Why You Don’t Piss Pappa Bear Off

Why You Don’t Come A-Scratchin’ At Pappa Bear’s Den

This is a story about Pappa Bear, Momma Bear, and their two daughters. One, actually.

Neither, actually.

Late one evening Pappa Bear and Momma Bear came home late. It was very late in the evening – so late, in fact, that it was already the next morning!

“Boy! Am I tired!” Pappa Bear said, pulling into the driveway. His legs and hips hurt. He had been dancing all night, and was looking forward to the comfort of his soft and fluffy bed – not too soft, and not too fluffy, but just right for him and Momma Bear.

“I am, too!” Momma Bear said as he stopped the car and they got out. They met the baby bear sitter, who was a friend of the family, and gave her permission to go home.

“Oh, look, isn’t she so pretty!” Momma Bear said, going into the little one’s room. Because she was so small she slept right in the middle of her big wide bed, arms thrown out, mouth open. Baby Bear was only three years old. A loud snore came from Baby Bear’s direction.

“Yes, Dilly Darling,” Pappa Bear said, easing the door near closed. They kept Baby Bear’s door open just a crack you see – just enough to hear her if she stopped sleeping and wanted something in the night. “Now – lets go to bed. I’m tired!” And with that he gave a big old big-bear yawn.

“Yaawwnnnn!” he said, throwing his arms behind him and going to their room. Momma Bear followed him.

They took of their clothes and laid down – for that’s how bears sleep, you know – in the buff. The buff of their fur, that is.

It wasn’t but a few minutes later – Pappa Bear had almost started snoring – when Momma Bear heard something. It was a scratchy sound, a pounding sound – but rather soft, like butterflies beating on a drum, and caterpillars rubbing tummies made of caste iron with steel wool.

“Pappa Bear! Pappa Bear!” she urgently whispered, shaking Pappa Bear. “I think there’s something outside!” He grunted. He had heard the noises but didn’t care. He would wait until they came in before he got mad. Pappa Bear was very tired and very confident of himself. He knew he could handle whatever it was that wanted to come into their house.

There was the same noises as before, only louder. The drumming on the outside of the house – right beneath Pappa and Momma Bear’s window had gotten louder. Pappa Bear groaned and sat up while Momma Bear went to the window and peeped out.

“There’s someone trying to come in the window!” Momma Bear whispered with alarm. “It looks like some young man!”

“Hold him there,” Pappa Bear said. “I’m going to get my gun.”

And with that Pappa Bear reached under his pillow and pulled out his Smith and Wesson three-fifty-seven. It was a silvery gun with black handles.

The thumping around the window had gotten louder, and there was a scratching on the screen.

“You keep an eye on him,” Pappa Bear said. His head was hurting from too much drinking, and he was starting to get pissed off some. He didn’t mind the burglars – he just didn’t like dealing with them at night. They were a great bother to him, not that they had been robbed before. He just didn’t like them prowling around at night, awakening him. He didn’t like being awakened for anything. He would have rathered snooze and snooze and snooze.

“He’s still there,” Momma Bear said as Pappa Bear came around to the window. Pappa Bear couldn’t see out the window, the curtains were there, but he knew where he could – and from a direction which would surprise them, this boy outside. “I think there must be somebody with him,” she continued, whispering. “He keeps looking down the house at the corner . . .”

Pappa Bear wasn’t surprised as he took his gun into the bathroom, which adjoined the bedroom they shared. He pulled aside the lace curtain and looked out into the darkness. A tall teen boy stood there, his eyes raised to the window where Momma Bear still stood. Momma Bear had moved the curtains, encouraging the boy to stand back. Pappa Bear unlatched the window and raised the glass.

“What are YOU doing there?” Pappa Bear asked quite nicely – but firmly – to the figure standing outside the window.

The thin figure jumped, and the face became one shade whiter than the pale moon.

“Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . I’m looking for someone,” the teenage boy said. Pappa Bear judged him to be about eighteen or so, and by the way the child was looking up and down the long house Pappa Bear knew he had some friends waiting outside.

