I’m pretty sure there’s a battalion of Kamikaze squirrels manning a tree near the corner of Hyatt Lane and Silver Lake Road in my sleepy little municipality. For the safety of those who may be traveling through the town, just know that the particular tree – or should I say, the danger zone’s “launch point” – is about 100 yards west of the stop light on the south side of the street.
I can tell you that I’ve been hit by these wild-eyed little terrorists six or seven times since we’ve moved here, and while the damage is never anything significant, each event is rather traumatizing for the littlest of passengers in my vehicle as I jerk the steering wheel and call out abruptly, “Oh my!” only to see a glob of flopping fur and guts on the ground in the rearview mirror.
It’s always very sad.
My fear is that unless someone does something soon, the bloodshed will spread, only getting worse as many more potential-filled and youthful squirrels are indoctrinated and sent to their doom at the vile behest of some shadowy squirrelish cult leader perched high above our peaceful burg.
I’m ready to get my chainsaw and chop the tree down, although I doubt that would fully solve the problem. Everyone knows that unless the master is captured and eradicated, such zealotry is very hard to erase – especially among squirrels.
But there is one way to catch the fiend, and it involves setting a trap that is familiar with the way of the Kamikaze.
Before these “spirit winds” commit to the task, they vest in the traditional senninbari given to them by their mothers, compose a poem to be given to their kin, and then join together in a ceremony involving the consumption of an alcoholic beverage. That’s my in-road. My guess is that since alcohol selections here in my hometown are pretty limited, a nicer bottle placed at the foot of the tree would be more than noticeable to the whole band, and since the master is most likely a self-absorbed cultist bent upon furthering whatever is behind his fiendishly furry plot, he’s likely to move swiftly to fetch it for personal use.
Yes, I know, it’s a chess move, but I think it could work. It has to, otherwise I’ll be risking some hefty fines and quite possibly an overnight in the county lockup for transporting C4 across state lines and detonating it within the township limits. And so, I need to try the booze idea, first, and the Yamazaki 12-year-old, while it not only fits the idiom, is itself a potent attractant sure to play to the master’s weaknesses.
Uncapping the bottle and pouring a thick measure, being sure to give it a swirl before dodging the troop’s awareness and hiding in the bushes, the Yamazaki’s balm will rise up into the branches, almost certainly drawing even the most meditative of the hachimaki-wearing rodents to descend in search of the source of the conglomerate of grains, fruits, and tinged tree nuts. It’s an exceptionally appealing perfume.
And here’s precisely why this matters to the plan.
The whole brigade will smell this stuff, for sure. But if any of these fuzzy little suicide bombers manages to sip and sense the malted pears dipped in overly-buttered caramel before the master accounts the whisky’s value, there’s a good chance that their washed brains will be counteracted by the whisky and they’ll forsake their pledge. The Yamazaki 12 is something worth living for, therefore, I would expect the master to be on the scene soon after the bottle is opened and the trap is set. He’ll definitely want to land and remove it before the warmed tree nuts and citrus in the finish steals away the hearts of his fleet permanently.
And when he does come thrashing down the trunk of the tree to rescue his ideology, that’s when I’ll pop ‘im.
I’ll let you know how it goes.