War Story #16 Rifle Arsenal McLean Virginia = 1990. Playing Vietnam in the Forest, (getting away with it). Fairfax County and The Casualties were None -- Like air-raid in former Yugo, which I wanted.

The green trees, mostly maple and oak, filling Turkey Run Park were all planted since the area was burned to the ground during The American Civil War (1861-1865) in case there would be a battle, and I've found Civil War stuff there.

The greenery was the scenery in the woods in McLean that day, (No, it wasn't January). It was summer, 1990, and the summer was in full-effect.

A man I'll call Dalí (who is actually a close relative of Charlie Manson -- the serial murderer who killed people in California). He was there.

"Hey, you're a relative too," Dallí  stated.

I ignored him.

"You are!" he demanded, "You are lucky, it was on your mother's side . . . and y'all were never actually named Manson."

"But me," he went on, "My grandfather had to change our name," said Dallí  feeling sorry for himself.

"Yes, that sounds like it would be an inconvenience," I said to him.

We were seated on wooden benches in some kind of a "SHACK" that was there near C.I.A. property, in the up-lands, or higher ground of Turkey Run Park, near McLean, Virginia.

Dallí  had stolen what the great Dallí  termed, "An Arsenal," from his grandfather.

It was two green luggage trunks my relative (?) Dallí  had on the wood floor of the shack. The big Trunk suitcases that he had. They were both loaded full with rifles.

"Yeah so this is how we take it homeboy? With two suitcases of fucking rifles, what the fuck are you doing?" I asked my homeboy.

"Well, the opportunities are boundless," he said to me, "I hadn't really thought about it, but we been havin' fun playing Vietnam though," and he spat out tobacco juice.

"Whatchew' been doin?" I asked him and snapped open a brew, Milwaukee's Best.

"Well, John, Hugo, Charles, and me been playin' Viet-Nam."

"Viet-what?" I asked him.

"Nam," he grunted, "it's where we take these .22s and other guns, back in the woods, n' we, y'know these are big woods, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Well, me and John are on one team, Charles and Hugo on the other. We go through Turkey Run Park, the entire premises , y'see, and we have these guns," he said, patting his sweet, new, little arsenal.

"If I, or if my teamate see the other team's guys in the forest, we pull the trigger -- trying to miss, trying to miss. . .If a shot is made, then that guy is out of the game, trying to miss."

"Yeah, just like a real war," I told him and cracked open another beer.

Quisideo was a friend of ours, also 15, like me and Dallí were also, she was lounging around in the other room with our other friend, Squashmeadow, who was there also.

Both were drinking Milwaukee's Best also, which I always call Milwaukee's "Beast".

"It's to the East,

Milwaukee's Beast

It's to the West,

Milwaukee's Best

It's in the locker,

Oh, what a shocker.

It's on the roof, 100 proof.

I put my groove down

I kick the roof down

100 Proof Now

I Kick it Down."

I always say that too.

"So these are your guns my man?" I inquired.

"My gran-pa's guns man -- I told you that."

The Notorious Outlaw, Tony, then staggered in from beating the fuck out of someone somewhere outside or something.

"Alright, Pat, we need to roll, this is Hot. 5-0 is moving into position out in the street," Tony said to me.

His face was grim.

We left immediately, he and I.

The two-room "Shack" had been constructed some time ago, and was perched near the top of a long strip of land in Turkey Run Park that was clear so large lines could go overhead for telephone lines. Its building's wood, grey but not rotted.

"Pat, tell them you haven't seen me," Tony whispered as we trudged along.

"That works, so long as they don't know what you look like," I replied.

"Yeah, they don't. There is an A.P.B. on me because I broke away from a female police officer who tried to nab me in Tony Randou's garage," said Tony Sparrow, the man Pindar Van Arman was once jealous of for as Pindar once screamed about to me, "Why, why, why, why is Tony a Big Celebrity!? For what!? For being on the run from the police?"

"Wow, a lot of police. Six cars out in the street, here we go."

Tony and I walked past the parked cars where one of the officers sat.

"Oh hi," waved the officer, "hey your Pat Tyrrell aren't you?"

"Yeah, what's up, how are you doing?" I asked him.

"Oh, same-ole-same-ole," The young Fairfax Officer shrugged, "Hey, do you know a Tony Sparrow? Does the name ring a bell?"

I paused like a knucklehead and then stated;

"Oh yeah I know him!"

I sounded enthusiastic.

"I haven't seen him for a couple weeks, but I'll keep my eye out for him though, man."

Tony stood next to me smiling along the whole time.

Alright, and we went on our way, walking on a dark suburban street in the night.

As we proceeded along and we entered The Kings Manor Neighborhood of the town of McLean, Virginia, Tony leapt up on the walls that surround the backyards there, and he ran along there, so if they were chasing him with dogs . . .dogs can't climb . . . and they would lose his scent.

My Homie, Dallí , got busted for the arsenals of rifles he had on him.

Dallí  and the boys all got sent to Juvenile Detention, but The Fairfax Virginia Police Officers there let the girls go.

The girls went on to have careers and families. One of them thanked me recently, "for being a free spirit."

But perhaps no one became as successful -- maybe ever -- than my juvenile friend, the relative of Charles Manson, my friend Dallí .

Last I heard, he graduated from Northern Virginia Community College, in Northern Virginia.

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