Steel Plates & A Full Moon
Another Rat Canyon Range Tale
Okay, settle down. After ’splainin’ how Boot got his range-name previously* and promising to tell you how Moon and Fiddlesticks acquired theirs, you’ve clamored to hear ’em. So, here goes.
Moon was dealt a crummy hand of poker and flipped it into an ace-high straight. He was born with extreme curvature of the spine; his torso radically elongated and arced in a deep crescent. His limbs were foreshortened, less so in the arms, but there was hardly space for knees between his hip joints and his feet. His mom was distraught, but his father wigged out and promptly abandoned them, screamin’ about “the wages of sin.”
Dad was a loony latecomer to some splinter cult religion who went from readin’ a pamphlet to being a raving robed zealot almost overnight. Daddy’s only contribution — other than biological — was giving Moon a complicated faux-biblical first name taken from some made-up wandering wizard in the cult’s myths. The guy was supposed to have summoned magic prune juice from a stump or somethin’.
All of Moon’s internal parts, from pumps to pipes and cognitive software worked just fine. His mom said as soon as toddler Moon figured out he wasn’t equipped like his playmates, he decided to make his body the strongest, most agile machine possible.
He did it, earning varsity letters in football and baseball his senior year of high school, and almost taking one in gymnastics. He could hold an “iron cross” position on the rings until spectators got dozy, but some events were heavily loaded against a guy whose body looked like a giant warped hot dog with golf tees for legs. He was voted Prom King too, because he’s a great guy, never disparaging others because they didn’t have his “advantages.” His mom finally remarried that year — to Moon’s gymnastics coach and history teacher, who thought Moon was just the finest son ever. Step-dad was an avid shooter, and a plank owner of the Rat Canyon Range.
Challenges & Triumphs
Moon builds custom homes and commercial buildings, and I’ve seen him go up four stories of scaffolding like a gecko on crack — with no ladders. He’s a fine builder, and a master at runnin’ racks of plates with his Smith & Wesson .45 ACP wheelguns.
When people see him machinegun-blastin’ steel with his revolvers, they ask why he doesn’t go to the big matches, where he would undoubtedly win trophies. He’ll pull out a photo of his wife and four sons, all “normal-shaped,” — whatever that is — and grin “Got all the trophies I want. I do this for fun.” Yeah; that kinda guy.
Moon has challenges, sure. He likes T-shirts and polos, but he would need like a size Medium but Xtra-Xtra Tall to cover his long torso. Those don’t exist. His wife will buy two shirts, then piece ’em together to get enough length. He has virtually no hips, and appears to be butt-less. Remember those stupid “shants” that were popular a few years ago? Neither shorts nor pants, they ended at calf-length — for everybody but Moon, and they were actually a bit long for him. They saved Shirley a lot of hemming though. He bought a big supply of ’em.
Then there’s that hipless-buttless thing: If his shants aren’t snugged up tight against the friction of his shirt, they tend to kinda, well, slide off … And, he still had that stupid first name you couldn’t even make a decent nickname out of.
Moonrise In November
It was a crisp November Saturday, and we had some just-for-fun events set up after the match; a combo bowling-pins-and-exploding-pumpkins thing, Halloween-masked monster-poppin’, stuff like that. We had three 6-plate racks of falling steel targets, and Moon was gonna try to beat his own range record whackin’ ’em; 18 shots, with two reloads en route. Moon offered to donate $100 to the Fiddlesticks Fund if he set a new record, or $50 plus $10 each for any missed shots if he didn’t. We knocked that down to $50, $25 and $5. He and Shirley protested but finally agreed.
Otter had happily gone Hollywood with his video setup. He had wireless clip-on mics rigged to the PA, and would narrate and record from a little platform just behind the shooter. When Moon was called, he snatched up his youngest son from behind and spun him around for a kiss. He didn’t know the child was clutching a full cup of cocoa … Somebody loaned Moon a T-shirt which didn’t even reach his belly-button. The show went on.
Moon’s like a “Zen shooter.” He leans forward, takes a breath and the world ceases to exist. As he hammers, his lean increases and he exhales kind of a primal hiss between his teeth. That day he was blazin’! As he whacked the last two plates, those shants lost their tenuous grip and dropped to the deck, takin’ his skivvies with ’em. There was a hushed silence. Then, hey, he does have a butt!
Zen-master Moon straightened, clearing his roscoe, completely oblivious until Otter stepped up, flipped open the preview window, and showed him a replay. He turned beet red, snatched up his shants — and then exploded in laughter. The PA boomed:
“Shirley! Boys! Come see this — it’s EPIC!”
Now you know how he got his range-name** — and why we love him. He got his new record too.