“Who?!” Pappa Bear demanded. He knew he couldn’t be seen. After all, he was standing in a dark dark house looking out a dark dark screen (they needed washed real bad) and there was no way the boy, looking up in the moonlight, could see him standing there – nor the gun he held in his hand.

“Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . . Sam Blackwell,” the boy stammered and stuttered, his gaze still shooting towards the end of the house and then down at his feet.

“There ain’t no Sam Blackwell lives here,” Pappa Bear said sternly, and then he growled: “What are you doing here?” Because Pappa Bear knew quite rightly that no matter who this boy was looking for, he shouldn’t be looking for him at a back bedroom window at three o’clock at night.

“Uh, uh . . .,” the boy stammered and stuttered again. He looked down at his feet as though consulting them for an answer, and then he looked up, his face mad.

“Asshole,” the boy said.

And THAT, my dear children, was the wrong answer to give. For right then Pappa Bear made his decision, got mad, and squeezed the trigger.

That should have been the end.

But no (soft smile) – Pappa Bear was mad, but he wasn’t crazy. He was going to give this boy a lesson he would learn.

You don’t come around messing with Pappa Bear, his children, or his wife.

And with that he placed a .357 round six inches off the boy’s left ear – not close enough to hurt him (aside from some gunpowder stings) – but close enough to inspire some great fear.

And with a BANG! and a FLASH! that stretched almost three foot long the boy disappeared!

Before Pappa Bear’s eyes could adjust to the darkness, he knew.

He hurried through the house and on the front porch.

There in the distance he could see a car already moving – it’s red tail lights twin eyes going up the road.

Just for good measure he let the Smith and Wesson bark one more time. BANG! It went and put a hole through the porch filigree.

He was rather proud, but confused. HOW had that boy covered over two hundred and fifty feet, a barrier of bushes and a fence – in just a few seconds? It hadn’t taken him much longer to cover twenty five feet to the porch – but the boy was already gone!

Thinking about it, Pappa Bear went in and laid his gun down. He smiled. He would have to clean his pistol tomorrow . . . but a lesson had been learned.

A few days later Pappa Bear’s big daughter came home. She had been camping out with some friends.

“I heard at school you shot at my boyfriend!” she exclaimed at the dinner table, her eyes hard and round. She was an evil queen; a bitch in the making.

“No,” Pappa Bear said, steadfastly making a munching sound as he chewed his dinner and swallowed it down. “If I had shot AT him, he would be dead. I shot NEAR him – just near his head.” And with that Pappa Bear went on calmly eating.

It turned out that the evil queen Bear (the older daughter) had set this son – the son of a councilman – up. She had told him to come over, the wrong window and stuff – and then she took off.

“Come and scratch at my back window and I will come out!” she had promised with a great big lie, not knowing Pappa Bear knew of her midnight adventures by the tracks in the drive. He didn’t wear pointy high heel shoes; she did.

And with that she had left; set him up – had the poor kid scratching at the wrong window like a bad pup.

And with that he learned a lesson.

You don’t come and piss Pappa Bear off.

And I rather imagine that councilman’s son never – EVER – scratched at a window again.

And he was never, ever her boyfriend again.

The End.

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About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004T3IVKK ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( http://www.amazon.com/Boy-J-W/dp/1461022681). JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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2 Responses to Why You Don’t Piss Pappa Bear Off

  1. aynetal3 says:

    I would say so … Definitely not going to be that mad chick’s man! Does she like giving death wishes? Yeeks and Caboodles!

    Our best,
    Us (Have Missed you! Nice to see you writing!)

    http://newsdidmpd.blogspot.com
    http://annsmultipleworldofpersonality.blogspot.com

    Like

    • jeffssong says:

      Big Daughter Bear, the Bitch Queen Man User has ran through 3 husbands (at least), 2 of them dead – I had to clean up after one blew off his head! LOL, Grimm stuff there, uh-huh, if you’ll excuse the symbolic meaning (to the story I mean, LOL!) I swear the ghoul . . . I mean girl – sucks the souls out of them. Loonnnggg stories (sighing & shaking my head).

      However, our curse came true: her daughter’s worse than she is, LOL!!

      Like

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