Monster Hunter International now in Amazon.

The odyssey of Warren Zastava Pitt is coming to Amazon. Monster Hunter International is now in pre-order at Amazon.com and if the way Edition Zero disappeared from the market is any indication of its popularity, you better get yours now.  My order is already in so my copy of Edition Zero can take a well deserved rest and placed safely in the cherished books section of my personal library. I reviewed the book a while back so I won’t go over the details once more, but MHI became an Internet Cult Classic (I think the proper modern terminology is “went viral”) on its own by electronic word of mouth.

On Simpleton High-Falutin Morons.

If there is something that chemically roasts my loins are the simplistic buffoons that try to sabotage an effort because they might not like something associated with it. These killjoys assume a higher moral ground and have no qualms on pissing on everybody’s efforts no matter how noble just because they might disagree on a 1% item. And I swear I must be getting old and grouchy because I feel like I want to slap them into their first set of dentures.

With the incoming taking of power of The Great and Powerful Ozbama, many of us are trying to drum up membership into the NRA. Let’s face it, the NRA is still the biggest dog in Capitol Hill regarding the defense of the Second Amendment but we must make its bark even louder in the days ahead. In one of the online forums I attend, we are trying to get people to join if they have not done so and, of course, a High-Falutin Moron must butt in to screw the pooch:

I dispise the nra for some of their past practices of selling our rights down the river. Our choices are near non-existent, but they will not be getting anything further from me. I had a lifetime membership but had it cancelled.

OK, no biggie. But when asked what are the supposed misdeeds by the NRA, I get the following response:

I do not have the links in my favorites to provide to you about the nra’s tramplings, but they are many, and a google away for you to find if you like. It is just further proof of my earlier post where people do not care enough to get involved to the point where they can even google information about the deception of an organization that is supposed to be on our side.

Wait a damn minute! You “dispise” the NRA so much but you are not able to recollect one single solitary incident to share? What kind of low grade, diaper-wearing, drool spreader ignoramus feels free to badmouth and accuse the NRA but yet cannot recall one item they have done and then shifts his burden of proof on you?

Gun owners like this we do not need. They are not only selfish traitors but they will be used by the opposition as poster child to demonize us and rob us of our liberties. Then again they might be flunkies for the Anti Rights Liberals. In any case, they must be fought.

City boy went hunting and…

Originally posted by yours truly at DefensiveCarry.com

This happened years ago. The wife and I were visiting married friends in KY and I was invited to tag along the next day to a deer hunt. Stupidly I accepted since I was willing to experience the “thrill of the hunt” something I never lived. I was going just as an observer since I did not feel like shelling the $100+ fee for an out of state hunter and I thought that I’d be a danger with my non-existent training in long guns.

Sometime in the wee hours of the AM when even ghouls and witches are asleep, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice demanding to wake the heck up. Is the darn house on fire? Are we being attacked by feral zombies? WTH? When the fog of Morpheus dissipated, I collected my drooled self, got up and I was promptly shoved a cup of steaming coffee in my hands. Before I could say thank you, I understood why I was given coffee: Sometime during the night, the house was raised from its foundations and deposited inside NASA’s Deep Freezing Hangar for Outer Space Temperature Material Testing. It was COLD for the love of all that is holy! Mind you, you have to understand that I had lived 90% of my life in a region of the world where 65 degrees is considered the new Ice Age and 95 is just a tad warm. Of course, that being my regular weather, my clothing was appropriate for fighting alongside rebel guerrillas in the rain forest (AKA Jungle) but not quite “tactical” for the forests of Kentucky around Thanksgiving. My thickest piece of clothing was one of those outback long coats which I donned with just about every t-shirt I had. Adding triple socks to my feet made me have a nasty time putting on my sneakers.

