T-bone was excited!  According to fed-ex.com tracking, today was the day!  THE day!  His spiffy new GPS was arriving today, purchased on E-bay from a guy in  Cleveland who gets them from a distributor in Singapore who imports them from Turkey after they have been rebuilt in China by imported Burmese technicians to nearly most of the factory specs.  What a deal!  A $400.00 GPS for less than $375.00.  Who would have thought!  He would have danced in anticipation, but his failing hip had him hobbled a bit.  He settled for leaning on his cane in front of the living room window chattering to the potted plant on the end table as the moment drew nearer.  The plant, none the worse for wear, continued to grow at a rate of approximately .9mm a day, quietly performing the magic of photosynthesis to convert T-bone’s carbon dioxide to oxygen.  Good thing, too, otherwise the inhabitants of the condo dependent on oxygen for life would have long expired.  T-bone talks a lot, but 2-shot, his ever patient and resourceful wife had equipped the flat with all manner of greenery, partly as a decorative measure, but mostly as a survival technique.  Yes, T-bone talks a LOT.  In fact, he never shuts up.   We’ve gotten used to that.  Those around him often have found that it is sometimes necessary to tune him out.  Ghost one day figured out the secret to tuning him out, and for a mere $100.00 donation to the club, will share the secret with you.  

 T-bone, in all his splendor, relates how he found the killer deal on his GPS, "Precious".

            As the Fed-ex truck rumbled around the corner, T-bone’s excitement level rose to the point where he thought he would wet his pants.  As he hobbled to the door, he realized, he had in fact, tinkled just a little bit, like an excited Chihuahua does when guests arrive.  “Dammit, did it again.” He chattered to the plant.  The plant photosynthesized a bit at that, and continued to grow at a rate of .9mm a day.  T-bone took that as a “Don’t worry about it, kid.  Just sign for the package.”  So T-bone flung the door open and eagerly seized the package from the startled Fed-ex delivery driver.  Popping a quick Vicadin to quell the throbbing in his hip, he took the GPS to his desk and tore into the Ritz cracker box that protected the used Cleveland newspaper into which the GPS had been expertly packed by the guy in Cleveland who gets them from a distributor in Singapore who imports them from Turkey after they have been rebuilt in China by imported Burmese technicians to nearly most of the factory specs.  T-bone was giddy with delight to find that his $375.00 GPS was mostly intact, save a few minor scratches and a small caliber bullet hole in the upper left corner of the LCD screen.  He congratulated himself on saving such huge dollars over spending $400.00 on a new one, and after a quick dash to radio shack to purchase the mounting hardware, power cord, and battery for a mere $179.99, he was in business.   

            As he thoughtfully sucked the coating off a percocet to soothe the twinges in his back, T-bone started to look in the Ritz cracker box for instructions, but was distracted by an article in the used Cleveland newspapers about a crime wave in Cleveland where someone was shooting out the windows in cars and stealing GPS systems off the dashboard.  T-bone, not being the Geographical wizard, plugged Cleveland, Ohio into the GPS, and was relieved to see that the GPS told him that Cleveland was nearly two hundred miles away.  He doubted that the GPS thieves would come all the way to Newport News to steal his GPS system, but just to keep it safe, he called Safelite Auto glass, and had bullet proof windows installed in his car, and a shatter-proof windscreen installed on his Harley.  He wanted to keep it safe.  “I shall call you ‘precious’”, he cooed,  and used a label maker that he bought on E-bay from a guy in East Rutherford, New Jersey that gets them from a guy his brother knows in Syracuse that has them brought over the Canadian border to make a label that said “PRECIOUS” and affixed the label right under the raised letters on the GPS that read GAMRINN GPS SISTEM”.  

  "Precious"

Chapter 2

            Almost exciting as getting his new “Precious” was the first time he’d actually get a chance to use it to find his way from one strange place to another.  One could plainly see the small caliber bullet hole in the screen and the fact that the now engraved plate that read “Precious” obscured the top ½ inch of the expansive 2.3 inch screen, but other than that, it was almost nearly perfectly adequate.  A few trial runs had helped him adapt to some of the quirky route selections the GPS would make.  In fact, it now reported the distance from his house in Kiln Creek to 2-shot’s workplace at the Wal-mart on Jefferson as a mere 53 miles, and only took them through North Carolina twice along the way. 

