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As part of my redneck heritage, I've got a chest freezer. A single guy really doesn't need a chest freezer unless he's storing enough food to get through the winter or buys in huge quantities, but I was raised to be the ant, not the grasshopper. I keep enough food on hand that I could probably get by for 3 months without buying groceries if I didn't mind a repetitive diet excluding fresh items.

Preparatory to moving, I've been living off my stores as much as possible. The drill goes like this: Inventory the freezer portion of the fridge in the kitchen, then go move the tastiest things that will fit from the chest freezer to the fridge. Eat as many meals as possible using items in the fridge.

I've got the chest freezer down to just a few things. There's some frozen whipped topping (about two dozen containers, don't ask), three vacuum packed sleeves of grouper fillets, a bag of drummies, and 1 container of brunswick stew. I decided the brunswick stew would be lunch tomorrow at work so I was going to toss it in the fridge to begin thawing.

Note: The aforementioned chest freezer resides on my back porch, which is screened in, but always has the door propped open to let the cats on the porch to come eat.

I opened the back door, flipped on the light and cussed. The bulb blew, apparently last night cause the switch was already on and it was still dark. I could hear one of the cats eating and see enough to tell it was the grey one that isn't exactly mine unless you determine ownership by who feeds him the most often, in which case he's mine. So I stepped over to the chest freezer, flipped open the lid, and grabbed the container of brunswick stew and heard a really nasty growl from the cat. Really nasty, like nastier than I've ever heard out of a cat that wasn't about to engage in a deathmatch. Only it was a little deep for this cat, who's kinda young.

I took a moment to think, "That's odd." Then I turned around to see what was making the cat growl. I expected another cat. Wrong. The cat was growling at me. And it wasn't a cat. It was a damned possum. On my porch, eating my cat food I paid money for, growling at me.

As Yoda would say, indignant I became.

For those who may have never encountered an opossum, they are marsupials. This is not readily evident. They resemble nothing so much as the most overgrown rat you have ever seen. They are scavengers, but have nasty looking teeth and claws. They can carry rabies, though it is uncommon for them to do so. They usually smell pretty ripe due to their diet, but if you wanted to you could clean one up and make a pet out of it. They're actually easier to tame than squirrels, but I don't see the point of doing so...

Back to the encounter. I'm not a complex creature. I'm pretty simple, when you get down to it. Like most dogs, as long as you feed me and scratch my belly I won't stray out of the yard. And like most dogs, I take offense when you impose upon my territory. I've been known to bite a hand or two for reaching into the area around my plate. Mr. Possum got my dander up with his growling. Exactly WHO did he think he was to growl at me on MY porch while eating food that I bought for MY cats? If I were wearing shoes, or indeed more than a pair of plaid boxers, I'd have just kicked him right in his marsupial ***** But I wasn't quite indignant enough to attempt it armored only with a pair of 55% cotton, 45% polyester Hanes boxer shorts. The potential loss of face was too great. Visions of getting a half dozen bites on my leg treated at the emergency room didn't seem to have much glory in them. Plus I'd probably get the fat nurse again. The one with the onion breath.

Lo and behold, there at my feet was my trusty toolbox. A veritable treaure chest of steel vengeance just waiting to be opened. Then I saw IT. IT was a rubber mallet that has a 3 lb. head on it. I got it from my cousin who had it for banging dents out of fenders and then left it in my garage for reasons unknown. Finders keepers.

With a mighty Thor-like battlecry, I let fly. Having a range of only 6 feet or so does wonders for the aim, folks. Bullseye, one possum eliminated. I marveled at my own strength and virility. Here I just meant to give him a good scare and a sore body and I done went and kilt him. Laid over on his side, nary a twitch, spasm, or gasp. Stone cold dead, I tell you.

Testosterone and andrenaline, nectar of the Gods. I am alpha and omega, don't you dare eat the fruit in MY garden. I will strike you down.

I may strike you down just whenever, but I'm not carrying you off without putting on some pants first.

So after I got on my pants, grabbed a bulb to replace the burned out one on the porch, and stopped pounding my chest, I headed out to give the trespasser a free ride to the mortuary, AKA over the back fence into the woods. Only he wasn't there. Gone, vamoosed, lit out, got scarce, skedaddled even.

The fu[/i]cker was playing possum and I fell for it.


Grrr. This means war.

Welp ya got more balls then I. First I would have said it, then I would have done it.

Trade in the freezer for a fiddle.

Great story, TS!

Good tale by the way!

Enjoyed the thrill of victory and then the agony of defeat knowing that the opossum is still alive and kicking...

or maybe the leopard that was hiding behind the freezer took the body back to the woods....

Quando omni flunkus moritati

Someone actually had a pet squirrel AND possum...



I would pay money to see a guy report to he hospital due to the fact that he got in a wrestling match with a possum. Now that is front page material.





Best thread I've read all week.

+1 movie reference.

Great story TS. That just made my morning