I headed for the kitchen nursing the 4 drops of coffee left in the cup. When I stepped in, I saw that the table was covered in quantities of food indicating that a small church choir was joining us for breakfast. Biscuits, rolls, bacon, jelly, gravy, grits, sausage, steak, chicken (ugh), scrambled eggs, sunny side up eggs, pickles, hash browns and Quick were available. I don’t eat breakfast so I headed for the coffee pot, poured about 5 ounces of sugar in it plus about half cup of milk and stirred with a wooden spoon. Thinking that drinking directly from the pot would be impolite, I requested a straw.

When my buddy finished his breakfast and half of what was supposed to be mine (no small choir coming) we stepped outside the house. I swear I heard an owl hoot “Would you cut down the racket? Some of us are trying to sleep for the love of God!” Oh, by the way, it was frigging cold! the marrow in my bones turned to dry ice within 3 seconds and I sucked on that straw trying to get more hot coffee in my stomach. My buddy loaded the back of his truck with a rifle case and a small back pack & we hopped inside. As he drove to his “perfect deer spot” I was trying to figure out if my uncontrollable shaking was due to the cold or a previously undetected nerve malady augmented by a sudden ingestion of 12 cups of highly sugared coffee. The heat in the truck took forever to engage and when the temp inside the cabin finally reached somewhere above 32 degrees, we arrived at the sacred hunting ground.

Against my own instincts, I got off the truck and got mauled once more by the darn cold. This time a new twist was added: My bladder demanded that I took care of business right there and then. I looked around and found some bushes to one side and told my buddy I’d be right back. I undid whatever layers of zippers & assorted tighty whities I had on but the inhabitant of the nether region refused to expose itself to sub-zero air. After cajoling, threatening and serious negotiations which included a vacation in Aruba, I was able to avoid an accident and found relief.

We proceeded into the woods as my buddy chatted and explained to me the principles of hunting, spoor, tracks, feeding salt blocks, points on a deer (which sounded like a scoring system for basketball if you ask me) and tons of other info that my brain tried to assimilate and process in vain. After what it seemed halfway through the distance Bataan Death March, we reached a “creek” (In the city we see more water in a drainage ditch though) and was told to hunker down to wait for Deer to show up. So I did what I usually do when I am about to be very bored waiting: I lit a smoke.

-“You can’t smoke here!”
-“I don’t see a No Smoking sign anywhere.
-“It is no that you dumb arse. It is for the deer.”
-“What, they don’t like second hand smoking? Are they health nazis or something?
-“No, they get scared.”
-“So they are health nazis.”
-“Just put that crap away.”

I took the longest drag ever and put the cigarette out. Of course, with such a long drag, the inevitable coughing fit occurred. I did not know that hunters were such a uncaring bunch, I mean he could just wrap my mouth with three layers of duct tape but instead he used about half a roll to contain my coughing fit.

We waited and waited and waited and I fell asleep with my back sitting against a tree. Next thing I hear is a detonation so dive for the ground or I should say roll ’cause every joint in my body was frozen solid and I could not extend my body. Thankfully the sun was up now and after some 25 minutes and a liberal application from a plumber’s torch I was able to walk upright (somewhat) again.

I approached the newly dead deer as my buddy was gutting & cleaning it. I asked that, since the deer was dead and second hand smoking should be the last thing in his mind, would he mind if I could have a nicotine refill. My buddy gave me a look, sighed and said it was OK… Oh what a glorious feeling of heat and addiction savored.

When he finished his task, I asked what’s next and I did not like the answer.

-“We take it to the truck.”
-“What?”
-“What did you think? I am going to leave it here?”
-“I guess not but, Can we call somebody? UPS or something and have it delivered it?”
-“No, we gotta drag it back to the truck. We’ll take turns.”

