As part of SuperFunAdventureTime’s continued lackadaisical commitment to the finest in both gonzo and gotcha journalism, I’ve decided to present a nice little write up about the morning of July 31, 2011, since it has been the subject of much rumor and speculation.

I was at the annual meeting of the Secular Student Alliance o’er in Columbus, OH. It was Saturday night, turn Sunday morning. We just finished up having a neat-o party at the Buffalo Wild Wings, where I chatted with a number of very groovy people and enjoyed Labatt Blue responsibly. A group of us were walking back to the dorms where we were holed up for the weekend, when someone with a couple of ranks in Knowledge(Local) pointed out that there was an Insomnia Cookies a few blocks away.

“Oooo… Insomnia! We have to get some!” said Jen (who is not to be confused with Jenny), because she always gets nostalgic after a few drinks.

So we walk down the street, and as we approached the UDF o’er on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, this blue beater sedan slows down — CRACK — then speeds off.

I grab the side of my left leg.

“Uph. I’ve been shot.” I said. “Pretty sure it was just a BB gun though.”

Jen looks back and smiles, thinking that I was recounting one of my wild stories to someone else,  unaware that one was happening right then, and that she was a character in it.

It felt like being cracked with a giant rubber band, like in high school we tied rubber bands to other rubber bands repeated the process again and again then tied knots in the end until we had some 30 foot rubber band to crack jokers with. The shot didn’t hurt that bad, and that terrified me. Long ago, I learned that the more horrific the injury, the less it hurts. A shoulder dislocation feels several orders better than a Charlie horse.

I’ve been shot at from cars before. Once was by Stewart Center about a year earlier, when some punks in a beater station wagon hit me on the inside of my right thigh. I was pretty pissed, as the shot was danger-close to hitting me in my bathing-suit place. Still, it wasn’t that bad, only like two-pumps or so, and I just kind of went about my day, because I was really busy that day for some reason. I also was in another drive-by late one Sunday night while walking around Purdue, but that doesn’t count because they just had Super Soakers. Had to take a knee, I was laughin’ so hard. So were they! Those wacky guys!

Anywho, since my friends had no real intention of stopping, I hobbled on for another two blocks or to Insomnia Cookies, but it was closed, just like how it’s not supposed to be. We were all pretty depressed. Then whoever had Knowledge(Local) pointed out there was this stomp-ass donut shop a few blocks away. I look at my leg and don’t see a giant blood stain, so I hobble along.

We get to the donut shop. I buy peanut-coated donut for $0.95. It was totally clutch. I ask if they have a bathroom, they send me to one in the back of the kitchen. I drop trou to get the lay of the land.

Sho’nuff, there was a hole in my leg, right where the hole in my pants was. It seemed bigger than a BB; in fact, it looked to be the right size as a .22, and that’s bad. There was bleeding from the surface, but it was a slow creep, like a scraped knee, or a road rash. There was blood on my underpants, but interestingly enough, the only holes were the ones placed there by the manufacturer intended for my legs. Since the shot went through my pants, but not my underpants, it became clear to me that it had to be a BB, because they don’t sell any bulletproof shit at K-Mart.

Still, the hole was atop a lump. Maybe I missed the hole in my underpants — the lighting was kind of off. Maybe the swelling was the bullet or BB was lodged in my leg, acting like a bloodcork. Knives and other things impaling-things act like bloodcork. Maybe it was just swelling. How to tell? I needed an x-ray.

I’ve always maintained that when living properly, snippets of your life could serve as the basis for text-based adventure games for the VIC-20. This could be one of them.

“YOU are in a small BATHROOM. It is 3 AM. YOU have been shot by the people in a BLUE CAR. YOU don’t know where they went. YOU have had four beers. There may be a BULLET lodged in your LEG. YOU should GOTO a HOSPITAL. YOUR PANTS and UNDERPANTS are pulled down. YOU are holding a CAMERA-PHONE and eating a DONUT. There is a DOOR facing WEST. COMMAND?”

All I knew was that I wasn’t in any real danger, because I was among friends.

I also knew that I’d need some evidence that didn’t involve indecent exposure. So, I whipped out my cameraphone to take a picture of the wound, and then couldn’t because my phone’s memory was full.  So, that time I was eating peanuts at Five Guys and got a peanut with three peanuts inside and I was all like “Yay!” — is now lost for all time. That’s okay, that was a lame story. The lighting was kind of off in the bathroom, but I managed to get a basic, useable photo.

I walk out, and talk to Mark.

“Hey do you have a car around here?” I ask.

“Yeah, I drove some people [from Indiana to Ohio],” he said.

“Could you drive me somewhere?” I ask.

“No!” said Mark, with hysterical drunken laughter. “What kind of question is that?”

My face grew long.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to go to the hospital for an x-ray,” I tell him, as I show him the photo. “I was shot.”

Mark says nothing, but he goes to explain the situation to Jen, because she’s our perennial de facto leader.

“Wha?” said Jen.

“Yeah! He got shot!” said Mark.

“Yes, I was shot.” I tell her.

“Oh my God! When?” said Jen.

“Remember when I said: ‘Uph. I’ve been shot?’ Yeah, someone actually shot me.”

“Where’d this happen?” asked Jen.

“When we were over by the UDF on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk — when I was all like ‘Uph. I’ve been shot?’ Yeah…” I said.

“Why didn’t you stop?” pleaded Jen.

“I wanted a donut!” I shouted, as I ate the last of my tasty treat.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana, who I met just then.

“I just need an X-ray to see if there’s anything stuck in there,” I say.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana.

“I just need a ride…” I said.

“You need an ambulance,” said Chana.

