“ . . .So,” said the shaman, “As it turned out, the buck was just pulling my leg the whole time. All that talk about him being too gamey and tough was just a bunch of hooey. Those bucks, they’re such liars!”

“There was probably nothing strange in any of it!” said the gobbler, hopping back down off the stump to snatch something he’d spied moving in the leaf litter. “He might have just been saying all that to save his skin.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” said the shaman, remarking to himself on the capacity of the turkey to draw such a quick conclusion. “I’ve learned over the years that you just cannot trust talking deer.”
“Talking deer! Phooey!” said the gobbler. “Whoever heard of anything so preposterous?”

“I would quite agree,” said the shaman. “By the way, am I keeping you from anything?”

“No,” said the turkey. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing.” said the shaman. “It’s just that I usually see you this time of day out wandering with your compatriot—what’s his name?”

“You mean Jake?” said the turkey. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be along. I heard him arguing with a coyote this morning. I’m sure he’ll be along any time now. He never misses our time together under this oak.”
“Oh.”

“So, “ said the gobbler. “How did it all turn out?”

“With . . .?”

“With the buck.”

“Oh! Him? I shot him and ate him.” Said the shaman, “He was wonderfully tender, and we got lots of meat off of him. It was all good.”

“I’m glad you did not take him too seriously.” Said the gobbler. “All that wasted effort and all—it would have been a tragedy for you. I had that happen with a spring lizard once. He ran under a log, and I had such a time getting him out.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, when I finally did, he tasted awful. It put me off lizards for a long time.”

“Tragic,” said the shaman. “I’m so glad you recovered.” The shaman got up and stretched. “Well, it seems that I must be going.” He said.

“So soon?”

“Yes,” said the shaman. “I can go on like this all morning, but eventually even I find myself insufferable. Say hello to your friend Jake when you see him. If you all stay around here until Spring, I’ll endeavor to have you both for dinner.”

“That would be most gracious,” said the gobbler. “We will look forward to it.”

Great story. Made my good cuppa joe a better cuppa joe. Have a wonderful day, Shaman.

Thank you shaman.
I hope that your breakfast was wonderfully tender.

good story

“Whatcha doin?” asked Regin. This was one of two ladies that inhabited the trailer just up the road from the shaman’s cave. The shaman had once suspected them of being lesbians, but now knew a wholly different story.

“I’m writing my address,” replied the shaman. “I will be giving it to mark the occasion of my ten-thousandth post.”

“Fence posts?”

“Posts on the 24 Hour Campfire. It’s a. . . ”

“Oh, that place you told me about . The place where they talk twaddle all day.”

“Well, that isn’t exactly the way I’d put it.”

“Well,” she replied. “Most of the stuff you’ve shown me was twaddle.”

“I invented you for it,” replied the shaman. “I invented you and Kira as a device to show Ken Howell that writing fantasy was just as powerful as . . .”

“Twaddle,” replied Regin.

“You’re certainly in a mood.”

“I am,” she replied. “Humor me. I am in a bad mood. Read me what you’ve written so far. It will get my mind off my headache.”

“There is not all that much yet.”

“Read it.” Valkyries had this odd thing that happens when they get angry. Their eyes kind of light up and stuff across the room starts melting and catching fire. The shaman saw a bit of a smolder in Regin's and decided it was not a morning to antagonize her.

“Okay. Errr. . . um . . . My address to the 24 Hour Campfire on the occasion of my 10,000th post and assumption of duties as official Campfire B’wana. Delivered on . . . well, I’m not sure when Rick is going to schedule the event so that part is not filled in yet. I’ll skip down . . . AH! Here! Good day to all of you, gentle people of the Campfire, and your sock puppets.

“I can see this was a mistake, but go on.” Regin looked peeved.

“That’s all I have so far,” replied the shaman. “I just got started before you showed up.”

“ I’m going home and take Ibuprofen,” she said flatly. “Come down later. Kira’s making pancakes. That’s why I came up here. Kira says to bring Pooh.

What makes a Shamin a Shamin? Are you a Shamin?

A shaman does 3 things for the group:
1) Interprets dreams, omens, etc.
2) Heals
3) Intercedes beyond the veil for the benefit of the group

It's a position that acts somewhat tangentially to all the other positions of power and authority-- political, religious, etc. It's not something a fellow seeks. It's not even what you'd call a calling. For me, folks just started treating me as a shaman until I relented.

There was a fellow shaman I knew many years ago. He put it this way: "I'm here to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable."

As I am preparing for the rite of marking my 10,000th post, I'm not able to go into detail right now. It's a rigorous bit of cleansing, purification, meditation, ritual sacrifice and communication with my spiritual guides. We can go into this later, once I have made the transition.

Years ago, I compiled a bunch of the early work I did on this august forum. It does not address your questions directly, but I think you will find a lot of your answers.

http://www.blackholecoffeehouse.com/the_shaman_papers.htm

I'm sorry. I've got an appointment at the sweat lodge this AM, then I have a fitting downtown at the tailor for my official B'wana arrayments.

Picasso with a keyboard

Having read this before hanging a lip on my first cup, I can see where we went, but only murkily. Will endeavor to revisit after second cup.

I enjoyed it.

I've had many conversations in the woods with critters.

Little one sided typically. But I've enjoyed myself!

-Jake

So you’re a listener aye?

The shaman decided that it would be easiest to just sit by the cave and wait for Pooh to show up. He usually did at whatever time he felt most propitious for obtaining a second breakfast. While he was waiting, he heard a rustle on the gravel and looked up just in time to see his old doppleganger, Nosmo King strutting out of the shadows.

“Shaman! Babes! How’s it hanging?”

“Hello Nosmo,” the shaman replied. “I have not seen you in quite some time.”