Now the deer looked like it was the size of a small horse and I dreaded the idea of marching with that thing through an uneven forest for three counties and a federal reservation. I pleaded and cajoled but to no avail. Finally I managed to get a long branch and scrounged some bailing wire and convinced my buddy to set carcass on the branch so both can share the pain. Although we ended up looking like a scene from a bad Tarzan movie from the 1930’s where the natives have the kill of the day and are marching back to camp, it did the trick and we reached the truck without back pain enough to require morphine and a Thai masseuse. We next drove to the Ranger station where the deer was examined, some records taken and the ranger put on the deer one of those plastic wrist bands Night Clubs use on patrons for control. I thought it was a good waste of wristband seeing that this deer would not be enjoying any disco dancing any time soon. After that we went to the local butcher who promised to prepare and have the deer in steaks and sausages sometime before tax day.

All in all was an educational experience and I gained a lot of respect for hunting and hunters. And no, no way in hell I would repeat it. I am too lazy and I like to sleep only to be woken by sunlight, a fresh pot of coffee and a bathroom with a temperature that will allow no hassles when my bladder comes a calling.

——————————————————————————–

This happened about 14 years ago. But I am thinking on repeating the experience on a milder weather and easier grounds. A buddy at my club wants to bloody his new 30-30 lever action while hog hunting. In Florida we have several private lands dedicated to hunting which gives you the opportunity to hunt any time without having to get a license. And the best of all is that is geared to lazy SOBs like me. You ride a swamp buggy with a guide, you are driven to the best possible spots and you pick whatever hog you like with the flavor of weapon you choose to take. And if you are lucky and bag something, you are driven back to base camp where for a modest fee an expert will clean the carcass and pack it in ice for you.

Throw me a box of Dunkin Donuts and a six pack of Pepsi for the guys and I am there!

Preparing for Battle once more.

So we got our noses bloodied and got gut punched badly, so what? It is not the first time and will not be the last.  Let’s face it, we got complacent and let the Opposition dictate the election propaganda. The SCOTUS Heller decision was great but led us into a false sense of security which we paid dearly on November 4th.

So what’s next? Do me a favor, go get your wallet or purse and extract your NRA membership card. Is it valid? Are you still a member? Or you are not a member because you “don’t agree with some of the stuff they say/don’t say/do/ do not do”? I DO NOT CARE THE REASON WHY YOU ARE NOT A MEMBER. JOIN THE NRA NOW! Stop procrastinating! And if you are about to say something about finances, GunTalk.com got a special deal with the NRA to knock some serious dough off the membership fees. The basic is $25 instead of the regular $35. Also, if you have a wife, brother, significant other or friend, it will be a great time to give them that NRA membership. Why the NRA? Because it is the big mean lobby group with access to D.C. and they get heard. But we want them screaming at their ears 24-7 and that can only be achieved if we present a huge common front.

Then join other country wide Second Amendment groups or join them all if possible. The Second Amendment Foundation, Jews for The Preservation of Firearms Ownership, Pink Pistols, Arming Women Against Rape & Endangerment, are barely few in the many out there. Do a Google search, ask around forums, find more. Then join your State firearms organization. I do not have a list, but if by now you are not scared about what is coming and finding crap on your own, you probably do not care one way or the other about your rights.

DO NOT JOIN AMERICAN HUNTERS AND SHOOTERS ASSOCIATION (AHSA)! THEY ARE A FRONT FOR THE OBAMA KLAN & THE ULTRA LEFT ANTI GUN DEMOCRATS.

And the most important of all: GO SHOOTING. Pick an organized discipline and join a local club. IDPA, IPSC, Polite Society, Sporting Clays, Silhouette, steels, whatever fancies you but shoot. Make your presence know, make noise.

What can one armed man do?

I have no idea why, but and old memory found me this morning. Back in the early 90’s when I was living in certain South American country now under the firm grasp of a Socialist, massive riots and looting occurred. It was long four days of absolute collapse of the government basic services and control which I lived awake in coffee, cigarettes with a single shot shotgun and a Walther PPK on my waist. Thankfully our property was not affected by rioters since I already had a reputation for being somewhat crazy in Sheepland I was seen in more than one occasion experimenting with home made napalm) and an assiduous patrol kept miscreants pretty much away.

