So, one Christmas all the kids on our block got bb guns. What do you do? Of course you divide into two teams to play army. This kid, Larry Howell, comes around the corner of the house and my brother nails him right under his nose, great shot, the bb embeds into his flesh and the blood flows. Larry screams and runs home. This is a small town where everybody knows everybody. The phone lines light up. Soon most of the participants are also lit up by fathers with cowboy belts. Almost all of the bb guns got stomped into metal garbage. My brother's gun somehow survived. A few days later, after the brew ha ha dies down, we hatch another way to have bbgun fun. We take turns. One rides the bike past the shooter and trys not to get hit. The rider wears a moto helmet with a bubble face shield. It was understood, that no matter how much it hurt, that there was no running home to mama. Shooting a moving target would better prepare us for shooting deer and hogs that are usually running. It was fun. The further away from the rider the more you had to lead.