            On Memorial Day weekend, the club was to make a trip to Washington, DC for several events, including a tour of the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington Cemetery, and the club’s National President’s meeting in Laurel Maryland among others.  T-bone drove his car, since his hip was still bothering him, his arches had collapsed, his back was sore, and his shoulder had developed an unnatural grinding sensation.  2-shot, his ever patient and resourceful spouse accompanied him.  After completing the walk to the Tomb of the Unknowns, observing two changes of the guard, which was done in silence except for the clicking of the sentinel’s heels, the chirping birds, (one of which Ski-dog silently killed and ate)  and even T-bone, out of respect for the dignity of the Ceremony remained silent, save for the grinding of a couple of percocet between his teeth.  After that, about a half dozen Club brothers were to ride from Arlington National Cemetery to the Hotel in Laurel Maryland.  Though Google ® maps reported the distance as 17.5 miles, T-bone knew better, having consulted “Precious” and learning that the hotel was 1,183 miles away, but “Precious” had selected a route that would get them there in a mere 13 minutes.  T-Bone valiantly volunteered to guide that pack through the late afternoon D.C. traffic to our destination.  

            Bubblehead acquiesced, and Special K hopped on his bike, happily snapping pictures of the sights along the way.  Next to him was his trusted Vice President, Chute; behind them rode Ghost, diligently following the Red Harley Ultra Classic Bubblehead had just purchased, and next to him Krypto, on his bike, affectionately known as the “Frankenbike” protecting the right flank.  The final row was an eagerly smiling 2-quarts who was simply happy as hell to be there, and Ski Dog on his street glide, performing tail gunner duties and pulling rear security.  

Since Krypto had replaced his frankenbike auxiliary fuel tank with a mounting bracket for the 14 foot tall frankenbike flag pole (That he had snapped off riding under the parking garage at Arlington) he was not sure how much further he could go on that tank of gas.  T-bone jubilantly poked at “precious’” screen and told it he wanted to get gas.  With that, the pack roared off, followed by Crane, who, like an independently wealthy consumer, had paid full price for his GPS at Best Buy, and would detach himself from the pack in short order following whatever path his Garmin took him.  It was sheer luck that Crane had arrived slightly ahead of the pack, and while waiting for the main body to arrive had been able to check in, unpack, secure employment, raise a family, and complete a degree in quantum physics by the time the rest of us arrived.

Frankenbike's snapped flagpole.  Of course, it was repaired by the time we started Rolling Thunder.  Krypto is an extraordinarily handy guy who can adapt to anything.

            Exiting Arlington, T-bone patted “Precious” in gratitude, as he helped him avoid the folly of following the signs marked ‘395 North’ that someone had obviously tampered with.  A quick loop around the traffic circle, the pack roared over the capitol bridge and past the Lincoln Memorial.  Special K snapped a quick picture of the side of the Memorial as they whizzed by an astounding 175 mph (according to “precious”) (Except for Crane, who along with his full priced GPS from Best Buy had been duped by the sign directing him to 395 North.)  The pack rumbled up 23^rd St SW and into the George Washington University Area.  Ski-dog and Krypto exchanged knowing glances, and at a light, removed their unloaded side arms from their saddlebags.  There are neighborhoods in D.C. that one shouldn’t travel unprotected, gun laws be damned.  Ghost used the time at the light to fiddle with the buttons on his Valkyrie, trying to find a decent radio station, grateful for the short breaks at the red lights where he could divert his attention from diligently following the new red bike in front of him.  Chute, for his part, edged closer to the president and muttered “I’m not sure this is the right direction.”  Special K managed to take a close up with her digital Camera.  Bubblehead didn’t hear all of what he said over the din of the traffic, catching only the last few words- “Right direction”  Reassured, he resumed his conversation with Special K (we all know how the two of them chatter happily throughout this and every motorcycle trip).  Deeper into the dark recesses of Washington D.C. our intrepid squad delved, following T-bone, who was following Precious, while chattering to 2-shot, who had put her I-pod earplugs in and covered them with a large piece of bubblegum. 

