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fiction
Springtime was coming to the district, which meant the Statesbury boys were up to their usual tricks. They would put out bait laced with stolen medical supplies, only to retrieve the comatose squirrels at their leisure. They would then butcher the rodents, and fill their corpses with crude robotics cobbled together from cheap Taiwanese remote-control cars, to send lurching, spark-spitting cyborg zombie squirrels out to harass senior citizens in nearby parks. They tried to do the same to my cat, but after stuffing three of the spastic teens in sewer grates, they seemed to get the hint.
Their actions usually resulted in small explosions of plastic and burnt fur, and a massive coronary from some decrepit park-goer. From early April to June, you couldn't think for the continuous sirens of ambulances trying to revive the crusty elderly.
I would feel worse about this if it weren't for the fact that there was some odd, if not intentional, bundling of the worst of the crotchety old farts in the area by some sort of twisted community planner. The district did not have the kindly old folk who were visited on the weekend by smiling grandkids, eager for oatmeal raisin cookies.
No, we had racists from the turn of the previous century, senile dementia leaving them permanently confused as to why non-whites were being allowed to walk around during the day, unharmed. We had fossilized pedophiles, lusting impotently after the young children of the district, who taunted them mercilessly, staying out of range of their slow, poorly maintained electric wheelchairs. And we had the almost-made men of the dawn of time, balding, wrinkled, muttering in Italian of exploits that should have left them dead, riddled with bullets, if their stories had been even half true.
I would have left this far behind were it not for the explosive ankle bracelet that I had yet to disarm.
Their actions usually resulted in small explosions of plastic and burnt fur, and a massive coronary from some decrepit park-goer. From early April to June, you couldn't think for the continuous sirens of ambulances trying to revive the crusty elderly.
I would feel worse about this if it weren't for the fact that there was some odd, if not intentional, bundling of the worst of the crotchety old farts in the area by some sort of twisted community planner. The district did not have the kindly old folk who were visited on the weekend by smiling grandkids, eager for oatmeal raisin cookies.
No, we had racists from the turn of the previous century, senile dementia leaving them permanently confused as to why non-whites were being allowed to walk around during the day, unharmed. We had fossilized pedophiles, lusting impotently after the young children of the district, who taunted them mercilessly, staying out of range of their slow, poorly maintained electric wheelchairs. And we had the almost-made men of the dawn of time, balding, wrinkled, muttering in Italian of exploits that should have left them dead, riddled with bullets, if their stories had been even half true.
I would have left this far behind were it not for the explosive ankle bracelet that I had yet to disarm.
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But don't show him this; he can't read other's unrequested fiction.
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