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I was forewarned that a certain teenaged nephew would be gunning for me, so I scored big at Walmart. Along with the bazooka, I bought eight other "pieces" of various sizes. I was disappointed that the bastards didn't carry a multi-gun holster. Striking fear in your enemy's heart is a great psychological advantage.
Hubby and I did a test run of the bazooka when I got home. It's common knowledge that any responsible gun owner must *know* their weapon, and I'm damned responsible. After firing off the last of the ammunition, I was convinced the boy was toast.
Arriving at the Norwegian Mafia's house the next day, I was greated by said "boy." Did I mention that he towers over me? Right behind him was...another teenaged boy. Hmm, this wasn't anticipated. I remained confident, however, because if things get tough I will pull the "old auntie" card. Yep, that's always worked in the past.
The boys help us unload the 'burb and bring everything into the house. Here is when my well laid plans began to unravel. We're a rambunctious lot, but we do engage in civilized behavior at times. I assumed that the gun fight would begin at an agreed upon time, with party fouls understood by all gun slingers. Silly me.
My nemesis spots the bag of weaponry, grabs the bazooka and fires a head shot at me in the kitchen. I don't know which one of us was more surprised when I got a face full of water. (Notes to self: Never assume you have fully emptied your weapon, and teenagers do not subscribe to civilized behavior).
The boys run out the door with the weapons to fill them up with the garden hose. Although this has not been an auspicious beginning, at least they are doing all of the work and I will just confiscate whatever I need when their not looking. A good warrior always has a Plan B. I hadn't really thought a Plan C, D, and the remaining alphabet would be needed. Silly me.
I'm pleased to see the boys have turned against each other and are racing about the backyard firing at will. I enjoy the safe haven of the house and chat with the other "grown-ups." (This term is used very loosely in my family). Eventually, I step outside to have a quiet smoke under the carport. Immediately, boy1 runs around one corner of the house and boy2 comes around the other. I am a hapless, unarmed, about-to-be-victim but the boys are so busy shooting each other they don't see me stealthily slip back into the house. (Note to self: Don't forget Plan B before re-entering the war zone). Peeking out the door, I see boy2 has abandoned the bazooka and is firing two-handed with the smaller guns. I dash out and retrieve my weapon and turn toward my enemies. Drat, the gun is empty! I take a few shots to the back as I scamper back into the house for a refill. Whew...loaded and ready. (Note to self: "Empty" is why a gun is abandoned, ya goose).
The "grown-up" nephew is now advising the teenaged thugs to attack his sister who has just pulled up in the driveway. Rapid escalation of the war is now assured. This was, afterall, her idea. After taking several shots on the way into the house, she simply commandeers a large water bucket and fills it. (Why didn't I think of that?) She patiently waits inside the door until the two once again come into range.
KERSPLOOSH!!!
There is more, much more. Under the table groin shots to the non-participators; assurances of a water-free zone (not); curiously wet carpet and floors that generated personal denials from all involved; and my extreme disappointment that the "old auntie" card doesn't work when water is involved.
It was a wonderful day and few were not soaking wet. And thanks, Dad for joining us. Mom saw you watching and smiling.
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