There was a time when I drank a little bit. Jack Daniels was my whiskey of choice. I’d usually start out with a pint of Old 7. By the end of the night I’d drank three or four. Never was one to consume anything in moderation. Not speed, cocaine or alcohol of any kind. They say it has to do with having an addictive personality. Truthfully,  I don’t know. What I do know is, I like to get high. When you party with me, we’re going to roll until the wheels fall off! Drink un­til the well runs dry. Don’t so much care for booze these days. But when I used to get the urge to tie one on, I drank Jack Black right out of the bottle tossing the lid into the breeze. This is a blog about one of those nights after the bar closed. Smashed on liquor and trashed on methamphetamine, my friend Steve Young and I left the Stagedoor and headed to an old friend’s house in Moffet. Little did we know,  the guy we were going to see was just as fucked up, or maybe worse, than we were.

Walking up to the gate with a sign that read, “To Hell With the Dog! Beware of Owner!” I immediately became skeptical. Especially since the pit bull on the chain was chomping at the bit to take a bite out of our drunk asses. “Vaughn! Vaughn! Come out here and get this goddamn dog before he eats our ass alive!” Steve yelled toward the porch. Stepping from the doorway of the old run-down shack came Roger Vaughn, ex-Vietnam Vet, and he was wearing two .9mm automatic pistols in a shoulder holster. “Young? Steve Young? That you? Why I’ll be goddamned! Come on in here boy!” Sidestepping the length of the pit’s chain, we proceeded into the front room of the house. “What’s up Tripper? Long time no see. Last time was in the Sebastian County Jail, wasn’t it?” “Yeah, Rog’. You doin’ alright man?” I asked.   “Couldn’t be better! You boys sit down. Wanna beer?” Watching crazy one-eyed Roger walk toward an old refrigerator in the corner, I noticed what looked to be several bullet holes in the wall, plastic and glass all over the floor.

After a beer and a shot or two of Jack, Roger asked Steve if he’d brought his pistol. Steve then took out his 2-shot .38 derringer from his boot and an Army issue .45 automatic from his waistband in back. Sitting on a shelf along­side the icebox was nine of those little drinky birds that bob up and down. You know the kind? The ones with the stupid little faces and red tophats? Apparently there used to be twelve but Roger had already blown three of them away—their mangled bodies strewed about the old wooden floor near the base of the kitchen table. “Bet you ten bucks you can’t hit one of them birds with that derringer first try,” Roger said to Steve. “Are you sure you want me shootin’  shit up in your house man?” asked Steve. “Fuck it!” he replied. “Go ahead. Hell, I do it all the time!” Taking a swig from the bottle of J.D., Steve expertly aimed his little 2-shot pistolo at one of the drinky birds, pulled back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.    “Missed the damn bird all the way!” Roger announced laughing his crazy ass off. “Now watch this,” said one-eyed Rog’. Quick drawing his .45 he blasted the first drinky bird on the shelf to bits. And believe me, that little bastard never drank another drop ever again.

My ears ringing from the gunshot blasts and the pit bull barking like mad on his chain just outside the door, I briefly wondered if the Moffet Police might show up. But then again I thought … this is Moffet.  And there’s only one pig and he’s probably home drunk or in bed. Next thing I know, Roger’s pulled out a hammerless .380 from his front pocket and is blowing away a few more plastic birds. Laughing hysterically, both Roger and Big Steve seemed to be having a blast. Me? I just had a headache from all the loud noise.    “Ever shoot a flamingo, Steve?” asked Roger.  “Because I got some more shit out here in the backyard that’d make good targets. C’mon. Follow me!” Before walking through the back hallway of the house, Roger tossed me his .380 and said, “Here Trip. You might need this. After all, these goddamned pink birds can be some pretty mean mother fuckers. Wouldn’t want you to go out there unarmed.” Drunk as a dog I found myself wondering … does this fucker really have flamingos in his yard and he wants us to shoot them the fuck up? Or maybe it’s that he just has one wheel stuck in the mud. You just never knew about crazy fuckers from eastern Oklahoma. It could be both.

In the backyard, fighting roosters and laying hens ran for cover knowing their nutcase owner was coming out to raise hell. Stepping in a huge bunch of chicken shit, I almost slipped and fell. “You owe me ten. Double or nothin’ says you can’t hit one of those pink freaks with that .45 with a hand over one eye!” said Roger. Looking toward the barn at the end of the lot, Steve saw nine of those plastic pink lawn flamingos and said, “You’re on mother fucker! But I tell you what. Let’s make it forty and I’ll bet I can annihilate three of those long-legged bitches before you can even shoot one!” And before Roger had a chance to respond,  Steve pulled his chrome-plated automatic and shot the fuck out of not three, but four pink flamingos sending their remains flying across the yard in bits! “Pay up mother fucker. It’s almost daylight and time for me and Trip to go.” Roger just laughed and laughed and laughed. Ears ringing and tripping on all the noise and flying debris, I looked at my best friend Steve and said, “Why you crazy fucker! Damn good shot for real!”

Still a bit paranoid that the cops, or maybe even an Oklahoma Highway Patrol might come along, I patted Steve on the shoulder and said, “We’d better go.” Suddenly, our host seemed to be offended. Raising one eyebrow and spitting a sucked-dry chaw of Redman on the ground at his feet, Roger Vaughn said, “What? I ain’t good enough company for you boys any more? Come back in the front room and let’s shoot up some more drinky birds! Hell, I’m just startin’ to have fun. Surely you guys can stay a little bit longer, can’t you?” Seeing Roger was all wild-eyed and toasted,  Steve said, “Okay Rog’. Just a couple more. Then we gotta kick rocks.” Soon as we hit the living room,  Steve popped in his extra clip and unloaded on the remainder of the top hat-wearing birds. What really made things bad was, Roger did the same with both of his nines. Never did think my ears were going to stop ringing after that. I was sure I suffered major hearing loss, not to mention nerve damage from putting up with these two gun-wielding maniacs.

All the way back across the Arkansas River Bridge, Steve spoke but I couldn’t hear a single word he said. I could see his lips moving but my hearing was G.O.N.E gone! To this day I think I have hearing loss due to that night. Smelling of speed, whiskey and gunpowder, I took a shower as soon as I got back to my motel room. The next day I went to the walk-in clinic on Rogers to get a few Valium because my nerves were shot. The Asian doctor gladly prescribed me a hundred blues just so long as I paid the $45 office call. Funny, but when I walked up to the cute little Vietnamese nurse standing at the receptionist window, there sat one of those stupid little drinky birds bobbing up and down getting a drink. Asking for a cup of water and tossing back six blue tens, I remember thinking to myself … I hope I never see one of those little top hat-wearing, big-eyed fuckers ever again. Good riddance to you bird! By the way, this blog is dedicated to my old friend Steven DeWayne Young who passed away last year.  I’m Tripper!    Better Days!