Confirmed: Puke Cannon
My dad, an avid hunter and taxidermist, has a soft, gooey center. He has brought home, and successfully nursed back to health, a string of wounded, starved or orphaned critters, including owls, raccoons an albino fawn, and a god-damned buzzard.
“Billy Buzzard’s” wing was caught in another hunter’s steel trap. the bones weren’t broken, but the shoulder muscle was badly torn. Dad stuck him in an unused cattle feeder (a big, round thing with a tin roof, suitable for containing one of those giant bales, plenty big enough, and safe).
Billy did not have enough in the crop to demonstrate his peristaltic howitzer at first, but after we cleared out the deep freeze and let some of the older stuff ripen for a few days, he had a full magazine.
None of it hit my face. I had to throw away my “Sworn to Fun, Loyal to None” t-shirt with the awesome skull on it, though.
