A post over at Og's place brought back a memory from my high school days.
I was over at a friend's house, and he had invited some of his other friends over; please note that just because we were all friends with my amigo, that doesn't mean we were all friends with each other.
My friend had some bb guns, and in a fit of inspiration, his other friends suggested that we go out and see if we could shoot each other. I guess they figured that with three of them and only one of me, I'd be easy bait for them to have some fun with.
I do recall telling you folks that I grew up in the country, right? And that my father is a Marine?
I spent the better part of an hour and a half peppering their asses with that bb gun. Every time they thought they had me cornered, I'd pop a round into someone's leg, wait for the loud "OW!" and hightail to cover somewhere else while they fired at me in vain. "Kentucky Windage" was not a part of their lexicon. It was a part of mine. I left them fuckers welted, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
I told you all that to tell you this.
After all was said and done, and we were drinking water, one of those fuckers pumped their bb gun up to max, snuck up behind me and shot me right in the ass. My eyesight went red; my friend blocked me from killing the gutless pussy who did it. I managed to leave the premises without committing murder, although the little shitheel never walked on the same side of the street as I from that day on.
But I went home, and that night as I was getting undressed for bed, I saw a small little hole in my jeans. Right where I had been shot. Uh oh.
Took of my skivvies. Same hole, same location, with blood around it. Well, crap.
Went to the bathroom, and saw the hole in my butt-cheek, still bleeding a little. Not good. What to do, what to do? I couldn't find any tweezers to pull it out, and trying to twist myself in half just to see the area was making me cramp up after fifteen minutes. The bb was still lodged in my butt-cheek. So I did what I didn't want to do - I went and got my Dad.
"Hey.... um.... Dad?"
"Can you help me out a bit?"
"Sure... what's the problem?
"Well.... um.... there's this bb in my butt, and...."
And that is how my Dad ended up digging a BB out of my ass with what tools he could find in the bathroom - a syringe needle (Mom was an RN at that point; she used to come home and just dump her pockets out in the drawer. We had syringe needles, but no syringes) and a bottle of witch-hazel to wipe the blood away. I still have the scar on my ass. And after he got the bb out, he handed it to me, washed his hands, gave me a look and said "We will never.... ever.... speak of this again." My mom still doesn't know.