Fall heralded Allen Summerall's favorite time of year even more so than Christmas.  He would be waiting, waiting, waiting in his favorite blind in the thick brush of Iron City with his huge hunting rifle ready to kill and mount the majestic head and crown of antlers of King Edward as the huge buck was nicknamed.  He heard a rumbling in the brush.

     "Stick 'em up!"  

     A deep baritone with more menace than all the charging bulls of Pamplona, he turned and there was King Edward himself poised Sphinx-like with a big hunting gun between his hooves.

     "Drop that pop gun!" he ordered.

     "Sure-sure," he stuttered, "You-you monster."

     "Call me Mr. Ed," the huge animal said, "Now beat it!"

     Al Summerall beat it out of the thick brush like Bambi himself and never looked back.