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Chapter One: Skunk Attack!
One night in February of the year 2002, My wife, my son and I came home from food shopping, opened our front door and smelled a skunk. This was no ordinary skunk smell. It was like an invisible punch in the nose. It was a skunk attack. We were overpowered by this toxic odor. We gagged on skunk funk as we brought the groceries into the house from the car, astonished by the fact that the smell of the skunk was actually stronger INSIDE our house than it was outside.
The stench was so powerful that we could actually taste it. It was hard to breathe when were inside. The air was poisoned, and the house was unlivable. We choked as we opened all the windows and fled to my mother in law's house to wait for the smell to subside.
Later that night, we went home. It still stunk something awful. I could not get over the fact that it smelled much worse INSIDE the house than it did outside. Was the skunk IN the house? It sure smelled like it!
Something had to be done! We couldn't live in there. I called my friend Gunther who gave me the phone number of an exterminator he had used. His name was "Bob The Skunk Guy."
I called him. He answered the phone like this: "Hello, Bob, the skunk guy!" I explained our predicament. Bob said, "I'll be right over. It will cost you a hundred bucks. If the skunk is in the house I'll find him and get him out of there for ya"
At that point I would have gladly paid him a thousand.
Bob The Skunk Guy showed up less than an hour later, by now it was about 11:00 at night.
Bob The Skunk Guy was big. Bob The Skunk Guy had a big flashlight and wore a big flannel shirt. Bob The Skunk Guy may have had a few big cocktails earlier that same evening.
Never the less, Bob The Skunk Guy was there, walking around my house at 11:00 with his big flashlight stumbling through the shrubs, looking under and around everything searching high and low for our stinking terrorist enemy. A PROFESSIONAL RODENT ELIMINATOR doing what he does best. My hero!
By midnight however he had not accomplished his mission and it still smelled like Bigfoot's ass in my home. Even Bob The Skunk Guy had to admit, the smell was stronger inside the house than it was outside ""Bob," I said, "I really think this skunk is in here, not out there."
"It's possible, but it's very unlikely," Bob said, sounding a bit like a professor. He explained that skunks aren't good climbers and they can't jump, so he probably couldn't have made it up the stairs.
Bob The Skunk Guy went down cellar with his big flashlight. He tore the place apart but found nothing. Then he asked us if we had any flour.We gave him a bag of flour. He produced a can of sardines from his pocket.(wierd) He placed the opened can of sardines in the center of the cellar, and then he sprinkled the white flour all over the floor around it. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked.
"If that skunk is down here he's gonna go for those sardines," Bob explained, "Skunks love sardines, and we'll be able to see his footprints in the flour, then we'll be able to see where he's hiding."
"Ingenious!" I said, and we went upstairs. The man had techniques, and proceedures! He was clearly a skunk catching expert. Even though I was still choking and gagging I felt a bit more at ease.
"I think it smells more upstairs than it does down cellar," Bob announced. I had to agree. Who was I to argue with the trained nose of a professional rodent eliminator? He paced from room to room sniffing. We followed him, doing the same. It was getting close to 1:00 AM. My little boy was upstairs in bed with the covers over his head.
Bob stopped in front of the closet in the front hall, sniffing with his nose in the air. He shined his big flashlight into the closet. Suddenly he seemed very alert.
"Open the front door, and leave it wide open!" He ordered. "We need to take all the clothes out of this closet so I can get in there!" he explained sternly.
It was the voice a sergeant would use before ordering his men to take Porkchop Hill.
We removed every coat, shirt and sweater from the closet and threw them on the dining room table, like good soldiers.
He shined his big rodent seeking flashlight beam into the deepest recesses of the cluttered closet. "Holy shit! I think I see him!" he announced. "Where?" I asked peering over his shoulder, but not really wanting to get too close.
"Look right there behind those brown boots! Can you see that bristle of black hair sticking up? I think that's him." There behind my old winter boots I could clearly see black fur. That bastard!
Bob put on a pair of big brown gloves.
"Stand back!" he ordered. We did. Way back. My wife retreated into the kitchen. "What are you gonna do?" I asked the brave skunk hunter.
"I'm gonna grab him by the tail and throw him out the front door," he said, "So stay the hell outta the way."
"What if he bites ya?" I whined, biting my fingernails.
"That's what the gloves are for." Brave Bob growled, with a steely wink.
What balls he had!!! I had to admire him. Here was a guy who was willing to grab a nasty stinking wild animal by the tail for a hundred bucks!
He was like Marlon Perkins from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom... only drunker. God, I admired him! How brave can a man be?
"Here goes!" Bob announced, taking a deep breath of polluted air.
Bob The Skunk Guy charged into that closet with balls like angry John Wayne! He lunged as I cowered, watching from the dining room.
