Pedophiles and Shotguns, a True Story
Jun. 12th, 2006 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peristaltorOn my thirteenth birthday, my Dad gave me the gift of a quote from Mark Twain:
For sometime now, I have wanted to tell a story I heard at work that illustrates what a freakin' handful the teenager can be. It's a good one. Longish, but featuring pedophiles greeted not with the bodies of young children, but with shotguns! And best of all, it's true.
First of all, I have to change the identities of the participants, since this will be posted in a semi-public area and the child involved is under the age of consent. A friend from work -- I'll call him Lenny -- had a narrow escape involving his daughter whom we shall call Pandora. You Greek mythology fans in the readership should appreciate that reference. Last year, Lenny was contacted by someone from the police, what branch I'm not sure, who advised him and his wife that their daughter had made on-line contact with a man under investigation for prowling the internet for minors.
Lenny and his daughter had at that time what could only be described as a combative relationship. He was always coming into work and regaling us with her latest mischief. The best one I heard dated back to when she was only, I think, eleven years old. He had told her to clean her room. Instead, she opened the window, waited until a neighbor was visible outside, and started shouting, "Daddy, no, don't beat me!" Poor Lenny wasn't even in the room.
I have to hand it to her, that was clever. Of course, I'm speaking as a bystander. Were it my child, I'm honestly not sure how I would react to such recalcitrant and obstinant behavior. . . or if I would have remained a parent. . . .
So at fourteen the police report she's communicating with kiddie prowlers on the internet. Great. I honestly don't know if her parents counselled her on the dangers that could be involved, but I suspect they did and she just blew off the warnings. Her later behavior would validate that suspicion.
A few days pass. Lenny wakes to find his wife in need of some assistance. She is a diabetic, and occasionally needs help watching the kids when the disease obstructs her vision. He calls in sick to work.
I should give you some background on Lenny's house.
Lenny lives north of Seattle in rural Snohomish County. Redneck Land, as he calls it. Across his street, he can see the pasture for his neighbor's horses, and beyond that, nothing but fields of wetlands.
His house used to be a sixties split-level until a previous owner split it even further, dividing the two levels into separate living spaces. What used to be a high-ceilinged, open foyer leading both upstairs and down now only leads up to the main house. Open the main door from the inside and it swings eventually against a low, four foot high wall separating the downstair apartment staircase from the main entry. Atop this wall someone constructed a simple ledge, too high above the foyer floor for practical access, but deep enough for storage -- provided you are tall enough to reach, or have enough hands available to boost whatever heavy it is you want looming above the foyer. It's an awkward architectural feature . . . but not without its uses, as you will soon read.
At about eight o'clock on this Saturday morning, someone knocks on Lenny's door.
Not yet showered and wearing his robe, he heads down the short flight of stairs to the foyer and opens the door. On his porch stands a bearded man Lenny has never met, about 30-35 years of age, wearing a Caterpiller meshback cap. Lenny can see an older Camero with Georgia plates parked out front.
"Is Pandora here?" he asks.
"Who are you?" Lenny quite reasonably asks.
"Who are you?"
"I'm her father."
"You weren't supposed to be home."
Okay, so at this point in the original telling, just two days after the visitation, I imagine Lenny must have been still been pretty wound up, the adrenalin pumping whenever he remembered his near-disastrous weekend. He skipped the best part of the story when he told it the first few times. I can understand that. We've all been stressed out before, and can empathize when detail is lost in the re-telling.
A few days after that, though, a crucial detail finally emerged which, in my humble opinion, clinched the story. You see, in the first few tellings, the stranger's attitude shifts without given cause. It didn't make much sense. With the crucial detail added, though, it all makes both good sense and a great story. I have to constantly remind Lenny that telling the story properly is paramount. Don't forget the good part, the crucial detail of the narrative.
And what is the good part?
"You weren't supposed to be home."
Lenny is looking at a taller bearded man through his screen door telling him that he wasn't supposed to be home in his house -- and being cocky about it.
I'm not sure how Lenny responded to this. Words were probably spoken. Heated words, I can imagine. Finally, the stranger looks at Lenny and says,
"You're just a chubby little guy. I could take you."
"Yes, I am just a chubby little guy," Lenny answered as he reached with his left hand to the foyer ledge, pulled down a Mauser 12 gauge and pointed it through the screen, "but I'm a chubby little guy with a shotgun."
