Get Off My Lawn!

There’s two dumb punks reeling in pain on my floor, blood soaking through their clothing. They’ll live. Another one is running away with a baseball bat, which now has a dent in it. My door’s broken; they kicked it in. My ears are ringing. It smells like metal and dirt in here, pungent and peppery, with a touch of charcoal. Mrs. O’Shea is now on her porch, wondering what all the fuss is about.

A few months ago I finally took heed of my daughter’s pleas and bought me one of them cellular phones. I got one of them new ones right when the rest of the kids on the block did, so my number is close to those of a few of the local teenagers. It annoys the ever-loving tarnation out of me because I keep getting all their text messages. Gets my goat to no end. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, though—I got one tonight at about ten-thirty:

ok lets go to old man winklesons house at 1215 bring a baseball bat. were gonna break in n steal stuff n sell it.

I don’t keep my granddad’s old gun around the house for nothin’.

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