This is a story that goes back to The Day. Not The Day that I was cool, but The Day when I was like Beavis and/or Butthead.

I lived a good part of my youth in the Illinois countryside. A small "estate" outside a little place called Prophetstown. My parents moved me and my sisters there from our home in St. Louis after an incident where a couple of strange fellows with facial hair asked me (then about 6) and my little sister (3 at the time), if we liked candy and wanted to go for a ride. That kinda scared everyone. So we moved to rural Illinois, where both my parents had grown up.

So there I am. It's summertime. Don't know what year. Must have been like '88, '89, somewhere in there. House in the country. We had lots of cats, and a couple dogs. There were also "varmints" around. By "varmints" I mean 'coons, and in this case the dreaded (o)possum.

The varmints would come around every once in awhile, and eat the food we would put out for the cats.

So one night, I hear one of the dogs growling and raising a ruckus beneath my window. I believe the dogs name was Odie. I awoke and went downstairs and outside to see what the commotion was. Seems Odie had a varmint cornered behind the propane tank. The dreaded (o)possum! I saw the creature there, Odie had it isolated and neturalized.

So here I am, a young man, eager for the test of combat. I figure this is my chance. So how do I draw the (o)possum out?

That's were the hose comes in. I went and prepared for battle, arming myself with a shovel and a garden hose.

Shovel and hose in hand, I trembled. Knowing that death could come at any minute. I turned on the water, aiming the hose at the demon (o)possum.

It ran out, apparently not happy about being soaked with cold garden-hose water.

~WHACK~

The shovel came down upon it's head.

~WHACK~

I hit it again, a solid body blow. It lay still. Not moving. Dead. Or so I thought.

Here I am with a dead (o)possum. What do I do now? Well, as I said, I was in that Beavis and/or Butthead stage. I figured FIRE was the soulution. FIRE! FIRE!

The gas can was acquired and I soaked the varmint liberally. No movement was seen.

Then I struck the match. My dad had lots of matches around as he often smoked marijuana, but that is another story....

The (o)possum burst into flames! It shone brightly. There was no movement for several moments. Then a strange thing happened....

The devil animal rose up! Like a Phoenix from the ashes! It ran willy-nilly about the lawn, to and fro, flames trailing behind it. It had not in fact been dead, but just playin possum.

I felt like a fool. A sadistic and mean fool. I head not meant to burn the varmint alive, but here it was. Running around, alive, on fire. It made a strange and disturbing hissing sound.

I was so disturbed....What had I done? The animal was alive!

It ran for several minutes. Spitting hisses and trailing fire. A sight to see for sure. Then slowly it came to a halt. It stood there for a moment, in all it's Flaming (O)Possum glory....and fell over.

It was now truely and finally dead. I had slain the beast.

I whacked it several times with the shovel, just to make sure. Then I scooped it up and deposited it in the burn pile where we normally disposed of garbage. It's body was consumed the next day.

The experience left me shaken, but alive. I was now more a man than I had ever been before in my young life. I fought the Beast and I triumphed. I overcame the trickery. I was truely master of all of God's creation.

I still feel bad about it though. The memory haunts me till this day.

In my later years, I wonder...Is it spelled "possum", or "opossum"? That is the most disturbing thought of all.

I do not know the answer.