Who's on First?

Three years ago I came to, as if from an alcoholic blackout, to find myself standing in my yard with a flashlight and 12-gauge riot-gun. My adrenaline was up and pumping like a shot of cheap crystal, and the finger on the trigger was trembling in anticipation. Something had made a loud noise near the garage that housed my Harley-Davidson, and I was going to kill it. "It" may have been the greasy thief of my nightmares, a stray cat on the prowl, or a neighbor's child searching for a lost ball, but I was ready to shoot first, ask questions later, and pay for it the rest of my life.