“I’ve been busy you see. Making the deals and makin’ girls squeal”

“. . . and getting’ it done all the way around,” finished shaman. “So how badly in debt are you now?”

“See, that is why I came here, my friend, I wanted to announce that I am in fat city, so to speak.”

“The outdoor industry is finally yielding its rewards?”

“Naw! That’s old stuff. I’m into something far more promising and lucrative.”

“Oh, and what might that be?”

“Guess.”

“Selling time shares?”

Nosmo shook his head.

“Reverse mortgages?”

“Shaman, I’m surprised at you. I would never get into anything like that.”

“Brokering east Asian body parts?”

“I dabbled in that for a bit, but this is far more fashionable.”

“Okay,” relented the shaman, “I give up.”

“What would you say if I told you that I had the inside line on a pile of Ninety-Nines in 6.5 Creedmire.”

“It’s Creedmoor.”

“Whatever. I got them surplus. Six point five is the in thing these days. And you’re not going to find a brand new Savage 99 anywhere.”

“OK. I’ll bite. Let’s see what you’ve got.” The shaman’s doppleganger reached behind himself and brought out an ugly looking bolt action. “That’s one of the worst looking rifles I’ve ever seen.”

“That right there is history. That’s absolute best rifle Japan ever produced in 1938. They were sitting in a warehouse in Estonia.”

“ It is not a Savage 99.”

“As I said, you’re not going to find one new. This is a used rifle.”

“It’s not even a lever action.”

“The Japanese were smart. They knew lever actions weren’t the way to go. This is far more reliable in battle.”

“It’s a dog. It’s not even a decent relic. Someone has gone and chopped a foot off the barrel.”

“It’s sporterized. Think Scout Rifle. Think carbine”

“It’s trash. You said it was 6.5 Creedmoor.”

“No. I said it was 6.5 Creedmire.”

“OK, Creedmore- Creedmire. It’s still a 6.5! I’ve got a whole warehouse full of these.”

“So you’re trying to sell me a warehouse full of de-milled Type 99 Arisakas and telling me they’re going somehow rework them into modern 6.5 Creedmoor rifles?

“No, I’m saying we just resell them as fixer-uppers and let the other guys figure it out. Look at all the Mosin Nagants. Look at all the Schmidt Rubins.

“Those were classics. These are absolute crap!” replied the shaman. “So was the 6.5X50. It bounced off.”

“The world needs a new intermediate 6.5 cartridge. Think of it as a rimmed version of the 6.5 Creedmoor-- well, sort of. We re-purpose it as the 6.5 Creedmire and we’re in! I’ve got a Turkish ammo manufacturer all ready to go on a production run. You should see the boxes. The font is perfect. If you’re not looking closely you’d think the ‘I’ is an ‘O’ ”

“No, that’s not how its done anymore. You have to take a really obscure modern round and modify it slightly-- maybe neck it down or something-- and then rebrand it into something special before hyping the hell out of it. That’s where you come in, my friend. We’ll need some good press. ”

“I’ve got a line on some Chinese Mausers.” Nosmo replied. “How does .277 Shaman sound for a chambering?”

“Go back to selling organs!” replied the shaman.

Hilarious !

It was about this time that Pooh showed up, pushing a surivial wheelbarrow filled with somewhat soiled rifles.

“Look what I found behind the hedge,” said Pooh. “Aren’t they pretty? They all have little flowers on them. What are they?”

“Tomato stakes, “ said shaman. “Nosmo here just announced he’s taking up gardening.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” said Nosmo. He took the wheelbarrow from Pooh and disappeared down the path.

“He doesn’t seem happy, “ said Pooh.

“Nosmo is not much of a gardener,” said the shaman.

“I trust you had a pleasant time getting the sun up this morning?”

“It was a bit of a struggle,” replied the shaman. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It can be. I am trying to figure out what I’ll say at the occasion of my ten-thousandth post. Any ideas?”

“Good Evening Ladies and Germs. . .”

“There aren’t that many ladies. The germ thing ain’t all that funny this year.”

“Before I forget,” interrupted the shaman. “We’re due up for pancakes at Regin and Kira’s in a bit. They specifically invited you.”

“Will there be syrup?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I love Lebanese pancakes.”

“Lebanese pancakes! What gives you that idea/”

“Well you’re the one that told me they were Lebanese.”

“No, no, no, silly bear. That wasn’t ‘Lebanese.’ I called them Lesbians.”

“Oh, sorry. What is the difference?”

“And they’re not Lesbians either. We found out differently, remember?”

“We did? My stuffing doesn’t hold these things so well.”

“Oh, I thought it strange when you said you dreamed of Lebanese pancakes drenched in syrup. That never did make sense.”

“Yeah, you got that all mixed up, Pooh.”

“My apologies.”

“So if they’re not Lebanese or Lesbians, what are they?”

“Out of work Valkyries.”

“Why are they out of work?”

“COVID.”

“How’s that?”

“All the deaths nowadays are being attributed to COVID, so we’ve been short on heroes lately, at least oficially. There’s been a downturn on traffic going to Vahalla, so they got laid off.”

“Do we need to wear masks?”

“Hardly. How would we be able to lick the syrup?”

“Just asking.”

I haven't been back in several days. I thought this was a one off....

No I was misinformed!

A serial post. It's like a running novella or something..


Subscribed!
Thanks Shaman.

