Nice story, pard.
It reminds me of a time back in high school when I secured a date with Becky Nelson, the school's prettiest debate team captain. When I picked her up in my daddy's 1959 Impala, her daddy invited me in for a shot of spirits. As we toasted, he reached down and pulled out a sawed off, double-barreled 12 gauge and pressed it into my nether regions. With my crotch sweat ruining the barrel blue, he told me, "If you don't make sweet, passionate love to my daughter tonight, I won't shoot your satchel off." I should have listened. Two days later, I heard a rapping at my screen door. Sure as a duck's rear smells, her daddy showed up with his trusty firearm, freshly blued. I leaped as he fired, and only suffered a 50% loss. I was able to roll away while he reloaded. I grabbed my Civil War bayonet and ran out the back door into the ravine behind our house. After I eluded Becky's crazed sire and stitched myself up with old bailing wire, I hid out in the wilderness for the next six months. When I came back into civilization, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Until one day when I went back over to Becky's house and saw the 50% that I had lost in a glass case on the coffee table. Her daddy smiled, welcomed me back, and said that he had cut the chances of a bad outcome in half. He wasn't very good at science.