Today I shopped until I, well someone got their ass dropped! If I haven't told ya. We're at a state of War. And the players don't give a fuck who's in the cross fire. My dilemma is if I saw or felt a weapon. I would've took his ass out! I checked! I'm thinking he thought I would be on an assisted walking device. Or he thought I'd be a snap. He was fucking buff and around 30 with short red hair and blue eyes that avoided mine like the plague. He didn't know fear. He does now. But seeing him feel it for what seemed to be fore the first time in his life. I was boo coo dinky dow though in a kinda of silent way. He was mock a hia ding ding.
Missioned, Patriot or Rogue, hmmm, fucking hurt, really bad. Really. The Silver Shadow with consulate U.K. H.R.M. plates. Now that fucks with even, me! The nearest one is in san francisco? Right handed driven, the chauffeur was straight from the fucking wax museum. Polished with a cap and fucking knickers. I was able to make him when the Rolls burned rubber from up the northeast side of my street and came to a semi screeching, stop. He exited and front walked to the leftrear passenger side door and opened it, stood tall. Prior to him exiting the vehicle I was beating the fuckers face in and he was pretty much out of it. I stopped plummeting, darn I mean pummeling him after he hit the bottom step and was just, in keeping him dazed. Nothing heavy until I finished my body cavity check. His fucking ass smelled british. And he wasn't packing. He did sprain his right leg. It did go up behind him in the fall. It didn't break. It sprung around as he turned into the fetal position facing east, me facing west.
Oh, max, the butler, I believe that's what his owner called him, did put his hands up into the, I'm not armed or weaponized pantomime, when the vehicle came to a sudden halt. I knew I was in big shit when mr. max's owner knocked on my door quietly and didn't use the door bell. The first step to stealth. Doorbells alert the whole house. A small knock gets only those in the immediate vicinity to alert, only. And then, it escalates. So, if a fucker comes to your door and the first knocks are quiet. The next will escalate, and then loudly before the grand finale. The doorbell.
Next signal. He's standing there dressed to kill in a full length black wool overcoat and suit with a blinding white shirt complete with silver silk tie. The fucker made Johnny Carson look like he dressed like a clown. His clothes were from a place none of U.S. can or ever will, afford. He weighed 160 period. My bags together. I have a 100 pounder (figuratively writing) and a 60. I pick them both up together when I'm sparring (fucker) silver shadow, hmmm, boxing. There are know co-ink-a-dinks! The victims chest was about a 42 incher. I can't guess metric, won't. Remember that billion dollar fo pa of nasa's metric to sae conundrum? He would've have hurt me had I not sized how he crunched the Jehovah Witness mag AWAKE towards his coat pocket and roughly, in! I use to know the other name of it, the flyer. He held it like a bandit across his face ear to ear when I opened the door to see only his eyes, and when he scrunched it up and forced it into his expensive pocket of the very expensive coat. He look down, and never looked up at me. I wasn't too far from self defense mode then, until he grabbed the storm door and was shocked to see it locked. I said, hey, I got it. Move your hand.
As I turned the knob I kicked the door with my right foot of which leveraged my step into throwing a left hook which nailed his ass down my steps as I jumped in sequence with him landing first on his back shoulders to the edge of the step, his head hitting just enough to daze him, and then head over heels to the fetal position completing the inertia with me wailing (please, remember the polar bears daddy) on his ass. I had to make sure his stun took. Whilst I checked his booty fore the piece. Back for straps to Waste, Groin, Belt , Chest and Ass up and down his leg because of his current lay of real-estate. The onslaught varies on his current cognizant disposition. Some need to be knocked the fuck out, twice. Back of the head with a solid fist does it every time, mostly. Without a club.
I'm sad because I didn't do what a teacher taught me to. I, could've been wrong and I wanted to hear what he'd say when he limped away after a bit of a craw. Belly slide first and then a knee fall forward with me pointing and shaking my head to max, no, no, no and then on to his knees 3 quarters of the way and tada. He stood up and lunged forward with a couple of hop, skips and a jump Wow, the jump was bungy like. Max, tipped his hat at me and helped his owner sit and be belted properly. Max then closed the door and walked the left rear passenger side completing a counter clockwise circle. What a fine fucking vehicle. I admit. It made me feel I'd be justified if I just did them both and buried them in the front yard as a memorial, properly of coarse with dedication notoriety and everything deterrent, and keep the vehicle as booty! The coat wouldn't have fit. That was the deal breaker and he dirtied it with his stenchy red shit oozing from his face.
That fucking license plate. Wasn't from around these parts! I then went and retrieved my slipper from across the street in my neighbors driveway that I shoved up his gut. Cheereo, lowers your cholesterol. Say's so on the box. Oh, max sped and didn't even stop as do the bike riders here in the northwest that get run over and killed every fucking week. No-one came but my neighbor had a good sized group of crony friends start coming over. Some in fatigues and others, community oriented comrades!
I remember it now, The WatchTower. That's it! I was thinking he'd say fuck you YANK, I was bringing your winnings from a lottery you won where someone bought a the ticket, in your name! Right, Rooster Fucking Woodstock brought a lottery ticket in fucking eur-rope! In Rooster's name. Yeah! I punched a ticket. Not in my name. Not in your life. Damn, I'm stacking up these reports now aren't I. One of these days I'll call or deliver them, personally. I think I'll do that next time. Just, fore clarity. Drag the mother fucker to the local precinct. Not the fed's. They would've let the bitch go. Diplomatic immunity! He'd at least make the night. But I'd do'em a more thoroughly in a package.
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