T-8

The shaman and Pooh began their walk up the road to Regin and Kira’s. The way up the road included a dip where an old tractor shed had stood. It had fallen in decades ago, and a little copse of trees had sprung up in the ruins, and these had extended to the other side of the road and in the summer they gave a nice bit of shade. They were a collection of walnut and locusts. They lost their leaves in the early part of autumn and they were bare more than half the year. They were frequented by a resident flock of Scheißevogel. These were a group of ugly-headed birds of indefinite genus whose sole reason for existence seemed to be to soil the ground around them. The trees seemed to thrive on it, but nothing else grew. Even the weeds stayed out from under the limbs. As a result, the old tractor shed lay bare and rotting. The rusting roof was nearly covered in offal. Even well away from the copse, you could hear their incessant calls that sounded like raucous laughter, but since only they knew the joke, it made them appear all the more dim.

“Did you bring your umbrella?” asked Pooh.

“Whatever for?” asked the shaman

“Well, perhaps they will get bored and let us pass.”

“I’m not following you at all.”

“Maybe I’m not following myself,” replied Pooh. “Frankly, I’d come and see Regin and Kira more in the winter, except for this.

“This what?”

“These shhhh. . .these shiit. . . “

“Oh, you mean the Scheißevogel?“

"Yes, them. They make an awful mess of things.“

"You’re missing a serious point about them,“ replied the shaman.

"What’s that?“

"You need to ignore them.“

"But then they go all over you and it’s hard to get the stuff off your coat. I think I’m permanently stained. It won't come out of velour“

"Try just ignoring them.“

"How?"

"Let’s talk about obscure wildcat chamberings, especially metric ones. Scheißevogel have no clue about that.“

"Neither do I“ replied Pooh.

Okay, what is obscure that you want to talk about?

"Honey.

"Honey is not an obscure subject.

"Sometimes its cloudy.

"That not the same as obscure. However, if you want to give honey a try, I suppose it will work. What about honey?"

"Oh just about anything to do with honey is fine with me.

Okay. Start off. Tell me something about honey.

Pooh thought rather thoroughly while he and the shaman continued their journey past the Scheißevogel. Although the copse was rather small. The pondering continued for some time.

"I think I have something.“ He said.

"Good to hear. What is it?“

Did you know that honey never spoils?

"Yes, I’d heard that,“ replied the shaman.

"Oh.“ said Pooh. "Drat,I guess I need to come up with something else.

"That‘ okay.“ We’re past the Scheißevogel already.

"We are?“

"Yes, ignoring the birds is all it takes. We have nary a bird bomb on us.

"And all it took was thinking about honey?“

"Well, that and you exceptional concentration on the subject,“ replied shaman. "I was entranced at your level of deep thought.

"My head hurts,“ says pooh. "I think I sprained the fluff or something.“

"We should rest for a bit," said the shaman. Luckily, someone had put a bench by the side of the road for them to sit. It looked out on a little field of an acre or so below the copse of trees. All the offal from the Scheißevogel fell down and eventually the rain washed it out into this field. A lovely field of sock puppets grew there, fed in the rich manure. Dozens of them waved in the sunlight. At the far end of the field, you could see a rather soiled looking camper stealing into the field to pick a fresh one from those that were nearing ripeness. At the other end of the field was the collapsed remains of the tower that once held the Emergency Bricktop Signal Floodlight. The whole thing had rotted out and fallen in. Vining Sock Puppet varieties were beginning to take it over.

"Ah," said the shaman, " . . .Then came the churches, then came the schools. Then came the lawyers, and then came the rules"

"Huh?"

"Nothing, Pooh Bear." said the shaman. "I'm just thinking to myself."

Everything is better with a Mark Knopfler quote.......

I like emergency floodlights....Even though some say they are a tool of the illuminati.

The shaman and Pooh were just contemplating getting on with their journey when two rather odd individuals appeared on the road coming from the opposite direction. One was a rather bovine woman in red spandex. Her companion was a squat little man dressed in tactical gear carrying a boombox nearly as big as he was.

"Good day!" said the shaman as they passed.

"We're looking for the sharman." said the woman. "We're late for an appointment."

"The Charmin?" asked the shaman. "Like the bathroom tissue?"

"No," said the little guy in tactical gear. He was nasty little troll that oozed an air of bad cologne and stale mashmallows. "It's a person. We're delivering a present. Do you know this fellow?"

"I don't know any Charmin fellow. Can you describe your business?"

"My name is Hooverina," said the woman. "This is my business manager, Peyton. Some guys calling themselves The Campfire hired me to deliver an intimate. . . service to one of their members. The fellow is called The Sharmin." She smacked her lips and licked the end of her nose. "If you know what I mean."

"There's a fellow down the road a ways. I think he might be your guy. However, I think he's gone to town. He's not there right now. However, I'm sure if you go stand over by that little copse of trees you will run into him when he comes by."

"The one with all those birds?"

"Yes. He won't be able to miss you."

"These are incredible pancakes," said the shaman. "Are they some special recipe for the Gods?"

"Actually they're Aunt Jemima Complete." replied Kira. "You were just hungry; I think you've inhaled close to a dozen since you sat down." Kira and Regin traded looks. "Well, maybe there are a few embellishments," said Kira. The two women giggled.

"Sorry. " replied the shaman. "You're right. The walk up here gave me an appetite."

"No problem, " said Kira. "I'm just glad you like them."

Pooh Bear had not said anything, he'd been demolishing stack after stack for a solid half hour without letting up. All anyone had gotten out of him was a low growling that indicated it was best not to stick limbs close to his mouth.

"The dry cleaner stopped by yesterday," said Kira. "They were trying to make a delivery at your place and couldn't raise you, so they came by here."

"I must have been out." said the shaman. "It's probably my arrayments for my Bwana Investiture."

"You must model them for us," said Regan.

"They're in the hall closet," said Kira. "You can't miss them." The shaman arose and went to the kitchen sink to wash all the butter and pancake syrup off before trying on his new clothes. He disappeared down the hall and came back sometime later all decked out in his new Campfire finery. When he entered the kitchen, there was a visible brightening to the room.

