The Ryno Pen

I was reminded by this post in John Birmingham’s Blunt Instrument, of a time I was, erm, well, a bit of a bastard when provoked by traffic-related acts of fuckwittery.

When you’ve got four piddly little cylinders propelling a big tin blimp, you tend to value whatever acceleration run-up you can get.

What’s more, once you’ve attained maximum slow crawl, you tend to take cubic shedloads of umbrage when some bozo is doing a fair approximation of brownian motion across the lanes ahead of you.

My daily commute was approximately forty miles each way. I lived waaaay out where the houses were cheap (and nasty), in a little place with one of those mortgages that starts small and cute, then has a growth spurt and swallows you whole.

Because a drive like that takes time, a good stereo is a must. And, if you’re a gadgethead in the late 1970s, you get a CB radio.

This machine pays off by letting you know where speed traps are, and saves time in the pre-cellphone world by letting you call your mates from a few miles away. The cost is worse than Mephistopheles’ little deal for Faust: a world of Plastic Americans spewing bastardised trucker-ese, kiddies, and the sort of frontier-tamers who would later evolve into NetKops.

The CB could be seen as benefit-neutral, almost a WOFTAM, apart from a certain saving grace.

The PA system feature! Of course I wasted no time rigging a small weatherproof horn speaker behind the radiator grille.

Now, having a Cool Toy like this is like being at school with a spud gun: you might have it, but if you use it indiscriminately, you aren’t going to have it much longer.

I tested it discreetly: I can now confirm to the couple of dozen church campers somewhere west of Beerwah that the midnight demonic apparitions of 1978 were, in fact, bogus, and I will refund any exorcists’ fees on production of receipts signed in the blood of a virgin.

Satisfied that the device worked nicely, I grinned smugly and sat quietly, like any good WMD owner should.

The first time I used the thing in anger was against what that fine Oz motoring writer Romsey Quints was wont to call a triffid: one of those mindless vegetables who travel well under the limit and block any attempt to overtake by weaving.

The Blimp was, as I mentioned, not given to sudden bursts. One accelerated with the kind of long-term strategy one would apply to a Bathurst 1000 race. The sedan, which had been crossing to and fro in front of me for about a mile, had almost triple my engine capacity (and didn’t have the aerodynamics of a Lego block either).

Dropping a gear and revving hard (we’re talking valve-bounce here), I managed to get a swerve in and caught up to his B-pillar while flicking the CB into public-nuisance address mode and keying the mike.

“Where’d you get the licence, pal?

Cornflakes or Weeties packet?”

It was rewarding to see him pull up in a cloud of Goodyear vapour.

Then, one rainy day, the Toy really paid off.

There was this Spotty Yoof of some fifteen summers on the four-lane zebra crossing outside the Lutwyche Shopping Village, holding up cars by starting out to cross, going about ten feet, then bolting back to the gutter. He’d banked up quite a few inbound cars, among them me.

I was sitting about three back, getting madder and madder, when inspiration hit. Quietly switching to PA, I keyed the mike and held it at dash height…

By inhaling and giving the ol’ throat a bit of a twist, I can do a very good soundalike impression of a dog YIPE-ing away, doppler effect and all. The same trick allows me to do a fairly credible imitation of a car, skidding with all four locked-up and smoking, toward the listener.

I’d swear he pooped himself.

I miss the old Blimp.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 27th, 2007 at 1:12 am and is filed under gadgetry, memories, people stuff, revenge. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.