I have many a tale of Boy Scouting, as do most guys who were Scouts. However, this particular tale is one of fire (tales of Scouting and fire often pop up in the same place).
There's a reason tales of Boy Scouting invariably involve fire (or water, but that's another story). This is because when you get a bunch of guys together, invariably talk will turn to destroying stuff. At least, this was always true back home. Still, when you get a bunch of guys thinking about destroying stuff, and they're on a camp-out, the obvious tool to use is humanity's greatest invention (after sliced bread and the G3 processor), fire.
Just a casual, youthful experiment into fire is one thing. But true glorying into the wonders of flame requires somewhat of a mentoring process. For this purpose, most scout troops have around a fellow who we will simply term the Pyromaniac. The Pyromaniac is the guy who is usually responsible for lighting fires. He likes to light fires. Lots of fires. Typically, of course, he's also responsible enough to keep from devastating the countryside in the process, while this is not necessarily true of his many young acolytes. The Pyromaniac often, but not always, has a Cult Of Personality, either due to raw charisma or due to the way he cackles insanely upon building a particularly awesome blaze.
In the Troop of Boy Scouts in which I spent my youth, our Pyromaniac(tm) was an easy-going fellow by the name of Carter (last name withheld to protect... well, Carter, really). Carter liked fires. A lot, really. But one camp-out in particular set up many popular traditions in our Troop that carried on until everyone who remembered them grew up and left. But that's another story. Suffice to say, the tradition of the Great Copper Plates (we discovered the principle that, hey, when you fan a fire, it burns faster; and since all our Generic Scout Cooking Kits included copper-plated plates, it became a Tradition(tm) to use said plates for fanning the flames. This is how all Traditions start, you see. It became almost a serious religious experience to be the fanner of the flames, until some idiot accidentally put the copper plate on the fire - after all, it was the Sacred Copper Plate, and thus impervious to fire... eh heh - and discovered that it was a copper plated plate, and actually tin on the inside. The cult of the copper plate never recovered from the doctrinal conflict which followed this discovery) started here, as did the tradition that Something Of Jesse's Will Be Destroyed By Accident On Every Camping Trip, Possibly Due To Jesse Doing something Stupid ("Hey, Jesse, I don't think the bottom of your shoes should be bubbling like that..." was this particular incident's summary).
It also started the tradition of the Box O' Stuff. The box o' Stuff was not any mere Box, it was, in fact, a shoe-box of stuff which tended to explode when placed into a fire. Carter, needless to say, was the one who brought it. Those of us who were younger (which was to say, me and pretty much everyone else) crowded around to watch Carter throw explosive things into the fire. The usual stuff, really. Spent batteries, cherry bombs, mostly empty cans of Off...
We then watched, with curiousity, as Carter sidled away from the fire, which was now chok-full of dangerous things waiting to go boom, and making soft fizzling noises.
It's always at about this point that people remark "Oh, bugger" and begin diving for cover, right before stuff starts exploding around them. In this case, we remained true to this cliche, as several sharp reports rang out from the blaze, causing us all to scramble for cover behind trees, shrubberies, or an over-turned picnic table. This was a good thing, because it was at this point that one of the cans of Off went up, with a dull foom and a soft tinkle of shrapnel. There was a pause. Heads were poked out from behind cover. Another foom filled the night, as a chunk of can whizzed off a tree near my head.
Many lessons were learned that night. Among them were:
But then, I wasn't the one the surly authority figures came looking for, so I had a great time.
There was a moral here somewhere. I just know it. Oh, well, I'm sure it will become apparent later.
Meanwhile, Vegita faces off against a blue-skinned henchie (who has a male, Australian accent in the dub, but who I strongly suspect was actually female in the original version. The long, long hair, painted fingernails, and earrings might have something to do with it.) Today's henchie is named Zarbon... And he proceeds to get slapped around by Vegita, after the requisite posing.
This makes Zarbon surly, and he Monsters Out, turning all ugly instead of being a blue girly-man, and proceeds to kick Vegita's ass. In fact, this is the worst ass beating that Vegita's ever taken, and the Saiyan prince is forced to run like a girly-man as Zarbon pops open a big can of whup-ass, in the process wrecking most of the surrounding countryside. Vegita makes several mistakes here, not the least of which is exclaiming "No! I can't be beaten!" which virtually guarantees he's going to get his ass kicked.
Krillan and Dende the Dispose-A-Namek see this from afar, and flee even faster than before towards the house of the Eldest Namek.
Goku, meanwhile, has just about found his match in the 50 G training he's forcing himself through. He's about to call it a day, when he remembers who he's going to have to go up against, and decides to push even harder.
Zarbon completely over-powers Vegita, although the Saiyan puts up a valiant fight. It's finally ended when Zarbon pile-drives Vegita into the ground, leaving a massive crater which quickly fills with water. But we don't see a body, so we know Vegetable Boy survives.
And, meanwhile, Those Three Guys are still chasing that damn monkey.
Rant 'o the day contains no additives, preservatives or small woodland creatures of any kind. Use only as directed. Do not expose to direct sunlight. Do not fold, spindle, multilate or remove identifying tags. Handle with care. Contains less than 3% milk fat by weight, not by volume. Squeeze the lemon.
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