"Wow!" said Regin.

"Double-Wow!" said Kira.

The shaman was wearing olive drab jodpurs with leopard fur stripes running down the outside of the legs, ending in tan puttees and brown leather brogans. On top, he wore an off-white safari jacket with leopard shoulder patches, and white pith helmet with a leopard band. An official looking 24hourCampfire badge was on the front of the helmet and similar badge was embroidered on the left breast pocket. The web harness was standard British Empire kit and he wore a chest holster with the butt of a Webley protruding and a neck lanyard of white sash cord.

"Is it . . . does it look good on me?"


"I think it's time we assembled the bearers and headed off for the crater," said Regin. "I think the Eland need a good thrashing."

Pooh Bear took the opportunity to pick up his plate and began licking it with great intent, while all the while growling like a bear possessed. He got so involved that he lost his balance in the chair and tumbled out onto the kitchen floor. He didn't seem to notice, and kept going without pause.

After breakfast, Pooh and the shaman headed back down the road. When they got to the Scheißevogel roost, they found it empty.

"Looks like Hooverina had business elsewhere," said the shaman.

They were back in front of the shaman's cave and beginning to enjoy the sun when Chin came up the path. They greeted him heartily.

"How goes it?"

"Pretty good for an old man," said Chin. "It beats being dead." They soon were all settled in on the same log.

"I dropped up to give you some mail that got mixed in with mine. I was paying bills this morning and found a couple of things stuck in the Super Saver" said Chin. He reached into his robes and pulled out several envelopes.

"Hmmm," said shaman. "Lessee, junk, junk. . . hello! What's this?" the shaman held up an envelope with a golden campfire logo embossed on the front."

"What is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's from the 'Campfire," said the shaman. "It's probably my induction announcement." He scrambled to open it up. Inside was an engraved card.

"Oh do read it!" said Pooh.

"Let's see." said the shaman." Congratulations on nearing ten thousand posts. The Twenty Four Hour Campfire wishes you all the best in your. . . Oh no. "

"What?"

". . . be advised that all celebrations have been canceled due to COVID 19. Please refrain from gatherings of more than three campers maintain proper mask and social distancing protocols. We apologize for the inconvenience."

"Does this mean that we're not going to have a party?" asked Pooh.

"No party, Pooh."

"What will we do?"

"When we are hungry, we eat. When we are tired, we sleep," replied Chin.

Rut?!

Chin dropped by in the morning to check on the shaman. He found the shaman returning with Pooh from his daily chores of getting the sun to come up, getting the ducks to fly, and waking up the frog chorus. The shaman had lost all his B'wana trappings and had returned to his normal robes and shamanic headdress. Pooh was wearing the pith helmet.

"How's it hanging, ol' buddy?" asked Chin.

"I'm fine," replied the shaman. "And you?"

"As good as an old chinaman needs to be," said Chin. "I stopped by to see if you were okay. I know yesterday was a hard one to swallow."

"Actually," said the shaman. "It wasn't. I was all worried about what would be expected of me, and I forgot that being the shaman around here is far more important. The 'Fire has plenty of B'wanas to go around. They only have one of me."

"That's the spirit!" said Chin. "I'm glad you didn't take it so hard."

"It's nice that I'll be able to visit the special V.I.P B'wana lounge whenever I want."

"I have heard it is nicely appointed," said Chin.

"And I'll be able to march with the other B'wanas in the parades."

"That's always a spectacle," said Chin.

"I just don't FEEL like a B'wana."

"How does a B'wana feel?"

"I don't know." said the shaman. "I guess I'm going to find out shortly."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," said Chin. "It's liable to make you constipated or something."

BRAVO! Please, do continue!

( P.S. I can't wait for the movie rites negotiations, or the post-covid red carpet gala. Please tell me where I can get MORE wool from Ye-Ol' Shaman's spinning wheel!

The shaman had come back from his morning chores and was enjoying a cup of coffee in front of his cave. He had made his first visit to the official Campfire B'wana Club Lounge the previous afternoon. He had been denied entrance, having not reached ten thousand posts quite yet. However, the Maitre D' had given him a packet of membership paperwork. The lobby had looked quite well-appointed-- lots of carved wood and marble; he had a peek behind a door and there was a large collection of overstuffed leather furniture. As he sat, drinking his coffee, the shaman mused on what it would be like drinking his morning coffee at the club.

Presently a man appeared dressed in khakis. He looked like a cross between Burl Ives and Chester the Molester. He spoke with a Dublin lilt.

"I am looking for a man who goes by the name of Shaman." said the man.

"I am the shaman," replied the shaman. "It's not my name; it's my vocation. It's a bit like saying I am the plumber."

"Very well," said the man. "I am John Taylor." He drew himself up to his full height and stuck his fists into his waist.

"Yes, and . . .?"

"I'm John Taylor. John 'Pondoro' Taylor."

"I thought he was dead."

"He is. I am quite dead-- since 1969. Allow me to present my card." He presented a business card to the shaman.

"As you can see-"

"It says 'Great Buggerers of History Series.'"

"What?"

"It says that you are part of the 'Great Buggerers of History Series, a Division of Discorpraphone Enterprises."

"My pardon," said John. "Wrong card." He took the card back and gave another to the shaman.

"Ah, that's better," said the shaman, reading. "John 'Pondoro' Taylor Meet the African Big Game Hunters series -- a Division of Discorpraphone Enterprises."

"I am indeed." said John. "I've been sent to you as a premium gift by the 24HourCampfire."

"That's very nice of them." replied the shaman. There was an uneasy silence. After quite a delay, the shaman asked. "Now what?"