            At the Washington Circle light, Frankenbike developed a slight valve chatter, but Krypto, completely attuned to the inner workings of his creation simply moved over to the right, and was replaced by Ski dog.  They swapped right flank and tail gunner duties as Krypto reached down in one fluid motion, removed his valve covers, and adjusted his valves before the light turned green.  The pack pulled off, heading to the gas station that precious reported as being 123 feet in front of them. Turning right onto New Hampshire Ave NW, with Chute shaking his head slightly as he used to in the old days following a lost second lieutenant with a compass and a map.  Ghost left his turn signal on, and Ski dog and Krypto loaded their weapons, as the neighborhood began to look more sinister, and the traffic became more threatening- attempting to leverage their size and weight as cars to break into the small pack.  2-Quarts, just happy as hell to be there, smiled and waved at passers-by, and once even hopped off his bike to kiss a baby. (only slightly terrifying the Asian tourists who were also on the sightseeing bus.)

Frankenbike undergoes streetside repairs, Two-quarts, happy as hell to be there, lends a hand.

            Up to U street, and another right turn (conveniently for Ghost, who already had his turn signal on) and past the African American War Memorial (Special K took three pictures- remarkable in light of the fact that the precious reported speed was 220 mph), and then left on Florida Ave, which looped back around to New Hampshire.  (Ghost again, left his turn signal on).  They turned left again on W St NW, (good call with the blinker, Ghost), then straight along for a while.  Past Howard University, where Special K managed to catch a few frames of a mugging of a working registered republican in progress that would later be used to convict a democratic congressman from Ohio.   A squirrel scampered out into the road.  Ski-dog killed it and ate it.

Squirrel parfait ala Ski dog  Two Quarts is Happy as hell to be here.

            Precious announced that we had arrived at our first destination.  T-bone scanned through the bullet proof windows of his Kia, and saw nothing resembling a gas station.  Fearing that Precious had let him down, he queried the device that he had acquired on e-bay from a guy in  Cleveland who gets them from a distributor in Singapore who imports them from Turkey after they have been rebuilt in China by imported Burmese technicians to nearly most of the factory specs.  Precious, obviously miffed, haughtily retorted that T-bone had punched in that he wanted to get gas, and displayed a blinking red arrow on the LCD screen with the small caliber bullet hole that pointed toward an authentic Mexican restaurant.  “If you go in there, gas you will get.  But hurry.  This is a bad neighborhood.”  While this exchange was taking place, Chute quickly surveyed the surroundings, and using pre-arranged hand signals, deployed Ski-dog and Krypto into a hasty security perimeter around his beloved president.  He snapped his fingers at Ghost, who looked up from his blinker induced trance-like stare at the dashboard, and directed the treasurer to procure better hardware.  Ghost hopped off his bike, ran up some steps into a menacing looking brownstone accompanied by two-quarts, and returned carrying two semi-automatic 12 gauge shotguns and a small cash donation for the club.  Krypto, meanwhile, had become engrossed in repairing a flat rear tire on the frankenbike with a roll of duct tape, and but as soon as he was done with that, cleverly mounted the shotgun on the frankenbike so he could, if necessary shoot on the move.  Krypto, you understand, is a handy guy, able to adapt to any situation.  

            Precious and T-bone finally arrived at some sort of resolution, and the pack moved on to the next red light, and the next, and the next thirty or so.  Ghost finally turned off his turn signal, and the troop made a short stop in the National Zoological park (Where Special K got a really nice picture of a Llama just before Ski-dog killed and ate it), Precious had finally re-calculated their route. Chute, ever one to retain his composure and sense of humor, remained silently objective, thinking that things could be worse, as he had spent many a day following lost 2LTs through the Jungle in his day.  What a better day to spend Memorial Day weekend than to re-live those many, many miles of pointless wandering, reflecting on the sacrifices of those the weekend was meant to commemorate?

            After a few hours of red-lights and bumper-to-bumper holiday weekend traffic, Bubblehead took a break from his cheerfully intimate conversation with special K to re-assess the situation.  He looked over his left shoulder and flashed a thumbs up sign, and his intrepid crew responded in kind.  Ski-Dog and Krypto were feeling a little bit better at the situation, having been outfitted with grenade launchers and miniguns at the direction of the stoic Chute by the ever resourceful Ghost.  Two quarts grinned, happy as hell to be there and even more happy now that Ghost had finally located the shut-off button for his turn signal. (Actually, the bulb had burned out).  Thus reassured, he resisted the temptation to ask for directions from the Oregon State Trooper that pulled up alongside him.  (Special K has his picture too.)  For his part, T-bone was grateful to learn that Eugene, Oregon was so close to Washington D.C.  Directions?  Who needs Directions, when they had Precious?