For a second or two all I could see was his big ass, sticking out of the closet.
There was a lot of bumping around going on, and some grunting, and a loud thump, and some muffled swearing. Some shoes flew by me. This was getting exciting!
He swore and jumped backwards out of the closet and spun around like James Brown, holding in his big brown glove, the hood to my wife's black Eskimo style snorkel jacket.
The hood with the black fur trim.
"Sorry," he said with an embarassed smile, "False alarm." His words hung in the scented air.
I went down stairs to check on the sardines, trying not to breathe.
...Continued in Chapter 2...
CHAPTER TWO- THE WAR BEGINS
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In the days following our skunk attack we suffered. We couldn't eat in the house, and spent a fortune in sub shops. The smell pervaded everything. We lost lots of sleep, and when we did sleep we'd often awaken to a new skunk attack. Where was it coming from? I was convinced that the skunk was in the cellar, but there were no footprints in the flour around the sardines! Every time the furnace kicked in it blew the stink into the air some more. Each day we were glad to go to work early, and Mini-Me seemed eager to go to school and escape the stench. We dreaded coming home, knowing that nightfall would probably bring a new stink attack. I went on the internet looking for help, and learned as much as I could about skunks.I even went bto the library to find books about skunks.
One of the articles I read suggested spreading large amounts of Cayenne pepper around the foundation of the house.
The article said that hot pepper powder spinkled all over your yard would work. Supposedly it burns their paws.
I suppose when they lick their paws, they need a cold beer, and not having a cold beer makes them run all the way to the liquor store,where they might be run over by cars or even drink themselves to death.
I went to BJ's wholesale club and bought several large containers of hot cayenne pepper, but when I tried to spread it aound the lawn, the wind blew it into my face. The hot pepper got in my eyes and blinded me, like being maced. I spent the rest of that afternoon washing my eyes out.
I called The Fish and Game Department who informed me that it is against the law to kill the striped weasels. I was definietly willing to take the risk. I called Animal Control in Stoned ham and a very lethargic uninterested voice gave me suggestions, but this highly unmotivated public servant said that he could not help me.
In desperation I went to Wal Mart and bought a gun. It was an air canister powered pellet gun with a laser scope and it shot 22 caliber pellets. It cost me sixty bucks.
I bought a big flashlight too, just like the one Bob The Skunk Guy had.
Bob The Skunk Guy came out two more times, at a cost of two hundred more dollars, and set traps with sardines in them all over the place. We caught the neighbor's cat the first night. I could hear it out there screaming at three in the morning, and I had to go out in the freezing rain and let it go.
The next morning I did some target practice with my deadly air pistol. It scared me, but I needed to know if it was powerful enough to kill a skunk. It wouldn't make sense to shoot it just to get it all pissed off. It might just limp all over the place spraying everything.
I put a pizza box up next to my camper to see how powerful the gun was. I shot the pizza box, pretending it was a flat square cardboard skunk. It went right though both sides of the pizza box, no problem. I was impressed!
Later I discovered that I had a flat tire on my camper. I guess I shot a hole in the God-damed tire during pizza practice. I put the gun away for a while, and waited for night to fall.
It was just around midnight when the next attack came. I was sitting in my big chair sipping on a large beer when I smelled it. I jumped to my feet grabbed the giant yellow flashlight, (just like Bob's) and went to the second floor window and shined the giant beam of light down into my nieghbor's yard...and there he was!
He was big for a skunk, larger than a cat, with big wide white stripe going down his back. Pure evil was waddling beneath me. I stumbled into the closet and returned to the window with my pizza gun. Where did he go? The bastard! I opened the window and shined the light down and spotted him again. There he was, that terrorist bastard, waddling through the yard. I took drunken aim and fired! Ping! Ping! Ping! "Take that you bastard!" Ping! Ping! Then I realised that I was missing the skunk but hitting the side of my neighbors house quite well. The polecat waddled around behind the house towards the barn and I continued firing, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that I could indeed hit the broad side of a barn. I don't think I hit the skunk though and he moved into the darkness unscathed.
Disgusted with my marksmanship, I went back to my big chair and had another large beer, to think things over. I read my skunk book and pondered the problem well into the night. I began drinking Guinness and discovered that it gave me enough gas to cover up the smell of the skunk.
I considered a new plan: capitol punishment in the form of a new 50 gallon barrel, filled with 49 gallons of water, and a gallon of anti-freeze. Capture and execution by drowning would be preferable to pellet gun firing squads. It could also prevent me from getting arrested for carrying and discharging an illegal weapon in a residential area. Terrorism was causing the defense budjet to grow exponentially as the war lingered on.