"You'll have my company for a bit and we can discuss big game hunting in Africa," replied John. "I'm well versed in that and all sorts of related topics."

"Can I get you some refreshment?"

"No thank you," said John. "I'm quite dead."

There was another long, uneasy silence.

"What would you like to discuss?" asked John. "I take it you are a hunter. Ever been to Africa?"

"Yes." said the shaman. "I hunt quite a bit of whitetail deer and turkey, but no. I've not been to Africa."

"But you dream of it, don't you?"

"Of what?"

"Of Africa, The Dark Continent."

"Really, no. It doesn't appeal to me that much-- too many things that want to stomp you to death and too many parasites."

"Well, yes. There is that."

"No interest at all?"

"Well, I now that you mention it, I do have a question for you." said the shaman. "It involves your Taylor Knockout Formula."

"Yes?"

"Well, I'm intrigued by your formula. On the one hand, we've got you expounding on large bullets and big guns and then you have Walter Bell, a good generation earlier doing fairly good work with a 7mm bullet on the same game."

"Yes?"

"Well, when I calculate the Taylor Knockout Formula for my latest deer round, the 7mm-08 by the way, it comes up at a paltry 15 on your scale. However, it is the ballistic twin of Bell's 7mm Mauser. Your writings suggest you need a TKO value several times that."

"Well," said John. "As I wrote many times, the Taylor Formula was for thick-skinned dangerous game. It can't always translate well for other sized game. These deer you are talking of. . ."

"Whitetails are bigger than an impala-- smaller than a gemsbok."

"Why yes, I'd say the 7mm would be quite sufficient given the right conditions, and the right shooter." John winked.

"But Bell was using it on elephants."

"Bell and I hunted under much different conditions." There was an awkward pause. "I don't suppose you'd be up for a quick shag?"

"What???"

"Nevermind. So what else did you say you hunted?"

"Eastern Wild Turkey." replied the shaman. "They're supposed to be the hardest game in North America."

"And how do they come by that? How big are they?"

"About twenty-five pounds max."

"Are they dangerous?"

"Only if you try and pick one up while he's still cognizant. They've got spurs."

"Hmmmmm. And what sort of rifle to do you hunt them with."

"Shotguns. I use a 12-bore and the load gives you about the same jolt as a .416 Rigby, but it's just birdshot."

"You hunt birds with an elephant gun?"

"They're not all that easy to kill."

"How do you hunt them?"

"I hide in the bushes and make noises like a hen wanting to breed."

"That sounds rather pedestrian."

"It has its merits."


About this time, there was a rustle in the bushes by the cave. John was up immediately, scanning the surrounding brush.

"Did you hear that?"

"I did. It is probably a rabbit."

"I probably should be going."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I had a bit of a run-in just before I left Africa for the last time."

"What sort of run-in?"

"I buggered the Bunman."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"There was a lot of alcohol involved," confessed John rather sheepishly. "He was the king's favorite, and he got quite mad at both of us. I had defiled the tribe's high holy man. The king had us sent out into the bush to be eaten by the lions. I was able to escape, but the Bunman got eaten"

"Again, not the kind of fun I'm into. But why are you telling me this?"

"Well, shortly before he got eaten, the Bunman laid a curse on me. I didn't find out about it until I was back in London and dead."

"Yes?"

"Well, shortly after I died, I found out that the Bunman had decried that I should be doomed for all eternity to be pursued by all the large dangerous game that I had shot. I didn't know what he was saying while the lions were eating him; it all sounded like gibberish."

"So you're worried about getting eaten?"

"Stomped." said John. "There is one particular Dugga Boy named Max that has it in for me. He's rather thorough if gets me, too. There are also some bull elephants that have a penchant for it. If they catch me, I get mashed but good. Then there are the Eland. Getting trampled by a herd of Eland . . . You wouldn't know anything about this sort of thing?"

"What the Bunman's curse?" asked the shaman.

"A shaman knows these sorts of things, doesn't he?"

"It's a bit beyond my pay grade." said the shaman. "I stay away from the black arts. I do sunrises and the occasional wart removal."

"Curses shouldn't be that hard."

"I'd watch your diet, get plenty of exercise and try to sleep eight hours a night."

"But I'm dead."

"Oh, snap!" replied the shaman. "There is that. Have you tried repentance?"

"What? That whole Christian thing?"

"It can be very effective."

"Not for me." said John.

"In that case," said the shaman, "I'd hunt down the Bunman that did this, and see if you can strike a deal."

"I doubt he would be very forgiving. Those lions were not in the least bit merciful. The Bunman and his henchmen had trained them for this."

"Sorry, I can't help you." said the shaman. "John, I can see in your eyes that you want to get going. Please, don't let me keep you."

"My thanks, sir."

"No problem. Have a nice day."

John quickly departed the scene, running off over the hillside through the tall grass. It wasn't long before a rather large buffalo showed up, and sniffed the air around the shaman's cave. The shaman just shrugged and waved in a general direction somewhat tangential to the recently departed Taylor. The buff snorted and went trotting off. Soon a large mixed bag of Elephants, leopard, lions, and assorted plains game stampeded through, following the path of the buffalo. The shaman waited until everyone had passed and then set off for the 'Campfire to get a warm-up on his coffee. He met Pooh on the way.

"What was all that about?" asked Pooh. "I nearly got trampled."

"Oh, I just had a conversation with one of the most famous remittance men in history," replied the shaman. "I'll tell you about it as we go."

Oh hell that is so wrong, yet so hilarious!!

Well, I'm sitting here with a smile on my face, and that's a good thing...

Tag

"This is turning out like nothing I expected." said the shaman.

"That's the problem," said Chin. "Expectations do that."