            A few (or many) hours later, Krypto was running out of French fry grease, which he had adapted the frankenbike to run on at a red light some hours before.  Precious’ route had not taken them past a single gas station for longer than he could remember, but Krypto, you understand, is a handy guy, able to adapt to any situation.  Ghost, however, was not so used to working on his bike, and as the Honda’s fuel finally ran low, he pulled over to ask the passing Inuit Eskimo where he could get some gasoline.  Two Quarts was happy as hell to be in Anchorage, Alaska, (or Pacific Palisades, if you asked precious.) and tried to make friends with a moose.  He was all but successful, before Ski-dog killed it and ate it, of course offering to share some with his brothers.  As Special K took some pictures of a baby seal by the side of the road (Which Ski-Dog eventually killed and ate too), Bubblehead took the opportunity to disengage from their cheerfully intimate conversation to ask Chute “Are we Lost?”

 The baby seal, just before ski dog...well, you know.

            Now Chute, having the utmost ability to maintain his composure and sense of humor in every conversation, pointed east, and quietly replied: “The hotel is further in that direction.”

            T-bone consulted Precious, and the GPS agreed.  The distance from their position to the hotel was at least 6 light years.  T-bone put the slight navigational error on the fact that he had inadvertently installed the unit in upside down.  With that, Chute displayed a rare moment of irritation, and ripped the protesting Precious from his mount and tossed it into the air.  Ski Dog killed it and ate it. 

            Chute called someone he knew, and before long, our intrepid group was loaded into a C-17 aircraft and flown back along their wayward path, destination and route confirmed by a working (yet full priced) GPS without any small caliber bullet holes in it.       It was a smooth, direct, 14 hour flight, except for T-bone puking percocets into an air sickness bag.  (Apparently postal workers in the Air Force don’t get a lot of flying time.)  Bubblehead and Special K chatted merrily through out the trans-continental flight, while Ghost tried in vain to find a decent radio station.  Ski-Dog spent the flight preparing smoked Moose meat in the back for the flight crew, which Ghost had negotiated as payment for the flight.  2-Shot’s i-pod battery finally died, and she removed the earplugs and bubblegum, only to replace them when she heard T-bone chattering away at 2-quarts, who was nodding and smiling, happy as hell to be there.

            And yes, the FTO, President, and Vice president made it to their respective meetings, 15 minutes early. 

   "Krypto, Where you at?"  "RIght here boss, Where are you"

Chute Gets his point accross

Wow…what a weekend!  The annual was a beautiful thing.  The only thing I can bitch about is Chute left early.  Now, some brothers may wonder why Our Brother Chute is going to be off the bike for a while, with his arm strapped to his side like a Hooter’s Chicken wing.  Well, as Paul Harvey says, : Now here’s the rest of the story:”  for those of you that missed it. 

            Seems out brother Chute was a little more than animated when we reached that part of the night when the alcohol was lovingly caressing our brain stems, having finally succeeded in numbing those parts of our brains responsible for judgment, restraint, and common sense.  The “war stories” began to flow, as they often do, with the soft glow of the firelight taking the harsh edge off of some of the harsher memories.  The tide of the conversation turned to parachute operations.  For you waterborne types, this is the intentional and sometimes unexplained exiting of aircraft while in flight, thus placing the jumper in the precarious position of being between gravity and the air resistance offered by a thin membrane of nylon called a t-10 (or affectionately the dash ten) parachute.  Our brother Chute has extensive experience with the airborne life, and chose to share some of these stories with the rest of the besotted and somewhat easily impressed, yet adoring crowd, most of which have never seen fit to do such a foolhardy thing, even drunk.

“You hit the ground kind of hard, don’t you?” asked one starry-eyed non airborne voice from the darkness.  Who exactly it was is unclear, because frankly, the fire was a little low, it was dark, and truthfully, this writer was a bit inebriated.  It wasn’t me…and truth be told, I can tell you it wasn’t Wingman, who was at that moment standing next to me devouring chicken wings like popcorn.