The next morning I went out and spread more hot pepper aound the house being careful not to mace myself in the process. We made it through that day without incident.
Thursday morning,we were attacked by terrorist skunks again.
I got up about 5:30, no smell at all. I was beginning to think that the work I did yesterday had paid off.
I concocted a repellant solution that I downloaded off the internet. I sprayed my entire lawn with this mixture of castor oil lemon pledge and water. I also neutralized the smell in the cellar using white vinegar... and again, the rags with ammonia were placed all over the place. We have candles going upstairs most of the time, and I use this citrus spray in the vents.
NOTHING WORKS.
When today's assault occurred, I went to the second floor window and watched.
It wasn't long before I saw the assailant, a small black skunk, much smaller and blacker than the one I saw 2 nights ago. He was being chased by a fluffy multi-colored cat. The cat chased him into the culvert, or gully, or drainage area, or whatever you call it, under Lincoln Street extension.
Even though I was only half dressed, I ran for the "peace maker" my extremely dangerous 8 shot air pistol, with laser scope. I threw on my winter coat, gun in hand, I paused by the mirror...From behind the glass in the mirror, I saw Clint Eastwood sneering back at me
"What are you lookin' at? Huh, PUNK! ...SKUNK PUNK! "
.
Concealing the weapon in my coat pocket I headed out the door, determined to "make my day".
The cat ran away when he saw me coming. They can sense danger.
It was quiet...
...too quiet.
In my head, I heard the soundtrack form "The Good The Bad & The Ugly".
But then someone must have turned the station or something, and I started hearing "OOH THAT SMELL" by Lynrd Skynyrd.
To block that out I started singing "My Rival" by Steely Dan
Gripping the concealed handle of my plastic instrument of death, I sang into the sewer pipe under the gully, "My rival! Show me my rival!"
"Come on out and show yourself! Come out with your paws up! Make it easy on yourself, and you won't get hurt. I'll getcha five to ten in a relocation program up the Medford woods.
In six months time you could be swimming up Spot Pond.
It doesn't have to end like this!
What's it gonna be punk?"
The skunk, paralyzed with terror, was either frozen in fear far beneath the Stoneham sewer system, or else he might have escaped through a secret hidden terrorist escape hatch.
They're very well trained, these terrorist skunks.
Either way he didn't come out, I was freezing my nuts off because I had just taken a shower, and "Walkabout Willie" my deranged drunken neighbor was now looking at me, hearing me singing Steely Dan to a sewer pipe. Why, he may even think of ME as HIS drunken and deranged neighbor!
...and it wouldn't be good for Dirty Harry to be late for work.
So I went home unloaded and hid my dangerous bb pistol high in the closet, because let's face it; any heater that can blow a hole in a pizza box could do some serious damage if I leave it lying around. I put the trigger guard on it, and went to work.
He who sniffs and runs away, lives to fight another day.
"Peppe' Le Pew must die!" I vowed.
My friends were full of suggestions. "You need to shoot the cat, and maybe the skunk will stop spraying" one said.
"When you do kill the skunk you should either have it stuffed or make a nice hat out of it," another suggested. "You could be like Daniel Boone!"
I set the "Have A Heart" trap each night and waited. Each morning I got up and checked. One morning I saw something in the trap and went out there, only to discover that it wasn't a skunk in the trap. It was a possum. Jesus are those things ugly! Have you ever seen one up close? They are truly disgusting! He snarled at me and everything! A rat with an Elvis sneer. I opened the cage and set his ugly ass free. Anything that ugly deserved to live.
Besides he kinda scared me a little.
...To Be Continued in Chapter Three... "The Capture"
STAY TUNED TO THIS BLOG!
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CHAPTER THREE - THE CAPTURE:
I slept well last night. I got up this morning, very early, and looked out the window. Something was moving in the trap... not a possum this time!
I had captured my enemy! The terrorist had been confined! A black skunk witha big fluffy white tail was munching on the sardines in the trap.
It would be his last meal.
I ran upstairs and put on some old clothes, and prepared myself for the execution. I went down cellar and turned on the water to the hose outside.
The hose had been previously run, into a large blue plastic bucket, in my driveway, two steps away from the trap.
I then got an old blanket and went outside. Holding the blanket up as a shield, I slowly walked towards my dangerous prisoner. I threw the blanket over the trap, picked up the trap, and carefully placed it in the bucket of water. Then I got the hell out of there.
By now, Katie was up, and we both looked out the window at the bucket.
That's when the smell came.
I took a shower. I threw my old clothes down cellar.
At 6:30 am, Peppe the skunk was officially pronounced dead. I rushed to work, a little late but victorious.
I left Peppe' floating, motionless in his watery death chamber.
I considered a short memorial service to be held in the afternoon, VERY SHORT, due to the smell.
