EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH
Mike never dreamed that slowly cruising on his Harley Davidson Fat-Boy motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Little did Mike suspect.
Mike was on Glenray Drive a small street in Catonsville (near Jack McNaulty's house) a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As Mike passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of him.
It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered
the car. Mike really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it
was that close. Mike hates to run over animals, and he really hates it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to him. Mike barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, Mike discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing Mike's oncoming Harley with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! Mike was pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you Guinness-sucking, heathen scum!"
The leap was nothing short of spectacular...
He shot straight up, flew over his windshield, and impacted Mike squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon Mike. If Mike didn't know better, Mike would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at his clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As Mike 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 Harley Davidson Fat-Boy, 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...
Mike grabbed for him with his left hand. After a few misses, Mike finally managed to snag his tail. With all his strength, Mike flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as Mike 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 Mike could have headed home.
No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel.
This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!
Somehow he caught his 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 Mike's BACK and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take his left glove with him! The situation had not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now Mike could not reach him. Mike 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 his jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through Mike's right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Harley only has one result.
TORQUE.
This is what Harleys are made for, and they are very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement.
The squirrel screamed in anger.
The Harley screamed in ecstasy.
Mike screamed in .. well .. he just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome Fat-Boy, 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, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.
Mike and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration Mike was forced to put his 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 Mike really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, Mike had not yet figured out how to release the throttle... his brain was just simply overloaded. Mike did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big Harley Davidson Fat-Boy cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that Mike was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around his neck and got INSIDE Mike's full-face helmet.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in Mike's face. Mike was quite sure his screaming changed intensity.
It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on Mike's Fat-Boy maxed out (since Mike was not bothering with shifting at the moment), so the 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 MIKE got the upper hand ... Mike managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of his helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as he 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 Fat-Boy Harley Davidson Motorcycle, 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.
Mike heard screams.
They weren't his...
Mike managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. Mike then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street.
Mike would have returned to 'fess up' (and to get his glove back). Mike really would have.
Really...
Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about Mike at the moment. When Mike 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 in the driver's seat was standing in the street, aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So, the cops were not interested in Mike. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway.
That was one thing.
The other?
Well, Mike could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But Mike could also swear he saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at him.
That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a patrol car.
A somewhat shredded patrol car .. but it was all his.
Mike took a deep breath, turned on his turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Glenray Drive, and sedately left the neighborhood. Mike decided it was best to just buy himself a new pair of gloves. And a whole lot of Band-Aids.
