Weekend Part 1: What do B., Larry Flynt, and Ronald Reagan have in common?

This double-stuft weekend was very eventful. What if I were to tell you that on a freezing Wednesday night I snuck into a haunted casket factory? What if I were to tell you that that was only the second most interesting thing that happened? What could possibly be more interesting than a haunted casket factory? Well...

I got shot.

at.

probably.

Saturday evening I decide to get a head start on my weekend chores and errands, figuring that if I get everything done I could spend the rest of the weekend in a state of total relaxation. As the full moon shines down through the clear night sky upon the frigid Salt Lake Valley, I arm myself with a pocketful of quarters and the blue access key and head to the apartment complex northernmost laundry room. I usually do laundry at my mom's house, but wanted to get it out of the way.

I start the load, then go to the store and buy some stuff. Lots of good sales. I stock up on crackers and Kleenex boxes. Get home and unloaded the groceries, then go straight to the laundry room to put my stuff (the whites) into the drying machine.

With my back to the window, I hear a tremendous "SNAP!" I am quite startled. I finish filling the dryer, toss in a sheet of Bounce, and go to leave. Then I notice THIS:

A bullet hole where once there was none. Lined up right where I was standing. "Um... okay." I think. Then as I'm driving away I see two youths hiding behind the bushes, and one hiding behind a tree. One of them has a rifle-shaped gun thing. I try to call the Murray City Police Department but their office hours are 9-5, so I have to call 911 instead which makes me nervous. I worry that they'll scold me for not having a real emergency. They ask a bunch of questions while I sit in my car in my parking stall. After a few minutes the Murray City police show up. About ten guys in all. They pull machine guns from their cars and circle the laundry room like Jack Bauer and company. Pretty intense. Then 911 calls back and tells me to go talk to the cops. I admire their fancy guns while answering their questions. One guy, J. Hafoka, does most of the asking. He seems to be the youngest and lowest ranking of the crew. He's really nice and professional. I'm glad to know that he's protecting our streets. Also he looks a lot like AC Slater.

I try to downplay everything. I mean, it was nighttime, and though I saw something that looked like a rifle I couldn't tell if it was a toy or a BB gun or the real thing. I ask Officer Hafoka about the bullet hole, if it could have been made by a BB gun or even a slingshot. He tapped the glass and said "No way. Probably a .22 or other small caliber firearm." That really spooked me. I mean, it'd be one thing if a jilted ex-lover or loanshark tried to gun me down, but idiot kids trying to cause trouble, and I'm just minding my own business and making sure my socks are clean, and I get hit with their stupid bullet? That totally sucks. Even in the best case scenario it would have really stung and probably ruined my jacket.

Anyway, the cops did some CSI stuff around the scene, I gathered my dry clothes and went back home a little shaken but otherwise no worse for the wear. Not sure of the outcome of all this. I'll probably go to the station this week and see if I can get a copy of the police report or something.