Jim, Jerry Morris and I are on our way to the desert of Palm Springs, California to go BB gun hunting. Our prey are offbeat, as we hunt each other. We all have goggles to guard our eyes and Daisy BB guns. The BBs sting, but not penetrate the skin too deeply.
I say to Jim, “I want to inoculate myself against the pain so shoot me in the chest.”
Jim says, “No way! If you want to feel what it is like, do it yourself!”
So, I take off my shirt, turn the gun on myself, and pepper my torso.
Jim and I are one team against Jerry and Morris. Jim would point me toward the enemy and say, “Mister Rick, twenty feet away, go!”
I run down my target while firing, then I would run down the other, not caring if I was shot. Jerry and Morris, of course are screaming and cursing as they are peppered by my gun. Their aim is inaccurate because they are retreating, trying to fire over their shoulders.
Suddenly, an uninvited intruder appears. Standing in front of us is a giant, African-American game warden. The giant speaks like an angry god, “Five-hundred bucks for each weapon! The fine is a thousand bucks for each bird or lizard you’ve shot!”
I say, “We’re not shooting birds or lizards, sir.” I pull up my shirt, revealing my welted body pocked by BBs: “We’re only shooting each other, Sir.”