Ever since I was little, I always wanted to be in an epic snowball fight like the ones they have at the Snow Wars - a snowball fight tournament hosted by the Mookorian Amateur Reserve Guard, or M.A.R.G. This year I finally got the chance to go because I formed my own M.A.R.G. troop, Dogwood #13 or D.A.R.G. 13 So, I planned out a trip for the troop and I, but our ride there was anything but planned.
It all started at our meeting when I explained that we were going to the tournament at Mt. Caliberg. I explained my plan to meet with other troops, study military strategy, and to try to compete in the tournament brackets for smaller, less organized troops. Whether we would compete depended on when we arrived and signed up as spots were limited.The troop’s reactions were, well, varied.
Private Marty (our Scout) was ecstatic, to say
the least. He thought we had a good shot at winning and volunteered
immediately. I appreciate his enthusiasm, but he is extremely over-confident and clumsy to boot.
Lieutenant Maxwell (my brother and second in
command), who thinks the Snow Wars (like most parts of D.A.R.G.) are a joke, promptly
began laughing, and I responded accordingly. (KICK!)
Lieutenant Farley Snoog (our supply officer and local shopkeeper) could not attend the tournament due to running his store, but offered discounts on all needed supplies, provided we took his brother Kwedge (our weapons expert) with us.
Ensign Kwedge was more than happy to attend and
hoped to test out a flamethrower for melting enemy forts, but I reminded him
that they were banned 8 years ago, when his 2nd cousin Moose (who they
say looks like a moose) accidentally set one of the hot chocolates stands on
fire while getting a cup of hot cocoa.
Corporal. Sootford (Our Sniper, for
lack of a better word), or Smokey as we call him, began to boast of his “excellent
throwing skills” and proceeded to tell fish stories about his excellent aim. He
has a decent aim, but nowhere (and I mean nowhere!) near as good as he says. So,
we ignored him.
Medical Ensign Fred (Our Medic and Hypochondriac)
immediately began preparing supplies for dealing with frostbite, hypothermia,
and other wintertime ailments and injuries. We had to remind him that the
tournament was at a ski resort with a nearby hospital, not the far north.
Ensign Zippy (our engineer and my nutcase of a brother) dragged us all out to demonstrate his Auto Snowball Canon with a scoop for gathering ammunition and snow treads for driving through the snow. Instead of launching snowballs, however, it drove off with him on it and crashed in a ditch. Obviously, we left that at home.
Lt. Parker “Pickles” Lin (an expert in dugouts,
defenses, and insectivorous cuisine (AKA eats bugs))- moved to Dogwood from
another town where he had belonged to another A.R.G. He was going to visit with them at the
tournament, so while he would attend, he would be with them instead as they
were going to pick him up on the way.
After we figured out who would and would not go,
I left to face another problem - finding a ride.
I had tried to find a ride for us, but no one
would drive or lend us a car for the four-day trip. Farley owned a car, but since
he could not come and the insurance company did not cover it unless he was in
the car, we couldn’t use it. I tried asking my parents, grandparents, 12 aunts
and uncles, and my cousin Skippy for a ride, but they all said (or laughed) no.
So, with the little money I had, I set off to
buy my first car.
Luckily, Farley’s a Snoog, a family of
merchants and salesmooks. It does not matter what it is, but if it is legal, a
Snoog is selling it. So, I went to him.
“Farley, how much would a decent used car with
room for seven cost? And do you want cash or check?”
“What makes you think I’m selling any?”
“Your brother sold me $250 and one disco’s
worth of furniture, it’s not a big stretch.” I replied.
“I take it this is for the Snow Wars?”
“Yup.”
“Talk to my cousin Whiskers, he’s who yer’
looking for,” he answered.
“He has a dealership?” I asked, surprised.
“No, he just sells cars and machinery for cheap
at the scrap yards. I hear Zippy is a
regular.”
I was not sure about Whiskers, so I asked Zippy
what he thought of him. Zippy abounded with praise for Whiskers and insisted
that I buy from him. I am not sure how
much of what he said was genuine, though, because I saw a sign offering discounts
to those who referred new customers posted outside Whisker’s “office”.
Almost immediately upon entering
his “office” I was swept up on a long tour of the scrap yard he used as his car
lot. It was eerily like the time I
bought furniture from Kwedge.
Having learned from my last high-priced buying experience, once I found a “car” that I liked, I put my foot down. It was a dinged-up station wagon/jeep with an assortment of scratches and dents; eight seats; a sunroof; and contained some old bakery equipment in the back.
“This is the one,” I stated abruptly.
“That? That is one of the worst ones I have! We
are scrapping it tomorrow. What you want is this old food truck over here,”
Whiskers replied pointing to the sad remains of a waffle truck.
“I’ll give you $250 and take the old baking
equipment for free - if it runs.”
“Deal.”
Whiskers fetched the keys and a gas can, and we took it for a test drive. It drove - more or less. So, instead of walking back, Zippy and I “drove” it back to the house I shared with my brother and five cousins (where our parents dumped us when we turned 18). Heavy mocking ensued.
I handled the engine and brakes while those two
dingbats fixed up the cab and the “seats” that kept sliding off their bases. But
it turned out that letting Zippy and Marty fix up the cab and rewire the dash
was not the best idea, as they decided to make some “improvements” to it.
The tape deck was busted, (not that I had any
tapes for it,) so they replaced it with a toaster and converted the glovebox into
a cupboard for the bread. Then they put a pop-up card table in the back for
playing cards and managed to fix a hanging light above it. They nearly wired it
to the car battery, but I convinced them to keep it on its own battery.
Lastly, they tried to fit as many compartments
and holders for stuff as they could. I
caught them trying to fit a mini fridge in there but I had to draw the line there
because, not only would it use up all the “car’s” battery, it was so cold out
it would be useless. So instead, they
fitted a locker that would be cooled by outside air in its place.
After much grease, spit, duct tape, and help
from relatives who stopped by to see it (and meddle as well), our “car” was
functional enough to drive to the Snow-Wars - key word being functional.
A couple days later, it was time
to go. We loaded up the car with all our suitcases, duffle-bags, Kwedges’s
barrel, and anything else that would be needed. Even with the “car’s” eight-Mook
capacity, the seven of us were still cramped with all the bags and stuff. I think we must have loaded it with 200 pounds
of those guys’ junk and my bags.
Using my expert driving skills (expert compared to Maxwell, the terror of H-42), we navigated our way to the open road, waving to our parents, grandparents, and relatives who immediately began divvying up our stuff amongst themselves.
End Part One.
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