"When I became a Campfire Guide, we had a party." said the shaman. "It was a big thing. A duck came down from the heavens with my new badge in its beak. This time it's . . . it's so. . ."

"The higher, the fewer." said Chin.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure. I saw it on a TV show years ago. Somebody said that when you're stuck for something to say, just say 'the higher, the fewer' and everyone will think you're being deep and philisophical."

"That's supposed to make this feel better?"

"No. It was supposed to get me out of the conversational hole. I figured you'd buy into it and shut up."

"You're not being very helpful," said the shaman.

"See, that gets back to the whole expectations thing," said Chin. "You're expecting something big out of this Campfire B'wana thing, and it's got you all wound up. Expectations are what get everybody in trouble."

"So you're saying I shouldn't expect much?"

"It saves on disappointments," replied Chin. "It's a lot better than getting your bowels all wound up."

"I feel like I should be doing something."

"You are. You're sitting around wingeing to an old, somewhat imaginary Chinaman."

"That doesn't sound very productive."

"Everybody has to be doing something." said Chin. "Would it make you feel any better if we threw a big party and we got the duck back?"

"No. That was back then. I just wish folks would have a better time with it. Heck, most of them would rather stand around watching the Scheißevogel crap on them. It's just gotten rather bland around here."

"Maybe you've gotten bland," said Chin.

The shaman drew himself up and waved his staff. The sky darkened and the wind picked up considerably. A vortex appeared and then a brass rainbow and it rained 22 ammunition all about the Campfire. The clouds disappeared and left all the campers scurrying about picking up .22 rounds off the ground."

"I agree," said Chin. "That is not bland."

"Thank you," said the shaman. "However, notice: Nobody is clapping. Nobody is going 'oooh! and ah!' anymore. They've lost their wonder. I could fart 9mm and nobody would say anything."

"I'm a bit low on rifle primers," said Chin. "If you're thinking about-"

"No, said the shaman. "The problem is that nobody looked up at the swirling vortex or the brass rainbow. They could care less. All they were interested in was picking up the ammunition. Nobody looks up anymore."

"Whatcha doin?" asked the random camper.

"Do me a favor." replied the shaman. "Hand me the ratchet wrench."

"You mean this?"

"Yes," said shaman. "Thanks." The shaman was busy attaching seatbelts to one of the large logs surrounding the Campfire. He had three sets of them, and he was in the process of affixing them to the back of the log using large lag screws.

"What are you doing?" repeated the camper.

"Pooh, Chin, and I keep falling off the front page." replied the shaman. "I figured the seatbelts would help."

"I don't think it works like that." said the Camper. "You need help?"

"Oh yes," said the shaman. "I could use all the help I can get on this project."

[quote=shaman]A shaman does 3 things for the group:
1) Interprets dreams, omens, etc.
2) Heals
3) Intercedes beyond the veil for the benefit of the group


As I am preparing for the rite of marking my 10,000th post, I'm not able to go into detail right now. It's a rigorous bit of cleansing, purification, meditation, ritual sacrifice and communication with my spiritual guides. We can go into this later, once I have made the transition.


Exlax will fix you right up for that 10,000th. Better yet is that stuff you take for colonoscopy

A friend told me....I didn't and look at me now.....

I get it now!

The Shaman's 10,000th post (just 2 posts away!), and his covert covid-correct 'Campfire celebration of celestial Bwana-ism are going to (..just coincidentally..) happen to coincide with Super Bowl Half-time show (..with no Budweiser or Pepsi-cola commercials no less..!! ) !


Aren't they!!?


Ha! Stupendous Plan!!~ We'll see who'll be watching fat-bottom dancers on the TV, and Whom will be here on the 'Fire Celebrating the Sha-nah-nah-Shaman's Bwana-ism !?! Then we'll know just whose whom is who!! ( ...and You thought you were dealing with just another bunch of ignoramus knuckle-dragger nimrods here...)

(Somebody)

I may have jumped my tracks here,... or maybe I took the wrong pill this morning,...,


at any rate,
I've really been enjoying the Shaman's writing!
He spins a really fine, many-layered tale,
worth re-reading some of his earlier,, and latest stuff.

He has wasted NONE of his 9,998 posts on troll-under-the-bridge-pot-stirring drivel.
BRAVO!



He used a word I had to look up, "apocrypha",

(...no, I'm no going to tell you.., look it up)

anyway,
We have plenty of skillful wordwrights here on the 'fire,
Now and then, they perculate to the surface of the swamp,
like a clear and pungent danger,
no longer willing to be held down by the shiite,

But the Shaman!
He has done more than simply dredged up another vulgar distraction,
with lipstick.

He has pulled Us up into the story!
And not just any story,
an allegory,
teaching us of what really is,
and what could be,
..if we're not more careful with our Words.



Speaking of stories!
(..so, I don't have to actually open a book and look it up for myself..)
What were The Disciples doing on that Saturday morning?
before the first Easter Sunday?

(Or, in other words,)
What are the Shaman's friends (...and Lieutenant Scheißevogel?..) doing this fine Saturday?
before the Super bowl?

Me? I need to catch one of the big TV sales going right now, and replace my broken TV! ( ..you know they're only $150 and 9 lbs now! WoW!)

The Shaman - Noon Eastern.

(..stay tuned!)




The shaman, Chin, and Pooh Bear sat on the log with their seatbelts firmly fastened. The shaman had installed the belts to keep them all from falling off the front page.

“We’re here until it over,” said the shaman. “I don’t care what it takes.”


The other campers came and went. It was Super Bowl weekend, so there were many for folks around. The Super Bowl attracted a somewhat contrary lot to the ‘Fire, mostly people that were there because they did not want to watch football. This year, they were particularly stubborn. Many were boycotting the NFL altogether. Chin said it was making them all constipated. However, China would be the first to admit that his diet of fish and rice gave him an eccentric heightened outlook on such matters.