“Yes Leg, you do.” Chute beamed benignly around the fireside.  He doesn’t mean anything by it.  “Leg” is the name for anyone who doesn’t, or hasn’t jumped out of airplanes.  He calls us Leg…and to him it’s a descriptive and accurate term.  I think it is a shortening of the term “Person who has not had a LEG fractured, broken, rearranged, or mangled, or otherwise injured while leaving fully functional aircraft while in flight.”  Some take it as an insult.  I personally take it as a testimony to common sense…but that’s not our point here.  Chute calls us Leg, and he loves us all.  He continues:  “There is a certain way you land, you see, that precludes serious injury.  Every paratrooper, in his transformation from dirty, smelly, nasty, Leg to fully functional airborne soldier learns this thing called a parachute landing fall.”  He stood up, and asked for a volunteer.  Several eager hands went up and he selected one of the starry eyed admirers.  (Okay, it was one of Ski-dog’s kids.) 

He rapped his sturdy knuckles on the table.  “Hop up young man.”  He took a small branch, and in true airborne fashion, stripped the twigs and leaves off it using a quick swipe through his teeth.  Washing the leaves and twigs down with a beer, he continued.  “Initial contact with the ground will be made on the balls of the feet, knees slight bent and thrown in the direction of travel. At the same time, tuck the elbows into the chest and rotate the body to expose the latissismus dorsi muscle.  The parachute landing fall is performed in one smooth, fluid motion. There should not be any excessive shock on any one part of the body.  Keep your feet together, Move the body to form an arc as the PLF continues. Start the PLF when the balls of the feet touch the ground. Do not hesitate on the balls of the feet. Complete the PLF by falling in the direction of drift, and lay the (body) points of contact on the ground. Keep the chin on the chest and keep the neck tense throughout the PLF. Use a twisting-bending motion, beginning in the hips, to push the knees around, exposing the calf and thigh (right or left) as the legs give with the impact.”  He said all this without pause or hesitation, or even inhaling.  He rapped each of the body parts in succession with his pointer, eliciting a startled yelp and a suppressed whimper from poor Matthew.  Dismissing his demonstrator, Chute Climbed onto a chair, and demonstrated the aforesaid described technique.  Hopping off the chair, he executed a PLF right there in the dust outside Nuke and Bubblehead’s rented pop-up camper.  (Said camper doubling as a command post for our annual by day and a love shack at night.)There was a polite smattering of applause as Chute immediately rolled to his feet and popped up, mimicked hopping to his feet, and collapsing the canopy, shrugging out of his imaginary harness, he turned toward the awe-stricken crowd.

“Yeah, but jumping off a chair is no big deal!” Exclaimed one of the campground regulars who had drifted into the circle of firelight from the recently closed bar.  Chute fixed him with a stony glare that sent the man scurrying off into the darkness.  Hurling his pointer into the darkness after him, (you could barely hear the stuck-pig squeal of the impaled camper) Chute mounted the picnic table, and again demonstrated a perfect PLF.  THUMP, rustle, thump. Was all one heard, along with the collective gasp of the dumbfounded onlookers.  Again, Chute sprung up like a spring loaded jack-rabbit, collapsed his canopy, and added an additional flourish- limbering his trusty carbine and scanning for targets, before taking a well-deserved bow. Wingman took a momentary pause from the pork chop he was gnawing on and watched him leave.  “wow.” Was all he said, wiping the grease off in face with a sleeve.

The applause was a little louder, but again, someone in the darkness observed: “That was only two and a half feet.  Big deal!”  A few people giggled, and a few people actually laughed.  Someone sneezed, which covered the sound of the bones cracking as Chute twisted his nose 180 degrees.  (with the rest of his head.  It looked for a moment like the guy had put his shirt and pants on backward.) 

“Okay, you want a REAL PLF demonstration?” He demanded, wiping his hands and thanking those who had helped him drag the body off into the darkness to be dealt with by the Rockahock campground cleanup crew.   With that, he grabbed a rucksack, (I have no Idea where a full, combat loaded rucksack materialized from, but there it was, honest.)  bounded off the chair, onto the picnic table, and swung himself to the roof of Nuke and Bubbleheads rented pop-up camper/command post/love shack. 

He did something called the airborne shuffle from one side of the camper/command post/love shack to the other, as a paratrooper laden with gear would do, and hollered out into the night the litany of preparatory commands one would hear if they were a paratrooper in the last few seconds of assisted flight:  Inboard personnel, Stand UP!...Outboard Personnel Stand UP!....Check equipment….Sound off for equipment check!>>>  OK…OK…All OK Jumpmaster!...Stand in the door!....GO! GO! GO!  With that, he hurled himself off the top of the camper and again executed a perfect, textbook PLF at the feet of the befuddled Bubblehead, who shirtless and shoeless had emerged to see what the hell was happening on the roof of his Camper/command post/loveshack.  Nuke was right behind him, with a bottle of Massage Oil in one hand, and the book “How to end the drought” in the other.  He quickly disappeared back into the Camper/Command Post/Love Shack as Lace grabbed a handful of hair and reeled him back in.