The tables turned, the Stranger mumbled excuses and turned to leave against very strenuous and insistent urging from Lenny to remain right where he fucking was. The Stranger got as far as in his Chevy's front seat and was apparently about to start the thing when Lenny and his Mauser shredded the front fender, tire and brake assembly with double-ought buckshot.
The barrel leveled at the now-shaken Stranger, Lenny then informed him that there were five more rounds left, and that neither the car nor the Stranger within it should move.
Wisely for once, neither did.
The police took the Stranger away. Given the circumstances, no charges were pressed against Lenny for discharging the weapon. You see, technically, the Stranger had broken no laws -- no child was abducted, and there is no law against taking a road trip -- meaning Lenny unlawfully detained him with the threat and display of deadly force. Don't worry, though, folks. There was enough evidence on the computer back in Georgia to give the Stranger a long career making little rocks out of big ones in a Federal Penitentiary.
Pandora was the more immediate problem.
After the shot was fired, she went into a frenzy, telling Dad to let her "boyfriend" go, that they loved each other. Through the screaming and tears her both folks took the trouble to inform her that the Stranger was no friend, and that the punishment for encouraging his little road trip was going to be severe. "Grounded" is way to light a term. She lost all privacy, including phone and internet. When she made the mistake of storming out of the punishment lecture and slamming her bedroom door, she lost that as well. Lenny took the door off its hinges and replaced it with an old bedsheet tacked to the doorframe.
Here we are about a year later. Much has improved. I recently met Pandora. She seems like a much happier, more level-headed kid than the one Lenny used to grouse about, and both she and Dad get along much better. They seemed to honestly enjoy each others' company. As Lenny told me, it took her a while, but Pandora finally realized that Dad was not trying to destroy her happiness, as she once thought, but was instead just deadly serious about keeping her alive.
Ah, maturity. Pandora seems to have learned a bit early a lesson that, to judge from the next quote, took Mark Twain a few years longer:
And as much as I hope you are in some way entertained by this, do remember these assholes exist. Spread the word.
When a boy turns 13, put him in a barrel and feed him through a knot hole. When he turns 16, plug up the hole.
For sometime now, I have wanted to tell a story I heard at work that illustrates what a freakin' handful the teenager can be. It's a good one. Longish, but featuring pedophiles greeted not with the bodies of young children, but with shotguns! And best of all, it's true.
First of all, I have to change the identities of the participants, since this will be posted in a semi-public area and the child involved is under the age of consent. A friend from work -- I'll call him Lenny -- had a narrow escape involving his daughter whom we shall call Pandora. You Greek mythology fans in the readership should appreciate that reference. Last year, Lenny was contacted by someone from the police, what branch I'm not sure, who advised him and his wife that their daughter had made on-line contact with a man under investigation for prowling the internet for minors.
Lenny and his daughter had at that time what could only be described as a combative relationship. He was always coming into work and regaling us with her latest mischief. The best one I heard dated back to when she was only, I think, eleven years old. He had told her to clean her room. Instead, she opened the window, waited until a neighbor was visible outside, and started shouting, "Daddy, no, don't beat me!" Poor Lenny wasn't even in the room.
I have to hand it to her, that was clever. Of course, I'm speaking as a bystander. Were it my child, I'm honestly not sure how I would react to such recalcitrant and obstinant behavior. . . or if I would have remained a parent. . . .
So at fourteen the police report she's communicating with kiddie prowlers on the internet. Great. I honestly don't know if her parents counselled her on the dangers that could be involved, but I suspect they did and she just blew off the warnings. Her later behavior would validate that suspicion.
A few days pass. Lenny wakes to find his wife in need of some assistance. She is a diabetic, and occasionally needs help watching the kids when the disease obstructs her vision. He calls in sick to work.
I should give you some background on Lenny's house.
Lenny lives north of Seattle in rural Snohomish County. Redneck Land, as he calls it. Across his street, he can see the pasture for his neighbor's horses, and beyond that, nothing but fields of wetlands.
