|“Crops doin’ well,” said Paige looking over their corn field from the porch of their house southeast of Junction Road 26 in Morrow County, Ohio. “A-yep,” replied her husband, Bob, shifting a straw between his lips from left to right and back again. A murder of crows erupts center field and scatter in all directions followed then by a blast and a towering flame speeding off. The blast knocks Bob’s hat off and leaves them both looking skyward.
“Well, lookee thar,” said Paige, “what be that a-flyin’ outta the cornfield?” “Don’t reckon ah rightly know,” said Bob. “Reckon it looks like one o’them thar nuke-lee-are miss-iles,” dusting off his hat and setting it back on his head. And then replacing the straw with a chaw of tobacco and checking his watch. “Well, I reckon,” he said, “It be time to fire up the grill. Call my sister. And get out them cold beers.”
Like a groundhog, the tip of another missile pokes its head out of the hidden silo.
Amidst the smell of meat over Kingsford charcoal burning on a Weber grill and the roar of missiles launching compete with a cacophony of voices chewing the fat.
“So,” says Bob, turning over a burger, “I’m having a BBQ one day –it’s got to be some 30 years now, and my buddy Billy comes up to me ...”
“Any of you keepin’ count?”
“Eleven by my last count ...”
“... He’s the 20-year live-in boyfriend of Beth, the town Jezebel and first lady. She was friends with my younger sister Betsy and Betsy was friends with Billy’s sister, Paige, my wife…” He flips another burger.
“Nope, it’s 13, I got here earlier ...”
“Yep. I counted 13...”
“... And Billy, the pyromaniac, puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out what looks like a silver M-80, an’ he says ‘Bob, d’you know what this is?’ I says ‘An M-80?’ an’ he says, ‘Nope. I made it. It’s better than an M-80.’ So, I says ‘What can it do?’ Billy says, ‘It goes bang real loud. Let’s set one off.’ So, I says to Billy, 'I don’t think that’s a good idea Billy on account of all those attending the BBQ might not approve.’ Walkin’ away, Billy says, ‘I’m gonna light it anyways.’”
“Any of you know what kind ...”
“Reckon they could be IC-Bee-Ems, or L-Gee-Ems or MI-Ar-Vees...”
Tsst! Goes a can of ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon as Bob takes a swig and says ... “minutes later we all hear a loud bang. That’s when Billy shows up covered in feathers and his eyebrows missing, and he says, ‘Bob, sorry about your chickens.’ I must say Billy had this town thinking he was crazy. But he made out real good in the end. Movin' on up to President of these here United States and all.”
“Hey, Bob. Guys. Well, Lookee thar. Why’s that miss-ile a-comin’ our way?”