“It was probably just a BB gun, and I need to see if anything is lodged in there. I can’t afford the ambulance fee.” I said.

“You have been shot. You’re not capable of making medical decisions. You’re getting an ambulance,” said Chana.

I conceded because I found her reasoning to be sound. She was the voice of reason in this group. It’s nice to have a day off. She was a mensch, and I made sure I informed her of the fact.

A few minutes later the ambulance came, at about 10 MPH, I waved my arms to flag it down. Then the ambulance pulled over to the side of the road, and then slowly oozed away from me — at 10 MPH — never to be seen again.

“This is the saddest photo I’ve ever seen,” said Hemant, as he took it with his camera phone.

“Yeah, you need to send me that.” I said.

He did.

I was tired, buzzed, shot, angry, slightly disillusioned — in that order. I was starting to worry, and to keep myself together I knew I’d have to turn it up to eleven. Sanity time was over, and the results were eerily reminiscent of a latter-day Tom Thompson*.

Chana recalled 911 to get a more-different ambulance, while everyone else was just like “LOL, Facebook and Twitter,” in order to fuel all kinds of wild-ass rumors.

Anyway, two guys in police uniforms with “CCP” emblazoned on the back of their jackets walked right past us. Ben ran to flag them down, explained the situation, and dragged them back.

“So you were shot with a BB gun up the street?” asked Johnny Law.

“No, down the street,” I tell him.

“Oh. Someone was shot up the street with a BB gun, too. There’s been a couple of them tonight.” said Johnny Law.

“Oh really? So it’s for sure a BB gun?” I ask.

“Yes.” said Johhny Law.

“I was shot, and I have an ambulance on the way, but I think I’m fine, so I can help you file your report.” I said.

“Oh no. We’re not cops,” said Johnny Law.

“Wha?” I say.

“No sir, we’re the Columbus Community Patrol.”

“…and you’re not police.” I said, coldly.

“Nope.” said Johnny Law. “Have a good evening.”

“Yeah, you too.” I said to Johnny Law, shaking his hand before he and his pal turn away and walk off to oblivion.

“So what did the cops say?” asked Mark, while blinking eighty times, like he does.

“Those weren’t the cops.” I tell him.

“Who were they then?” said Mark.

“Not-cops.” I said.

My leg was starting to cramp up. I shifted into sleeping crane stance to keep the weight off it. This was getting old. Another ambulance oozed about the streets, and turned near us, and drove half a block down the side street.

“Fuck it! We’ll do it live!” I shouted, to cheers as I hobbled half a block to the ambulance.

The EMT’s came out. There was a pair of them; there was an older gentlemen and a younger one following him, like just like Jedi, or plumbers. I walk up to the older gentleman, shake his hand, and introduce myself.

“Hey, I’m Ryan Coons. I was shot, probably with a BB gun.”

They tell me to step inside the ambulance, and to lay down. It was quite roomy.

“Should I come in there too?” asked Jen.

“Uhh, probably not,” I told her, while entering an advanced state of pantslessness.

In the improved lighting of the ambulance, it was clear that the projectile did not penetrate my underpants.

“It’s just some broken skin. Just put some Neosoporin on it.” said the EMT.

I slid my pants back on and thanked the gentlemen for their time. I strut of the ambulance and shout “It’s a flesh wound guys! Let’s go buy some band-aids!”

“Horray!” shouts everyone, as we walk xor hobble xor stumble to the drugstore.

“Ooooo! Let’s get Spongebob Band-aids!” said Jen.

“Yeah!” said everyone, everywhere.

“Hey, eat this donut. It’s German Chocolate,” said Ben.

“Hell yeah! Thanks!” I told him.

It was a magical donut. Chocolate cake, chocolate glaze, moist and rich with flavor, sweet, but not overpowering. It was like a ‘Mr. Donut’ donut. It’ll be a while before I find something that good again. Man!

Eventually we get the CVS, near to the Buffalo Wild Wings, and the door was locked, so we went around to the other door. It took me a few minutes to find the first aid supplies.

“Oooo! They have Dora the Explorer band-aids!” said Jen. “You should get them.”

“Yes, but the Spongebob ones are thirty cents cheaper,” I explain.

…that and I have to look myself in the mirror tomorrow, and each subsequent day thereafter. I also picked up some of the 91% isopropylnol to clean my wound, with the intent of using it to light myself on fire — an old party favorite from back in the day — but I never got around to it. Some other time, I guess. Ben picked up the tab; he’s legit.

Jessica bought me a chinsy mylar helium balloon in the drugstore, because she thought it would cheer me up.

.

.

.

She thought right.

It’s the little things, guys.

Around this time Mike and Shawn turned up, and we all walked back to our building, where people yay-ed and wanted details. I cleaned my wound. Everyone hung out and chatted and relayed snippets of the epic tale that was the pre-event meet up party on Thursday, in a desperate and futile attempt to make sense of events.

The next day the bruise set in:

It’s not enough to make the top 10 bruises list.

At the conference the next day, all kinds of people came up to me for news and to see how I was. I could say that getting shot is an excellent networking tool, but that’s probably not the best moral for this story.

“Hey, you’re alive!” people said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “…and my album sales have tripled!” Chuckles from all. Good times, good times.

So what do we have to take away from this? Having friends, be they new or old, will turn fail into win, and can turn a terrifying situation into a funny story. Even a friend you’ve only had for ten minutes can be a good as a friend you’ve had for ten years, if they are the right ten minutes. I knew that I’d be fine, because of what I like the best about being a godless heathen. When you don’t have to serve a God, the only thing you have to live for is other people; and that’s pretty great, actually.

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*This is a pseudonym used for legal reasons, although we’re pretty sure his warrants have reached their statute of limitations.