[Steppes] SCA Darwin Award

[Jeanie Collins]

That was absolutely priceless.

Alienor 

-----Original Message-----
From: steppes-bounces at ansteorra.org
[mailto:steppes-bounces at ansteorra.org] On Behalf Of Ciard49 at aol.com
Sent: Friday, April 09, 2004 6:47 AM
To: steppes at ansteorra.org
Subject: [Steppes] SCA Darwin Award


http://www.darwinawards.com/slush/

Darwin Awards

 Medieval fire torture  

2004 Reader Submission
Pending Acceptance


I'm happy to report that this story will only qualify for an honorable
mention, since the subject is a good friend of mine. To avoid
embarrassing him, I'll call him Adam. 

It was a warm spring night in Bowling Green, Ky., and the SCA was in
town. 
That's the Society for Creative Anachronism, the medieval-life
reenactment group. They were having a weekend event at Beech Bend Park,
nestled in a woody curve of the Barren River. 

Two of my friends were heavily into the SCA, and had pitched their tents
with the other sword-wielding and baggy-pants-wearing celebrants. They
invited me and my friend Adam to join them for one evening's campout.
Since both were lovely blondes (as well as charming friends), we readily
agreed. They provided us with "garb," faux-medieval clothes that would
enable us to blend into the crowd. A tabard and baggy pants were enough
for me, but Adam wanted something more. 

Every SCAdian, as they are known, practices some sort of skill, whether
cooking or singing or some craft, or just energetically whacking each
other with duct-tape-covered fake swords. Adam wanted to go all the way.
He can juggle, which was a start, but still not quite enough. He wanted
to be impressive. He decided to breathe fire. 

Adam had seen this stunt performed before, with pure grain alcohol. But
he'd never done it, and being under 21 at the time, couldn't buy pga
himself. 

He wanted me to buy it for him, and I was willing; but I didn't get off
from my waiter's job until after 11 p.m., which is when liquor stores
close in our town. And he hadn't thought ahead to ask me the day before
the event. So, still determined to blaze with glory, he went looking for
a substitute. 

Let's see ... what flammable liquids can an incautious young man buy in
a Kentucky Wal-mart at 11:30 at night? There were several choices, none
good. But Adam settled on Coleman stove fuel. 

It was clear, didn't smell that strong, and he could pour it into an
empty wine bottle for "period" accuracy. I wasn't sure about this, but
Adam decided it was close enough. 

Once at the event - called "Border Raids" - I stood talking to one
friend while Adam said, "C'mere, I've got something to show you," and
led the other behind a large cloth tent. About 20 feet away stood half a
dozen guys in chain mail armor, warming themselves around a fire. They
could see him directly, but I couldn't. 

Seconds later, a deep "WHOOOM!" burst from behind the tent, accompanied
by a gout of orange flame. "Whoa!" cried all the guys around the
campfire, turning to applaud. But their applause died, as even through a
double layer of tent fabric I could see this ... afterglow. 

"Holy shit! He's on fire!" the mail-clad men yelled, and ran over to
pound out the flames wreathing Adam's head. 

What he hadn't realized was that stove fuel gave off fumes very unlike
pga. 
As he swigged the fuel, some of it trickled down his chin - fortunately,
he'd shaved off his goatee the day before. As it was, fumes wreathed his
head and spread down his throat. In the ensuing conflagration, he
managed to burn the hair off the BACK of his head, while hardly touching
that on top. His eyebrows, however, were scorched too. Rivulets of flame
ran down his neck, and he suffered chemical burns in his throat. 

Adam was still standing, and at first didn't think he was seriously
hurt. But the burns started to sting in a few minutes, and I led him to
the chirurgeon's tent. They quickly saw that neither medieval technology
nor modern first aid would suffice, and I drove Adam to the hospital. 

He stayed there several days and became quite an object of interest on
that floor. The burns on his neck healed without serious scarring, his
hair regrew, and the octave he lost off his voice came back in about six
months. 

Perhaps five years later I went to another Border Raids gathering in
different city, accompanying the same female friends but sans Adam. It
had been a long and entertaining day, and was concluding with an
energetic belly-dancing demonstration around a bonfire, accompanied by
throbbing drums. I turned to the stranger standing next to me and
commented on how exciting the event was. 

"Aw, this is nothin', man," he replied. "If you think this is exciting,
you shoulda' been here about five years ago. This crazy dude set his
head on fire!"

Submitted on 03/18/2004


    

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