Weasels and Hellfire

I cocked an eyebrow. So I just pull this stick and it will go? I admit I sounded rather sarcastic, but then again when don’t I? Gabe and Tim looked across at me and glared,
“It’s a lever, and yes.” Tim spat the words at my feet. Gabe cocked an eyebrow in mockery of my own dubious look and stated as matter-of-factly as he could,
“It will hit him, by the third shot for sure… or we’ll all die.” I took the time to raise the other eyebrow this time, glancing down the sheer cliff side I took note of the 150ft drop and of the well rounded figure bobbing along in the field below.
“Run that last bit by me again.” I said. Tim let a deep sigh escape as he sulked up to the massive 20ft tall contraption and began to restate his plan in the monotone voice that would resonate forever as his trademark.
“We - pull - the - lever, which releases the counter balance, the carefully measured 200 lbs. of rock will swing through the legs of the trebuchet and launch the water balloons down into the field at which point it will, because of our accuracy…”
“Or God really…” Gabe interjected.
“… OUR accuracy will guide the water balloons to Foutch, the aforementioned target.” Tim finished his drone with an almost non detectable flourish of pride in that last note.
“Of course,” I continued “and this will all work because we are technical geniuses and our prowess and knowledge in the field of physics is beyond renowned.” My comment was answered with a stick flying past my head at a horribly calculated angle.
“Oh yes, I see that our accuracy is quite admirable as well.” This time the stick didn’t miss.
The trebuchet stood there, loaded and swaying ominously in the wind. Tim stepped up as bravely as he could to the lever, gauged the distance that he felt appropriate to hit Foutch in the field below, who was happily relating tales of the “glory years” in Scouts to Penn (having lost the third round of rock, paper, scissors he was acting as our diversion). Penn was listening to Foutch’s tale and politely pretending to care. Tim turned on his heel and marched back to me. Gabe fell to his knees and clasped his hands.
“Ready Sir.” Tim reported
“Not really.” I replied.
Gabe began to mutter some prayer of an encouraging sort. I looked down to Gabe then my eyes looked back to Tim waiting patiently, then to the Trebuchet, then to Gabe again.
“Tim… you should really have the honor… I mean, you did build it…” I was cut off by Tim’s reassurance that though the lever was consequently placed behind the whole ordeal that my safety was guaranteed, he went on to tell me about the great obligations of my duties as leader of our rabble.
“Obligations I would like to continue to fulfill through out many years to come.” My only answer was the sound of wood straining under the pressure of two hundred pounds of granite and Gabe’s attempt at Latin, something about God being dead.
“Right then…” I nodded at my own statement and reluctantly approached the apparatus. A large closet dowel served as our lever, when pulled some 23 water balloons would issue forth from our invention and come raining down upon Foutch in some great Sodom and Gomorra like scene. Or the large Rubbermaid container filled with granite would flip back and rip off my head… either way quite a party would ensue.
I paused, Tim edged away (as bravely as possible), Gabe prayed. My hand fell upon the lever with the new resolution of how my family would someday speak of me in mind. “How, yes he was such a brave lad, such a shame he wasn’t more headstrong.” I heard the polite laughter of family and friends at the pun, and then a crack. Tim ran, I ran, Gabe prayed, Tim kept running, a weasel of some breed shot out of a neighboring burrow and scampered off into the forest, I stood still to watch the cataclysmic rain of destruction, Gabe I believe was praying.
To this day I can only imagine in my nightmares what Penn and Foutch must have seen as our Trebuchet launched not only it’s payload of water artillery, but also it’s self over the cliff side and down upon them. Luckily the sound that it made as it tore itself apart was enough to alert them, and any one within 5 miles I’m sure. Down it came, this swirling mass of timber, latex, and stone gliding thorough the sky with such grace, as though it were a flock of swans. Swans that spread their wings and took flight, soaring high up into the air and then diving in wild patterns as a neighboring cyclone caught them and tore their wings off.
Thus did our contraption hurl herself down, cascading into the field below, sending great geysers issuing up from the river beneath our feet, as stone and two-by-fours came pouring down in a beautiful display of man’s engineering capabilities. Gabe was still praying.
So it came to be that I was banned forever from the quiet country home of Mr. and Mrs. Foutch. While they would never comment as to why little Foutch could never entertain guests for the rest of his natural born life, there were always the rumors.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006