His house used to be a sixties split-level until a previous owner split it even further, dividing the two levels into separate living spaces. What used to be a high-ceilinged, open foyer leading both upstairs and down now only leads up to the main house. Open the main door from the inside and it swings eventually against a low, four foot high wall separating the downstair apartment staircase from the main entry. Atop this wall someone constructed a simple ledge, too high above the foyer floor for practical access, but deep enough for storage -- provided you are tall enough to reach, or have enough hands available to boost whatever heavy it is you want looming above the foyer. It's an awkward architectural feature . . . but not without its uses, as you will soon read.
At about eight o'clock on this Saturday morning, someone knocks on Lenny's door.
Not yet showered and wearing his robe, he heads down the short flight of stairs to the foyer and opens the door. On his porch stands a bearded man Lenny has never met, about 30-35 years of age, wearing a Caterpiller meshback cap. Lenny can see an older Camero with Georgia plates parked out front.
"Is Pandora here?" he asks.
"Who are you?" Lenny quite reasonably asks.
"Who are you?"
"I'm her father."
"You weren't supposed to be home."
Okay, so at this point in the original telling, just two days after the visitation, I imagine Lenny must have been still been pretty wound up, the adrenalin pumping whenever he remembered his near-disastrous weekend. He skipped the best part of the story when he told it the first few times. I can understand that. We've all been stressed out before, and can empathize when detail is lost in the re-telling.
A few days after that, though, a crucial detail finally emerged which, in my humble opinion, clinched the story. You see, in the first few tellings, the stranger's attitude shifts without given cause. It didn't make much sense. With the crucial detail added, though, it all makes both good sense and a great story. I have to constantly remind Lenny that telling the story properly is paramount. Don't forget the good part, the crucial detail of the narrative.
And what is the good part?
"You weren't supposed to be home."
Lenny is looking at a taller bearded man through his screen door telling him that he wasn't supposed to be home in his house -- and being cocky about it.
I'm not sure how Lenny responded to this. Words were probably spoken. Heated words, I can imagine. Finally, the stranger looks at Lenny and says,
"You're just a chubby little guy. I could take you."
"Yes, I am just a chubby little guy," Lenny answered as he reached with his left hand to the foyer ledge, pulled down a Mauser 12 gauge and pointed it through the screen, "but I'm a chubby little guy with a shotgun."
The tables turned, the Stranger mumbled excuses and turned to leave against very strenuous and insistent urging from Lenny to remain right where he fucking was. The Stranger got as far as in his Chevy's front seat and was apparently about to start the thing when Lenny and his Mauser shredded the front fender, tire and brake assembly with double-ought buckshot.
The barrel leveled at the now-shaken Stranger, Lenny then informed him that there were five more rounds left, and that neither the car nor the Stranger within it should move.
Wisely for once, neither did.
The police took the Stranger away. Given the circumstances, no charges were pressed against Lenny for discharging the weapon. You see, technically, the Stranger had broken no laws -- no child was abducted, and there is no law against taking a road trip -- meaning Lenny unlawfully detained him with the threat and display of deadly force. Don't worry, though, folks. There was enough evidence on the computer back in Georgia to give the Stranger a long career making little rocks out of big ones in a Federal Penitentiary.
Pandora was the more immediate problem.
After the shot was fired, she went into a frenzy, telling Dad to let her "boyfriend" go, that they loved each other. Through the screaming and tears her both folks took the trouble to inform her that the Stranger was no friend, and that the punishment for encouraging his little road trip was going to be severe. "Grounded" is way to light a term. She lost all privacy, including phone and internet. When she made the mistake of storming out of the punishment lecture and slamming her bedroom door, she lost that as well. Lenny took the door off its hinges and replaced it with an old bedsheet tacked to the doorframe.
Here we are about a year later. Much has improved. I recently met Pandora. She seems like a much happier, more level-headed kid than the one Lenny used to grouse about, and both she and Dad get along much better. They seemed to honestly enjoy each others' company. As Lenny told me, it took her a while, but Pandora finally realized that Dad was not trying to destroy her happiness, as she once thought, but was instead just deadly serious about keeping her alive.
Ah, maturity. Pandora seems to have learned a bit early a lesson that, to judge from the next quote, took Mark Twain a few years longer:
When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.
(Mark Twain, "Old Times on the Mississippi," Atlantic Monthly, 1874)
And as much as I hope you are in some way entertained by this, do remember these assholes exist. Spread the word.