Peppe's body would be double bagged and dispersed to a secret locationn used for terrorists.
This was a victory in the battle against odiforous terrorism for Wright Street, but I knew that the war was not over.
Constant vigilance is needed, for all of us to breathe freely.
...To Be Continued....in chapter 4, "The Aftermath."
See Chapter 4 in the Blog Menu on the left.
CHAPTER FOUR - THE AFTERMATH
Work was over. On the long ride down the highway, I had time to
ponder just what I had done.
Making a stone of my heart, I told myself that it was necessary. I
had to protect my family. Peppe had to die.
I tried to submerge my guilty feelings, but they kept swimming
frantically, scratching at the stainless steel bars of my conscience,
forever trapped in the have-a heart cage of my mind.
I told myself that it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now, not the
essence of the tiny life I had extinguished, or the guilt that kept
bubbling up to the surface of my consciousness like the last gasps
of a desperate weasel.
Nothing mattered except for one thought;
"Finish the job". I had to dispose of the body.
I drove forward, each ticking second bringing me closer to the watery death chamber I had created.
My murderous inhuman heart skipped a beat as I pulled into the driveway, and the smell of death filled the cold winter air.
I would have to work quickly, carefully, efficiently, but most importantly;
secretly.
What if the neighbors were watching?
Luckily it was barrel day.
If I did this thing right, no one would notice.
I chose 3 large heavy-duty contactor type trash bags, and I
approached the blue plastic tub which had now become the briny casket of my odoriferous dead enemy.
I lifted the lid, and looked
down in horror at what I had done.
Long bristly black and white tail hairs stuck out of the bars.
A green oozing slime floated on the surface of the scummy water, and pieces of the sardines I had used for bait were floating inside the
cage.
Had he regurgitated them, as he struggled for life?
... I didn't
want to think about it.
The smell was powerful and obnoxious, an insult to the senses.
I began to breathe from my mouth, but that only caused me to taste it.
I had to tip the blue bucket and dump the water to get the cage
out without getting my hands wet.
I groaned under the weight of it as I lifted, and the stinking brine splashed out onto the driveway.
I had to step back, as the tide of
liquid filth spread towards my shoes.
The smell increased dramatically as the wind spread it through the neighborhood.
The tub was near empty, and I could see the face of my victim.
It's eyes were rolled back in it's rat-like head. It's fanged teeth were bared in a final frozen grimace.
The claws of the animal were
extended infront of it's face, and I could tell that it had died trying to scratch it's way out of it's watery grave.
I lifted the cage out of the water and placed it on the driveway.
Then I looked around.
Across the street, my nosy neighbor, the loudmouthed
schoolteacher with the half retarded husband, was staring at me.
Her pug-like nose sniffing the air, no doubt.
I waved to her and
began pretending to put out the trash barrels.
I dragged one to the curb and waved again.
She did not wave back, she merely tilted her bulldog face toward the ground in recognition, and went into
her house.
I knew she was looking out the window now.
I crouched down next to the flat tire of my camper, where she could not see me, and I placed one of the bags over the mouth of the cage and opened the door of the trap.
It slipped, and the spring door snapped down on my cold fingers.
I didn't yell out loud,
because I didn't want to attract her attention.
The last thing in the
world I needed now was her half-retarded husband coming over to talk to me!
I lifted the cage and tried to slide the waterlogged lifeless carcass of the striped weasel into the plastic bag.
Somehow he got stuck in
the opening, and would not fall into the bag.
I had to reach in and
tug on the soggy tail of the rodent to free him from the trap.
I gagged and suppressed the bile rising in my throat.
With a liquid thud, the animal was now in the bag.It was heavier than I thought it
would be.
In order to tie a knot, I spun the bag quickly, and drops of
skunk-water spattered my sleeves, and the front of my coat.
I triple bagged him as fast as I could, and tied three knots on each bag.
Then I stuffed the corpse into a black trash barrel and dragged it to the curb.
Next, I had to dispose of the evidence.
The soaking wet blanket I
had used to commit the murder.
I triple bagged it and stuffed in
into another barrel, placing a pizza box on top of it to make it look natural.
It was the same pizza box I had blown a hole through while
testing my skunk gun, and giving my camper that flat tire.
All the evidence was in the barrels now, where it would wait overnight
for the trashmen to come.
I turned on the hose and washed down my driveway, which reeked
of death, skunk piss, and sardine juice.
I had to wash it down 3
times. with ammonia, lemon pledge, and white vinegar.
I also washed the blue death bucket and the cage meticulously.
Satisfied with my work, I went back to my normal daily routine, bearing the tremendous weight of my guilt, as I will for the rest of
my days.
The end.
-Kenny Hogan 2002
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