“They all look like they need a good dose of salts,” said Chin.

“Shush.” said the shaman. “You’re not being festive.”

“I think I’m going to try some of that wonderful cheese dip,” said Pooh. “Do you want any?”

“Not at present,” said the shaman. “I’m pacing myself. Besides, I don’t want to get any cheese dip on my new B’wana arrayment before I’m officially inducted.”

Regin and Kira had dropped up from their trailer to witness the festivities. They were decked out in their finest Valkyrie attire and were attracting quite a bit of attention from the younger male Campers. You could tell the ladies liked it.

“Howdy, Shaman,” said Regin.

“What brings you guys up here?” asked the shaman. “I thought you’d be down watching the game on your big screen.”

“Oh, this is a much better party,” said Kira. “We’re not big football fans.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” said the shaman.

“Why the seatbelts?”

“It dawned on me that this might be the only way to keep us from falling off the front page.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” said Regin.

“No, what you need is participation,” said Kira.

“There doesn’t seem to be much of it,” said the shaman. “Not like the old days.”

“You need to spice things up.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like this!” Kira lifted her tunic. A chorus of whoops, hollers, and whistles erupted from the crowd.

“That’s nice.” replied the shaman, but I don’t think I’ll get much of a response. He stood up and lifted his own shirt. There was a hoot or two and a general grumble and somebody yelled to cut it out-- there were people eating.

“See. I don’t think that is working.”

“Hmmm,” said Kira. “I see what you mean. I think we need help on this.”

“What sort of help?”

“Well for one thing, you can ditch the sign.”

“Pooh made it for me.”

“Warning! B’ware B’wana” read Regin.

“It was such a nice thought.” said the shaman. “It’s the only gift I’ve gotten on the occasion of my B’wana-hood.”

“I think you need to ditch the sign,” said Regin. “It sort of discourages people.”

The shaman looked at Pooh, and Pooh dejectedly picked the sign up and carted it off to the bushes.

“So, now what?” asked the shaman.

“Well, I don’t think strapping yourself to a log next to a stuffed bear and a cranky Chinaman is not the right way of going about this. Between that and your get-up, I don’t think anyone is going to talk to you, let alone party with you. You need help.“

“But what sort?”

“I could show them my tits again.”

“No, I think we need something stronger,” said Regin.

“Are you saying my tits aren’t up to it?”

“No, your tits are fine. I just think we can do better.”

Kira and Regin gave knowing looks to each other and then jumped up on the log beside the shaman.

“Excuse me, Everyone,” said Kira. “I’d like your attention. We need some help here.”

Regin turned to Kira, “ Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I think so. These campers can’t be that dull.”

“Don’t bet on it,” replied Chin.

“Folks, we need your help here,” said Regin. “We’re trying to keep this thread on the front page. Your shaman needs you. We need you.” She looked over at Kira and Kira responded by lifting her tunic.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking.”

“Sorry,” said Kira.

Regin turned back to the crowd. “We need you to rise up and make this the best Not-The-Superbowl Party ever, and help the shaman here get over his ten-thousandth post.”

I like where this is heading...........

Oh Yeah, those fly dancers at half-time can't even hold a candle under Kira's shirt!

Not mentioning the fireworks!!

Shaman too!

Chin and the shaman were discussing the outcome of the party.

“So have you really thought things out?” asked Chin.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how this is going to change things.”

“I don’t know and I really don’t want to think about it. Of all the outcomes, there can be only one.”

There was a sudden low rumbling from deep in the Earth. It was enough to cause all the campers to look up.

“What’s happening?” asked Chin.

“Ooops. I think I just said the magic word.” replied the shaman. “That was me.”

A maelstrom of purple and white etheric energy welled up around the shaman. It lifted him high in the air in a column of fire and ice.

“You okay up there?” asked Chin.

“The Quickening overcomes me!” cried the shaman. “I know everything.”

“Who is going to win the SuperBowl?”

The shaman shouted, but no one could hear what he said. Beams of golden light shot out from all his orifices. His fingertips emitted bolts of lightning. He spun around until he was just a blur and then there was a soft pop-- perhaps more of a “plupfh!”-- and then the shaman fell back to the ground and wound up sprawled in the grass beside the log where he had been sitting.

There was a commotion coming from up the road. The maelstrom had disrupted everything and flushed John Pondoro Taylor from his hiding place in the bushes. He came at a dead run past the campfire with a large Cape Buffalo in the lead and scores of elephants, rhino and other assorted African game following close behind. Everyone thought it was part of the floor show and applauded.

Pooh and Chin came over to the prostrated shaman and began to examine him. There were still sparks coming off the body, accompanied by little sizzles and spurts.

“Haloooo!” said Pooh. “Is there someone in there.”

“There is.” said the shaman, nearly inaudibly. “Put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and come back later.”

“Are you all right?” asked Chin.

“I’ll let you know.” said the shaman. It took him several minutes to pull himself back up onto the log and shake off the wooziness.
Regin brought him a soft pretzel and crab con queso from the buffet table. Kira brought him a mug of home made root beer. Refortified, the shaman was able to resume normal discourse.

“I found this over in the field,” said Pooh, handing the shaman his pith helmet.

“Thank you Pooh,” said the shaman.

“So how does it feel?” asked Chin.

The shaman looked up and found himself feeling rather winsome. It was at this very moment that the clouds lifted from a distant volcanic peak, and the shaman caught a glimpse of the high temple of the Kahuna, its golden walls shimmering in a shaft of sunlight and a golden path leading down from the summit. The vision grew and the shaman saw the path wind down from the mountains and eventually end up at his feet. Then, just as it had appeared, the vision was gone.