“What the hell is happening on the roof of my Camper/command post/Love Shack?” He demanded, bleary eyed and confused.  He gaped open mouthed as the man of the hour Jumped up like a hyperactive Kangaroo and collapsed his imaginary canopy, shrugged out of his imaginary harness, limbered his imaginary weapon, shouldered his rucksack and dashed off into the night to secure his imaginary perimeter.

Chute returned to the glow of the campfire, which by now was a bit brighter, perhaps made so by the fire in his eyes.  The crowd was on its collective feet, and a round of hearty applause rippled through it.  Ski-dog’s youngest started a wave, which ended with the entire gathering bowing down before the mighty Airborne Chute.  A pot bellied camper with a Semper-fi hat on and a Schlitz in his hand snorted.  “Sheeeyit.  Took harder drops than that jumping off my garage roof as a kid.”   We’re not sure what actually transpired after that, but some say he was vaporized on the spot by a mere glance from the steely eyed Chute, who for the moment had seemed to shed years from his war-horse frame and returned to his pre-retirement glory days.  Others say he took off lickety-split as soon as Chute turned to look at him, realizing the error of his ways.  (At any rate…They’re still looking for him, and Chute swears he doesn’t remember.)  Wingman found the turkey leg the guy dropped, and happily began gnawing at it.

“Okay, folks, you really REALLY want to see a genuine, for-real, Parachute Landing Fall and witness the protection a correctly executed landing can afford a brave paratrooper?”  Without waiting for an answer, Chute grabbed a nearby dome tent, and in a blur removed the contents and the supporting rods.  Stuffing the fabric into one of the pockets of the rucksack, he used some of the fabric items he found inside to fashion risers (Boat’s bootlaces), a reserve chute (Bones’ T-shirt) and a harness and ripcord. (Maddog, he swears he’ll return the thong).  With a loud and thunderous “AIRBORNE!” he scampered up the nearest tree like a raccoon being chased by a pack of rabid rotweilers.  Standing on the highest branch that would support his weight, he howled into the night, and hurled himself out of the tree, momentarily silhouetted against the moon like a combat-laden batman.  Pulling his thong-ripcord, he looked up to check his dome tent-“canopy”.  The dome tent opened with a snap-and being made out of regular nylon rather than gen-u-ine Army dash ten ripstop, it immediately tore in half.  He immediately went to his Bones-T-shirt-reserve chute, and it billowed out into the air long enough to slow his descent to a mere 60 MPH.  He checked his landing zone, and looked down into the upturned face and bleary eyes of Bubblehead, who was up until then wondering what the noise was inside the camper/command post/love shack. 

“OBSTRUCTED LZ!! Chute screamed, and then tugged the boats’-bootlace-risers to attempt to veer away from the shirtless, shoeless, befuddled Bubblehead.  The Bones’-T-shirt-reserve-chute’s left sleeve slipped out of the risers, and the captured air rushed out of it.  Slipping to the right, Chute caught one leg in the branches of the tree, and failed, for the first time that night, to execute a perfect PLF.  It was good, but not perfect.  The resulting THUD shook the trees and startled the gathered throng of stupefied onlookers.  Wingman almost dropped his Klondike bar.  Still, the impetuous paratrooper rolled to his feet, sprung up like a grasshopper on meth, collapsed his canopy, slipped out of his Maddog’s-thong-harness, and limbered his imaginary weapon, then took off for the perimeter at a double time. 

 All was quiet when he returned to the circle of newly-minted and kneeling worshippers.  Bidding them to rise, he nonchalantly shrugged his left shoulder back into the socket with a pop loud enough to wake even Kat, who had heretofore been snoring in his tent, oblivious to the goings on.  “And That…”  He looked around defiantly, a look of triumph in his eyes, “Is a PLF.  Any Questions, Legs?”

There was not one word.  The leaves rustled in the crisp spring air, the breeze ruffled the open tent flaps, it was so quiet you could hear the grease dripping from Wingman’s half-rack of ribs.  Chute downed his final beer of the night, and ambled haughtily toward his tent.

And that, brothers, is why Chute will not be riding for the next six weeks.  Broken Collar bone, you know.