So I was just driving down the road minding my own business when I heard a loud thump on the side of my truck. "What the hell??" I said out loud to myself.
Thinking somebody's kid was trying to make a break for it across the street at the last second and had run head first into my truck (which is not unusual for the region I've had the unfortunate experience of living in for far too long and being surrounded by an overabundance of asshat locals), I immediately hit the brakes and hop out to inspect the damage.
But there was only a few kids standing around at the nearby street corner waiting for their school bus to pick them up. The little ones appeared to be aged 8 to 12 and gazed at the tallest one in their group, and there he was, the skinny 6'5" adolescent who looked guilty and was obviously their leader.
"Did you just hit my truck with something?" I asked him.
"Yeah." He steps up to the curb reluctantly, but trying to appear as if he thinks he's a bad ass with no fear. Granted for a 15-16 year old kid he was pretty big. He was a good 5 inches taller, 30-40 pounds heavier, and long monkey-like arm reach in comparison to mine.
"What did you hit my truck with?" I asked.
"A snowball," he says casually from underneath his filthy white hoodie.
Looking around I didn't see much snow as what little of it has fallen this year had melted away. He was undeniably trying to get a rise out of me.
I turned back to him and coldly asked, "And why did you do that?"
He gives me a blank stare. He didn't expect me to say that. I'm clearly not intimidated by him so he doesn't know what to make of me yet. I was a little curious what he had to say about his actions, and I knew full well what his intentions were. But he was going to play this game by my rules.
"Did you think it was..funny?"
"Yeeeeeaaah...I tot it was funny. Huh huh dahr," he says in typical Northeastern dunce speak.
"Well it's not. Don't do it again or I'll rip your testicles off and feed them to you for breakfast. It ought to be a pleasant change of pace from the usual sewage you've been eating since you couldn't pass the 4th grade and flunked the NBA test, so now your mom has to support you by giving $5 handjobs at the community center, chicken legs."
The typical reactionary response was a bunch of "f@x# you"s and "suck my dx%*, man," and God knows what else this poster boy for fetal alcohol syndrome somehow managed to think of in between his stuttering and spitting all over himself as I tuned him out.
"Oh, I see you've learned most of your vocabulary from your 8 year-old peers you've been hanging out with at the school bus stop this morning," I retort. "I'm sure your whore of a mother is proud."
A vein visibly popped out on his forehead and he yelled, "Man, I'mma fire up your truck every time you drive down this street, muthaf@#%&*!"
What transpired at this point was so unfathomably awesome you'll wish you were me.
"What's that you say, you sack of bumbling lummox?" I said.
I removed a nickel plated semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol with custom pearl grips from under my coat and proceeded to shoot up the sidewalk around his feet six ways to Sunday, as I shouted at the top of my lungs, "Dance, monkey, dance!"
|Just like the one that was carried and fired|
by John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, baby.
And boy did that monkey dance.
He did the Humpty Hump, he did the funky chicken, he did a tango, I made his ass do the moonwalk, and I'll be damned if he didn't do the Hammer Time. I helped him invent new ones while he was at it. This street thug changed his tune alright.
Sparking concrete and ricocheting bullets aside, by the time I emptied all 15 rounds of my clip into the pavement he had mastered every dance step known to mankind -- never to be duplicated again. Not even on Dancing With The Stars.
I was just getting ready to reload when the chump pumped his feet lickety split and did 0-60 in a New York minute and he disappeared from sight leaving a trail of tears, sweat and urine.
And dammit, if the measly 15 rounds a .45 clip can hold is nothing but a tease to someone who's just getting warmed up and really into it, then I think I'll have to buy a bigger gun for next time.
As far as his encore is concerned: any requests? Oh, yeah. I do requests now.