| Right. So my parents have chickenhouses. Every eight weeks or so, they're brought a new batch of chickens, which are kept for six weeks and then they're caught, hauled off, dismembered, and sold to you. But seldom are all of them caught. Last night, I was treated to about 200 leftover chickens which just can't be allowed to hang out, since the food and water are out of reach for the time being. We can't very well give them away, so the left behind chickens are always killed and disposed of in the usual manner. 200 is a lot. I don't like touching the chickens anyway, and I surely can't do the traditional neck-breaking because it involves getting both hands on the chicken and pulling it in two different directions until it shuffles off the mortal coil. So, I took the air rifle. Nobody bothered to tell me how badly skewed the sights were. I haven't shot a gun in years, so I chalked my frequent misses up to rust. Nine different times did the BB I shot miss, hit the wall, bounce back and hit me. Five times did it penetrate skin. Once was I unable to get it back out. So, from almost point-blank range, I managed to shoot myself. I think that, more than anything, is proof of why I shouldn't hunt. Because hunting rifles will leave a bigger mark. |
