No matter how much camo clothing you wear.
Mr.Wrek and his deer camp cohorts determined to have a meeting at the local cafe. At breakfast. Possibly the only folks there.
Til the game warden decided to check out the local grease pit and see what the commotion was.
As I wasn’t invited (not that I would attend, ain’t eatin’ at that salmonella breeding ground) I get this second hand.
The meeting was going swimmingly. Plans were made. Orders were handed down.
Mr.Wrek maintained his seat as president. Well, he owns the camp so he’s got dibs. I guess.
He drank one more cuppa. And got ready to leave. Paying his tab. Tipping Lulu the ancient waitress. Probably not enough. She needs a new walker, I hear.
Gets in his oversized, over gassed, overpriced redneck pickup truck and backs right into the Game wardens truck. Leaves a gigantic dent right through the emblem that reads (I’m sure) Beware! this is a law enforcement officer, or something like that.
Well, Son-of-a-wrek hears this and flips his lid. He tells his Pop “Pop, that’s worse than hitting a school bus with a learners permit!”
(For a minute, I have to think back. Did Son do this? Have I lost a memory? Nah, nah. Couldn’t be.
)
Other than that, Son is on cloud nine. He can rag his Pop for weeks about this. New material. I fear he’s gonna overdo it. Deer season may be dangerous for him.
Back to the scene of the accident.
Game warden was not amused. Insurance cards brought out and the County police showed up to make the report.
Mr.Wrek was ticketed for failure of some such. Maybe, to yield. I didn’t pay that much attention.
He’s trying to say the Warden was not parked properly. He’s full of shit.
The parking lot is not much more than a dip in the highway. No markings. It’s gravel. And the Warden holds all the cards.
He’ll pay the ticket. Put up with deer camp jokes and Son-of-a-wreks laughing.
Until…next time.
He says he bought the Game wardens coffee, too.
What part of the country is she visiting?
