfortunately heightened
by the fact that I had, in fact, done it on purpose.

I should add, at this point, another short note about my
bicycle.  At one point I decided that an ugly bicycle was just
as useful as a sleek-looking bicycle, and far less vulnerable
to theft.  I therefore invested in some brushes and a little
jar of enamel paint.  The top of the jar said "Rust Red."
Clever me.  O clever me.

Being a cautious sort I did my front wheel first.  It was not a
paint job in the normal sense; rather I put little dabs, and
splotches, and sprays, to approximate the o-so-cool look of
"natural" rust.  Then I waited for it to dry.  After that I was
going to do the rest of the bike.

After that.  Heh.  It dried and everything.  Just right.  Clean
and bright.  Much too bright in fact.  Much brighter than one
would have expected.  Due to the complex exigencies of style I
feel some sympathy for the manufacturer - but the plain fact of
the matter is that this was not, at all, "Rust Red."  It did
not even approach the thing.  It was nowhere near.  What it was
was "Blood Red."

Fresh.  Arterial.

And, in fact, my front wheel looks as though I have just run
over a squirrel.  Permanently.  And not just one squirrel - not
even a particularly juicy squirrel.  Lots of them.  In the very
recent past.

As though I made a habit of running down squirrels.  As though
I scoured the land for squirrels so I could glue them to the
road in front of my bicycle and puree them in my spokes again
and again as I churned back and forth over their bleeding
bodies.

As though I were the Charles Manson of squirreldom.

It became increasingly clear that the crowd had, in fact,
noticed this.

I could have run.  Even then I could have run.  But there were
a couple of particularly shaggy-looking types in front of me -
and, well, it didn't look so good.

One of them approached me.  A male.  A full-grown bull.  He
wore the garish colors of the Hippie tribe.  Someone had
apparently braided his mane into a crude ponytail.

As he got closer I could smell his breath.  It wasn't pleasant.
It was an animal stench - fetid.  Like piss and Boone's Farm
Strawberry Wine.  Shit and marihuana.  Vomit and incense.

I knew I only had one chance.  I wouldn't want to just wound him.

Calmly, I reached behind me and drew my trusty Mag-Lite.

It was only a three-cell, but I could hear the beast gasp at
the sight of its heavy black barrel.  He'd felt the touch of
steel before - I knew it.

He paused, panting and frothing at the mouth.  This was it.
The moment of decision.

I raised the Mag above my head and struck a Sgt. Koon stance.
My eyes were cold - I could feel it.  I stared him in the face.
His heavy black eyeballs were rolling in their sockets.

He took a step backward.

I howled like a King Jaguar and charged, whirling the Mag.
He stared for a second, then turned and fled.  I chased him
for a few yards, then let him go and returned to my bike.

The crowd was restless, muttering.  I showed them the Mag
again.  "ANY OF YOU COCKSUCKING TWO-BIT CHICKENSHIT HIPPIE
FAGGOT LIBERALS WANT TO TAKE ME ON?"  I roared.  "WANT A TASTE
OF STEEL IN YOUR TOFU BALLS?"

There was silence.

I mounted my bike, Mag in one hand, and rode through the crowd.
No one touched me.  And I didn't even hit any of them, either.
I was amazed at my restraint.

c