SCA and the Darwin Awards (Redux)
Mar. 26th, 2004 11:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
patgund(Note: I posted this on the 23rd. What I didn't know at the time was there was a problem with the cut tag. Hopefully this has been fixed and you can all enjoy this choice bit of stupidity.)
This was posted on the Rialto (rec.org.sca)...... My Inner Chirurgeon is cringing badly right now....... Though, based on some of the comments this is getting on the chirurgeons lists, my fellow chirurgeons are being less than charitable about this fool........
----------------------------------------
http://www.darwinawards.com/slush/pending20040318-130559.html
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 embarassing 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
Submitted by: Jim G
Reference: Personal account, Spring 1992
This was posted on the Rialto (rec.org.sca)...... My Inner Chirurgeon is cringing badly right now....... Though, based on some of the comments this is getting on the chirurgeons lists, my fellow chirurgeons are being less than charitable about this fool........
----------------------------------------
http://www.darwinawards.com/slush/pending20040318-130559.html
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 embarassing 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
Submitted by: Jim G
Reference: Personal account, Spring 1992