“The higher, the fewer.” said the shaman.

The shaman was still sparking and shimmering a little after his ordeal the prior evening. He had gotten up early to find his way to the B'wana Club for his first cup of coffee. He walked to the front desk. The Maître d', who had been brusk with him on his previous visit, was most solicitous.

"May I help you?"

"I'm here to turn in my paperwork," said the shaman, handing the man a rather thick envelope.

"Thank you, sir, and may I say how happy we are to have a new member."

"It's good to be here." said the shaman.

"You may find whatever room suits your needs," said the Maître d'. "You have the run of the place, so to speak."

"Thank you, I will." With this, the shaman began to wander. The lobby went up to a dome several stories high around which were was a massive spiral staircase, representing as stated in the guide, the long winding road each B'wana must travel. There was also a stairway leading down. It was marked "Club Room." The shaman went over to examine it and hear a number of voices emanating from down that way. They all seemed to be saying some manner of "LOL! LOL! LOL!" and it reminded the shaman of the Scheißevogel up the road. He turned away and was met again by the Maître d'.

"May I be of service?"

"No, just browsing."

"The Club Room seems to be preferred by our more frequent posters. They seem to enjoy each other's company. May I make a suggestion?"

"I'm looking to get a cup of coffee in one of the more exotic rooms," said the shaman. "Perhaps read old sporting journals-- something sentimntal."

"Hmmm." said the Maître d'. "Might I suggest the Gurney House Room. It's dedicated to Jim Corbett."

"Yes," replied the shaman. "That would do nicely."

"Third floor," said the Maître d' "You won't be able to miss it.

The shaman thanked the Maître d' and immediately set off for this room. The spiral staircase made it a fairly easy climb, but by the time he had reached the second level, he thought he might get off and tour it before resuming his quest. The second level had multiple doors.

The Jack O'Connor Room

The Ken Howell Memorial Library

The Elmer Keith Room

. . . and so on.

After making a complete circuit, the shaman left the second floor and continued his journey to the third. When he got there, there was Gurney House, next door to the Earnest Hemmingway Bar and Grill, which had a sign on it saying it was closed for renovation. The shaman entered the Gurney House and it was like stepping into another world.

Gurney House was a reconstruction of Jim Corbett's cottage, where he lived the latter part of his stay in India with his sister. It was the quintessential 19th Century Cottage. You could smell the jungle; there was a cacophony of exotic bird calls. Sambhar antlers hung from every available spot in every room. The shaman went to the parlor and sat down in a large, overstuffed chair. Presently, I was attended by my own private khitmagar. He brought me coffee, and I sat about and just soaked it all in.

"I say," said a voice, "You're new here."

"Yes, I am," the shaman replied. "I just made ten thousand posts."

"Ah!" replied the man, dressed in tweeds and sporting a friendly set of mutton chops, "I knew it. Good to have you."

"I am the shaman,"

"And I sir am . . . oh, Drat! Not again."

"That's okay, you can get back to me on it."

"That's going to bother me the rest of the day." said the man. "I'll have to ask my wife tonight."

"Perhaps the servants will know."

"You mean ask the wogs?"

"They probably know."

"Excuse me, sir." replied the man. "He got up and left."


The khitmagar had been most attentive, bringing him coffee and biscuits. The shaman had finished his third cup when he decided it was time to leave. He caught the eye of his servant, who brought him a bill just as he was standing up."

"You may just sign," said the khitmagar. "It goes on your monthly tab."

"Thank you," said the shaman. He examined the bill and found he had been given 3 cups of coffee at $8 apiece and an order of assorted tea cakes for $12. "

"Is everything to your liking?"

"That's rather steep for coffee," said the shaman.

"There is free coffee just behind the Maître d' in the lobby." replied the khitmagar. "You are welcome to bring it with you."

"Thank you," said the shaman. "I will." The shaman gave him a decent tip and then left.

Upon reaching the lobby, he approached the Maître d'. "Where is the men's room."


"Just behind the desk, here," pointed the Maître d'. "I hope you found things to your satisfaction."

"Oh," said the shaman, "Quite nice." The shaman noticed that there was a rather large coffee bar just behind the desk and there were complimentary pastries and newspapers there as well.


It was a nicely appointed restroom. There was a wonderful full-length window at the far end, and the shaman was just remarking to himself that he had never seen such a window in a men's room, when the clouds parted outside and revealed a distant volcanic peak. The shaman caught a glimpse of the high temple of the Kahuna, its golden walls shimmering in a shaft of sunlight and a golden path leading down from the summit. The vision grew and the shaman saw the path wind down from the mountains and it was then he realized the golden bricks continued into the men's room and ended at his feet. A man came over with a towel. The shaman used it to dry his hands and then gave the attendant a tip.

LOL!

-jake

"So," said Chin. "Was it worth it?"

"Was what worth it?"

"How was the B'wana Club?"

"It was okay, I guess. It was fun to go."

"So will you be taking your morning coffee up there now?"

"I doubt it."

"Oh? How so?"

"I really like coming to the Campfire for my coffee. Don't get me wrong. Being a B'wana is cool and all, but. . ."

"But?"

"If I work hard at it," said the shaman, showing a lot of animation. "I can may Kahuna!"

"And what does that buy you?"

"A trip to the Kahuna Citadel. All I need to do is make 28 posts a day and I'll have it in less than a year."

"And this is because the coffee is better?"

"No. It's a Campfire thing. You wouldn't understand.'

Wait, Regin and Kira couldn't come to the lounge? I thought they were the headliners of the show.

Anyway,
the dancers at half-time were all men.., I think.
definitely not worth the the price of admission