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Deer jackin'

My wife's been some ornery lately. It all started back when I got arrested for deer-jackin'.

He had me dead to rights. Shootin' cross the road-restin' it on the hood, at night, using a light-out of season.

I'd been runnin' the roads one evening when my headlights flashed onto a big burly one standin' out in the field-out there beyond a line of dead elms. It wun't like we needed any extra meat or anything; I just thought if I could set up for a shot without it scurryin' off, I just might try and bad the healthy stag.

So, I pulled my truck t'the side a' the road, grabbed my rifle, got out, flashed it-and that deer did not move.

I loaded, cocked, and I drew crosshairs onto that trophy and that deer still did not move. I thought if that buck had not opted to scurry off yet, why he was probably having a miserable life up to now and wanted to die anyways-so I redrew hairs, sqwuzz the trigger, and submerged one deep and into the gullet of that big burly buck.. And you know that deer still did not move; it stood just as quick as a fruzz jack o' lantern.

Well I was puzzled. Never before had I known of an animal of any kind to take a 30-30 in the sweet spot and not go down immediately, but I had seen stranger things in my day and I was not about to be split wet and stacked away heavy by that mangy four-legged split hoof-sniff, sniff-the breeze wafted an odor my way, was it deer blood?

The sweat that had begun to emanate from my pores dried up. My heartbeat had put on the binders and had slowed to forty-one and a half beats per minute. My skin had become cold and clammy, like that of a killer. I was the head of a SWAT team, I was G.I. Joe, T.J. Hooker, Walker Texas Ranger. My body become light and pliable like a gay Teletubby. I cinched my belt, spit on my hands, turned my hat around backwards, grabbed hold of my Randle knife and with that was ready to do the one thing I knew I would have to do to bag that allusive animal; I knew I would have to go, hand to hand.

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