Jassy Melson
02-12-2012, 01:24 PM
There is a chance, I suppose, that I will be finally caught. But odds are, they will never know who set the fire.
The idea first entered my mind on a Wednesday morning at 3:29 a.m. I awoke suddenly and sat up in bed, with the realization that I could do it. And that I should do it.
I had no grudges; this was not a personal thing. I simply saw in my mind what I knew would be a glorious spectacle.
It all came to me in a moment: How to do it, the best time to do it, and assuring that I would escape. So I set my plan into motion.
The Walden County Bridge was a landmark. It was one of the few covered wooden bridges with four lanes still remaining. It was a big bridge. The supports and the framework were very sturdy. Whoever had built the bridge had meant it to last. But there was just one thing about it: It was all made of wood--even the supports.
I figured that gasoline would be the best firestarter. I could douse the beams and the supports with gas, and that would give me enough time to get away.
The layout of the bridge and its location were perfect for my plan. Underneath the bridge was a small river and a town park. I could walk down to the riverside, remaining secluded and unseen by anyone, and then all I would have to do was douse part of the beams and framework. It would not flare or flame up immediately. The fire would take a goodly deal of time to get going. There were big bushes and shrubbery around the first big wooden support. The fire would slowly but surely eat at the support and beam before it would be seen. By the time it was noticed, the fire would have spread and would probably have eaten away most of the beam and support. Even if the fire was discovered early on, there would be a substantial flame. The sight would be glorious.
I knew that Walden County had ten or twelve fire stations, but they were ten or twelve miles apart. I knew that by the time all the fire departments reached the scene, there would be a substantial blaze.
I didn't presume to think that the bridge would be burned down. The fire would burn slowly, and the fire stations would be able to save most of the bridge. But it would be unusable. I regretted that in a way, but the overriding concern for me was the exultant fierce glorious sight that would be displayed.
I spent some time calculating how high the fire would actually reach before the fire departments got it under control. Fifty feet? A hundred? It was difficult to calculate. I knew only one thing. This was something that would be talked about for years--maybe even decades--to come.
So I set the plan into action.
I drove my car to the park, close down to the wooden beam and support. I could not be seen--unless someone deliberately chanced to come upon me.
I reached the massive wooden support and I flung the gasoline on it. I stooped down and struck a match and threw it at the beam. No luck. The match slid down into the water and fizzled out. I splashed some more gasoline onto the beam and struck another match. Paydirt! It immediately flared up, faster than I could have imagined.
I hurriedly grabbed the fuel can and headed back to my car. Out of the corner of my eye I checked the surroundings. No one was there.
I drove slowly out of the park, observing the speed limit. My heart was thudding like a big drum. I drove home, my knees weak, and stashed the fuel can, and then I went back to town to view the sight. I parked about three blocks away from the bridge.
It was beautiful. The flames had engulfed an entire support and beam. This was a real fire. Flames shot up in the smoky sky to a height of what I would estimate to be fifty feet. Fully a fourth of the bridge was on fire.
There were about a dozen firetrucks parked around the bridge, and they were doing a good job of containing the fire. I could tell they would have it put out soon. But as it roared up, engulfing a full quarter of the bridge, I stood mesmerized. Was anything in this world more lovely than a big fire? I didn't think so.
After I had watched the fire for awhile--and obtained somewhat of an erection--I got into my car and drove down to the park. It was closed off by firetrucks, so I parked just outside the entrance and walked toward the bridge.
"Hey Bubba," Steve McKeen, the Walden County firechief, hurriedly greeted me. I heyed back, and asked him: "What can I do to help?"
"This will get you some overtime anyway," Steve replied. "Not a nice way to interrupt your vacation. But what you could do is man one of the hoses up against that big main beam where the fire started. We need another body to hold the hose."
"Will do," I said.
It was so great. What a beautiful thing. To have set the fire, and then to help put it out. Could it get any better than this? I don't think so.
The idea first entered my mind on a Wednesday morning at 3:29 a.m. I awoke suddenly and sat up in bed, with the realization that I could do it. And that I should do it.
I had no grudges; this was not a personal thing. I simply saw in my mind what I knew would be a glorious spectacle.
It all came to me in a moment: How to do it, the best time to do it, and assuring that I would escape. So I set my plan into motion.
The Walden County Bridge was a landmark. It was one of the few covered wooden bridges with four lanes still remaining. It was a big bridge. The supports and the framework were very sturdy. Whoever had built the bridge had meant it to last. But there was just one thing about it: It was all made of wood--even the supports.
I figured that gasoline would be the best firestarter. I could douse the beams and the supports with gas, and that would give me enough time to get away.
The layout of the bridge and its location were perfect for my plan. Underneath the bridge was a small river and a town park. I could walk down to the riverside, remaining secluded and unseen by anyone, and then all I would have to do was douse part of the beams and framework. It would not flare or flame up immediately. The fire would take a goodly deal of time to get going. There were big bushes and shrubbery around the first big wooden support. The fire would slowly but surely eat at the support and beam before it would be seen. By the time it was noticed, the fire would have spread and would probably have eaten away most of the beam and support. Even if the fire was discovered early on, there would be a substantial flame. The sight would be glorious.
I knew that Walden County had ten or twelve fire stations, but they were ten or twelve miles apart. I knew that by the time all the fire departments reached the scene, there would be a substantial blaze.
I didn't presume to think that the bridge would be burned down. The fire would burn slowly, and the fire stations would be able to save most of the bridge. But it would be unusable. I regretted that in a way, but the overriding concern for me was the exultant fierce glorious sight that would be displayed.
I spent some time calculating how high the fire would actually reach before the fire departments got it under control. Fifty feet? A hundred? It was difficult to calculate. I knew only one thing. This was something that would be talked about for years--maybe even decades--to come.
So I set the plan into action.
I drove my car to the park, close down to the wooden beam and support. I could not be seen--unless someone deliberately chanced to come upon me.
I reached the massive wooden support and I flung the gasoline on it. I stooped down and struck a match and threw it at the beam. No luck. The match slid down into the water and fizzled out. I splashed some more gasoline onto the beam and struck another match. Paydirt! It immediately flared up, faster than I could have imagined.
I hurriedly grabbed the fuel can and headed back to my car. Out of the corner of my eye I checked the surroundings. No one was there.
I drove slowly out of the park, observing the speed limit. My heart was thudding like a big drum. I drove home, my knees weak, and stashed the fuel can, and then I went back to town to view the sight. I parked about three blocks away from the bridge.
It was beautiful. The flames had engulfed an entire support and beam. This was a real fire. Flames shot up in the smoky sky to a height of what I would estimate to be fifty feet. Fully a fourth of the bridge was on fire.
There were about a dozen firetrucks parked around the bridge, and they were doing a good job of containing the fire. I could tell they would have it put out soon. But as it roared up, engulfing a full quarter of the bridge, I stood mesmerized. Was anything in this world more lovely than a big fire? I didn't think so.
After I had watched the fire for awhile--and obtained somewhat of an erection--I got into my car and drove down to the park. It was closed off by firetrucks, so I parked just outside the entrance and walked toward the bridge.
"Hey Bubba," Steve McKeen, the Walden County firechief, hurriedly greeted me. I heyed back, and asked him: "What can I do to help?"
"This will get you some overtime anyway," Steve replied. "Not a nice way to interrupt your vacation. But what you could do is man one of the hoses up against that big main beam where the fire started. We need another body to hold the hose."
"Will do," I said.
It was so great. What a beautiful thing. To have set the fire, and then to help put it out. Could it get any better than this? I don't think so.