On the second day I was witness to a mob attacking a two story bodega about a two blocks away from my house. As typical of many bodegas in the country, it was owned and operated by one owner and his family and they had their living quarters on the upper floor.  It had no side or rear doors, just the front store gated entrance and side stairs connecting the second floor to the ground level.  I have no idea why the bodega was attacked but looters usually do not need one. When I noticed the attack it was already in progress and I fielded a pair of binoculars from the roof of my house to get a clearer picture. I was upset I what I saw since the looters were people that lived in the area, people that bought from that store and even got credit to purchase items from the owner when they did not have ways to pay for them, yet they thought it was OK to destroy his means of living.

The looters breached the store’s gates and proceeded inside. Seconds later they came out holding on the liquor and cigarettes while whooping their victory. After the booze and smokes were depleted, looters came back pretty much for the rest but this time I heard a firearm discharged sending everybody out running while dropping whatever items they had in their hand. The Bodega owner appeared with a big frame revolver in one hand, surveyed the damage and alongside his family recovered what little they could and proceeded for the next hour or so to secure the store entrance with whatever means they had available. Once they finished, they went inside and I returned to my patrol.

I’d say that about an hour later I checked the bodega again and I saw a large crowd in front. Their demeanor appeared angry and they were looking up at a window on the second story facing the front of the store. Through the barred window I saw a hand come out making go-away gestures but the crowd did not heed. Some in the mob once more attacked the store entrance, but I am guessing the reinforcement was much sturdier because they could not breach it this time. I kept watching the impasse silently congratulating the store owner for his stand when I saw something that chilled me: some idiot looter appeared suddenly with a Molotov cocktail and launched it towards the second story window. Thankfully it missed and hit the wall creating a fireball of little damage against a cement block structure.

It dawned on me that this was now not a bunch of idiots trying to score some freebies from the neighborhood merchant but a full fledged lynching mob intent on murder and nothing could be done to stop them. Police was nowhere to be seen and those not in the mob were like me trying to protect their households or cowering inside them praying to be spared from the wolves roaming the streets. I saw another looter with yet another Molotov cocktail but this time carefully preparing himself for a perfect pitch. He never did. The hand came through the barred second story window but this time holding the revolver and shooting it. One looter down and a Molotov cocktail rolled off his hand harmlessly.

Another looter, incensed by the shooting of his colleague picked up the firebomb and tried to toss it. The revolver went off again and another looter fell to the ground. This one I could see was dead on the spot. My binoculars allowed me to see the head exploding with perfect detail and the body just switching off to a mass of uncoordinated muscles and bones.  I lost track of the Molotov cocktail but I guess it did not go off again because I did not see a fireball, but a couple more appeared in the hands of other looters. More detonations came out the second story window sending two more looters scurrying and at least one of them leaving blood behind him.

This sequence kept repeating itself for another couple of hours. Mob attacking the gate, failing, mob trying to firebomb the upstairs apartment and getting shot for their efforts. I counted at least four dead on the ground and some 8 wounded taken away when the mob finally decided that it was getting to steep a price to pay for their obstinacy and withdrew to seek easier targets. Some 45 minutes later, the store owner and his family came out, loaded their old pick up truck (amazingly left untouched by the mob) with whatever belongings they could pack and abandoned the store. That night the looters came back and set the whole place on fire destroying the only grocery shop in a mile radius forcing the neighborhood to go farther away for their supplies from now on.

I heard later that the Store owner and his family moved to another city. The store was sold for a pittance but the new owner transformed it into a bike repair shop that went bankrupt soon afterward. Last I heard was that the building was abandoned and became a den of druggies and cheap hookers. Nobody was prosecuted for the attacks to the store and thankfully neither was the store owner for defending himself and his family.

So what can one armed man do? When the Shit Hit The Fan, a store owner saved himself and his family against a crowd and bought himself enough time to escape to safety. This was the leasson I learned that day and I hope you may save this little story in your brain’s memory bank for whenever somebody tries to convince you guns are not the solution.