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angelcat · 03-26-2004, 05:17 PM

We always knew there was something sinister about squirrels...
Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)

I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a
residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect
... I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic.

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and

tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it - it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second,
he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for,

"Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular ... as he shot straight up, flew over my
windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he

brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing,
and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...

I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed
to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off
to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled
from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended
right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one
of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could
have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.

But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary
pi**ed-off squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF
DEATH!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and,
with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and
an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather
anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my
left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.

I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw,

only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars,
and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right
hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a
Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for,

and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel
left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans,

a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back.
The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the
sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the
handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant
squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's
tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to
release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded.

I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against
the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel
decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious
battle (maybe he is an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came
around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate
closed partway, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming
changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.

The RPMs on The Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting
at the moment) so her front end started to drop. Now picture a large
man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph,
still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the
mostly closed full-face helmet.

By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I
got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my
helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it
worked... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak. Picture a new
scene.
You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet
residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove,
moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly
into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle
under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used
maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the
stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up
(and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two
things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been i! n the driver's seat was standing in the street and was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.

So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to

"let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well,
I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery

from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back
window, shaking his little fist at me, shooting me the finger ... That is one
dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded
patrol car ... but it was all his.

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn
off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighbourhood. I decided it was
best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And some bandaids.
(^,~) wink...