Friendly Woundings

It was one of those frigid cold mornings after a big storm where the sun was up but giving off no heat.
Lardass came through the door accompanied by the usual aroma of stink. He was in a growling fettle. "The battery on the loader is dead as a doornail!" he steamed disgustedly as he threw his dirty orange workgloves down on the floor and stood very close to the franklin stove with his hands spead out to receive the warmth of the coals. He noticed the box of stale bagels and jammed one into his red gummed maw.

Lefty, who had been scrutinizing one of George's old crossword puzzle looking for mistakes, remarked:
"Hah, misuse of the term!"
"Ma a fah you tahin ahout?" Lardass inquired chewingly.
"Dead as a doornail. It doesn't mean dead as in 'bereft of life' or 'inoperative."
We all looked at him.
" Dead as in 'unerringly accurate' . That's where the term comes from. Meaning flush, because a doornail cannot stick out."
"Oh. Well fucking shoot me." Lardass laughed.
Sometimes Lefty could take precision in language too far sometimes. He cocked his thumb and pointed his index finger at LA's enormous gut. Mouthing the word bang.

I quietly googled the phrase Dead as a Doornail. Just once, I wanted to catch Lefty in an error. The word Dead has 21 definitions. Lefty would be technically correct if LA was using this particular simile in an incorrect sense. But no. The general agreement of the meaning of this idiom has to do with the fact that pre-industrial nails were costly, and were often re-used. The doornails were bent or crimped and could not be re-used. So the term means useless. Just like the battery on the Loader.

I was about to announce my findings, when the office door burst open. Bill came charging through the doorway, yelling, "Quick where is the first aid kit!" George was right behind him, holding a bloody bandana to his head. There were bright red bloodstains on his orange worksuit. He was obviously in pain, but said nothing.
"What happened?" I shouted as I pulled the first aid kit out of the file cabinet.
"Bill shot me." George said, dabbing his cheek.
"Accident" said Bill. "I was shooting at birds." Bill often went out to the north forty with his .28 guage looking for wild turkeys. "George got in the line of fire."
"I was shooting at a flock of those Canadian Geese that slime up the place."
"Canada Geese," corrected George.
"Who the fuck cares. Maybe I should have aimed lower."

Crap. Now I would have a ream of paperwork to do. Accident reports, insurance docs, news reporters, interviews. After we got him cleaned-up it looked like only a few pellets had broken the skin. I picked one pellet out of his cheek and another form his hand with a tweezers.
As I wound the bandage around the wound in his hand, the word Homograph popped into my head.
"Ok guys, let's keep a lid on this. OK? Hot Krispy Kremes tomorrow."
The last thing I need is more negative publicity here at the dump."