Ghetto-Gangster Ass Whoop Time

Nothing but the tracks of his failed attempt at lowliness remain...

I am sitting at the computer enjoying a few last minute laughs with friends over the internet before heading out to work. The slacks that I just finished ironing are still warm on to the legs, a sharp contrast to the cold surge I felt on the back of my neck which made tiny hairs prickle.

I stare back at the backyard door and fixed my gaze on its closed window blinds which some inner gut sense beckoned for me to immediately go and look out of. I thought of all the recent robberies which have been occurring and of the poor girl who a few days ago walked in on a burglar half way through her window and was almost the victim of theft or worst yet, a violent crime.

Lo and behold, I look out and I see some lowlife scum creeping, like the snake he is, down my wooden post and on to my yard.

I do not know how to explain the surge of adrenaline and outrage that came over me at the idea of someone just having crossed the line and having entered my territory and I was instantly sure that I was about to defend it tooth and nail with the most primal of impulses. Scientist call it the Fright or Flight. For our purposes, let's call it gangster ghetto ass whooping time the day.

I ran, grabbed my hunting buck knife and clipped it to the back of my belt and then equipped myself with the 4 ½ foot iron bar I use for exercising at home. I quietly removed the chain lock off the door, quietly unlocked, opened it and was disappointed in consequential noise that followed alerting the idiot that he was not alone to his own devices.

He dashed and I after him. He was a grimy stout man of Hispanic decent with a back I would later judge too wide for his stature and surprising agility. He wore clothes that looked unkempt and required washing and a fitted black or blue baseball hat, black boots and gloves.

As he worked his way up that wooden pole with the dexterity akin to that of a wild animal, I in all of my adrenaline ridden own animalistic glory somehow swung that 30-40lbs iron bar across the wide of his back, which created a popping cracking sound and made him yelp loudly in pain and lose footing.

By the time I was able to regain momentum and swing again He was nearly over my fence but I nonetheless got him one last time on the shoulder which ricocheted hard unto his moral less head causing him to fall hard on the opposite side.

It all happened so fast! I was shaking! Still cursing and saying words I would try and later attempt to recall but not be able to remember.

I called the cops who arrived thirty minutes later. As a few days ago, their demeanor was one of absolute uncaring and seemed bothered to have been called again. They recommended that I "next time" go and file a report at the precinct rather than waste their time when "no crime had yet been committed" and no trespasser was present.

WTF! Really? What a way to put my tax dollars to work! The fat one in the driver's seat reeked of cigarettes and had several large rolls of fat on his mid section representative of all the doughnuts his long life, chasing sugary confections and coffee, had seen.

They however alerted the local hospitals in the event that an individual fitting my description should go in with injuries to the back, ribs or head.

Unfortunately, I never received a call back from them but I guarantee that if the thief is not curdled up dead by a garbage can due to a concussion he is surly dealing with broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung which might attribute the popping sound I heard when I first struck him, a whole new respect for my property line, and hopefully considering a new career path.