Slingshots & Pig Iron
My friend Walt and I were making great strides in the field of slingshot technology. I was convinced that my latest creation represented the pinnacle of human ingenuity—a rubber band affixed to a Y-shaped branch, carefully harvested from a birch tree. My preferred ammunition? Paperclips, painstakingly scrounged from drawers, cigar boxes, and the odd canning jar that had been collecting dust since the Great Depression.
Satisfied with my weapon’s precision engineering, I set off for Walt’s house to demonstrate its deadly efficiency. About halfway there, I spotted Walt hunched over near the railroad tracks, scouring the ground as if panning for gold.
“What’re you looking for?” I asked.
“Pig iron,” he replied, not bothering to look up.
Now, as far as I knew, pigs were made of bacon, not iron, so I pressed for clarification. Walt, always the weapons expert, explained it was the best slingshot ammunition in the known universe. Pig iron pellets were small, heavy spheres that occasionally tumbled from open-topped railroad cars on their way back from the steel mills. These little treasures could be found near the only remaining active coal tipple in the vicinity of Shaw Mines.
“How do you know these things?” I asked, thoroughly impressed by his vast knowledge of industrial waste. Walt simply shrugged, the way geniuses often do when burdened with the weight of their own brilliance.
Walt had loaded his now sagging front pockets with these large-caliber projectiles. Next, he pulled out his slingshot. And that’s when I realized I had made a terrible miscalculation.
Walt’s invention was less a “slingshot” and more of a medieval siege weapon. The frame was expertly crafted from a solid block of white oak, a piece so thick that it could have stopped a Civil War musket ball. The rubber band? Not some flimsy office supply like mine, but a serious chunk of tire tubing, undoubtedly salvaged from one of his father’s old automobile tires. My humble slingshot suddenly seemed about as effective as throwing marshmallows at a brick wall.
Still, I wasn’t about to back down. We set up tin cans for target practice. I let fly a carefully aimed paperclip, which, upon impact scarcely moved the can. Walt, on the other hand, took his stance, pulled back his industrial-strength rubber tubing, and let loose a pig iron pellet.
His can catapulted to the ground pierced with a hole that rendered it topless. I hung my head in obvious defeat and pledged to increase my defense budget to stay in this race for armament superiority. Once again, Walt had proven himself the superior arms specialist. But I took solace in one important fact: there would always be a next time. Whether it was slingshots, bows, or some yet-to-be-discovered form of backyard artillery, the arms race would continue. And next time, I would be ready.
© 2025 Clyde F. Housel. All rights reserved.
