Encumbered by bacon, our heroine presses on

I hate that fat little bastard that lives next door, the loud-mouthed one that's made of Velveeta, Cool-Whip, Coca Cola, and gasoline. I hate lookin' at his t-shirt, stretched tightly across his boy teats, stained with Nestle Quik powder, and the way he's hollering every time I come out of the house, disturbing the quiet in my forest. And that little bastard has a mouth on him too. One time I walked outside to enjoy a smoke, and heard him tell that Mexican boy from down the street, "Give it back to me you fucking faggot!" I wanted to punch him in his Kool-Aid mustache. I thought about shooting him, not mortally, just a .22 in his cushiony ass when I caught him on his four-wheeler, chasing rabbits around the brush pile in my backyard, but worried about lawsuits and medical bills.


Last week, I was sitting on the front steps watching blue jays fight squirrels, soaking up twilight, when I saw the little shit coming down his long driveway on a pocket motorcycle. A fat man ran behind him, shouting instructions about the bike controls. As the brat turned onto the county road, he picked up speed. He turned back, red-faced, hollering, "I don't know how to stop this thing! Please help me!" No one gave chase, and he kept accelerating, until the climbing sound of the engine drowned out his screams, and he disappeared into the dark evening forest. Eventually, even the whine of the cycle disappeared, and peace was restored. I sat outside for another thirty minutes, waiting to see if his parents would rush to his aid, but no one did. I haven't seen the boy since. I like to think that he is still accelerating through the forests, never to return.