Clem Gummer stood on the porch of his house, gazing with distaste at the brand-new condo’s bordering his land, “Sum bitches!’ he screamed in frustrated rage at what he viewed as an inconceivable eyesore ruining his view. How could they ruin this view? Besides the three rusting cars up on blocks, surrounded by three foot tall unmowed grass, it was priceless.
He had stormed into the realty company selling the five acre subdivided lots, and shouted “Alright, who’s the sum bitch I talk to about y’all selling the Peters place?” A thirty-something man who looked hardly old enough to have stopped suckling like a greedy little bastard at his mamma’s engorged milk machines, approached and said,
“Can I help you?” with skepticism and a bit of contempt that he was trying not to let show to the Backwoods Bob standing before him.
“You bet yer bottom land you can, I demand that yawl stop trying to sell the Peters place.”
“That’s progress, Mr…?’
“Mister Boot Up Your Ass if you insist on going ahead with yer plans; I definitely don’t approve, and I’ll show you progress, progressing with my plan to beat your ass like Aunt Trudy’s outhouse rug if yawl perseed!”
“Now, there’s no need for threats, Mr. Boot,” he replied, open hostility etched on his face.
“I’m beggen to differ, M.,…”
“Smythe, Benedict Smythe.”
“Well, Mr. Benedict Smythe, I think there’s every reason to threaten you; and it ain’t no threat. I WILL beat your ass and ransack your office if you keep on sellen!”
“Boot, you can’t stop progress, and if you try, you’ll get steamrolled, and if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police,” shouted an enraged Benedict Smythe.
The last thing Clem needed was for the police to come sniffing around him or his place. Granted, the thirty acres of marijuana he’d planted was purely for medicinal use, but he couldn’t expect the cops to believe that, so he meekly replied, “Alright, no need to get your skivvies tangled with your ass, I’ll go, but remember what I said, y’awl better stop selling, or they’ll be Hell to pay!”
Later that day, after returning home, Clem was still seething at the sight of the new condo’s going up where before there were only trees. “Sum bitches!” he screamed to the sky. He wasn’t going to put up with this. He’d already warned Smythe, but he didn’t expect the realty company to heed his warning. Besides, the fricking monstrosity was already almost finished. Well, he’d show his displeasure come sundown with a light show to end all light shows!
He’d purchased some bottle rockets to fire at the new construction. He knew it wouldn’t do anything, but it would make him feel better to be showing his displeasure. He was on the opposite side of the new clearing so the bottle rockets wouldn’t be coming from his place. He may be angry, but he wasn’t stupid.
He lit off the first rocket, protruding from a beer bottle he’s first finished drinking, and watched with a satisfied grin as it arced towards it’s target. “Take that, sum bitches!” he thought to himself, “Take that, Mr. Benedict fricking Smythe!” It suddenly dawned on Clem that the bottle rocket was arcing well beyond it’s intended target, and was headed for his place. Oh well, one bottle rocket wouldn’t do much. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through as well as he’d thought. He decided to forget it.
As he trudged his way homeward, he noticed a strange glow flickering through the trees in front of his place. “Sum bitch!” he shouted and broke into a run. When he burst through the trees he saw his burning crop of medicinal marijuana lighting up his four-door Plymouth and his mobile home. “Sum bitch, stop burning, you sums a bitches!” he screamed. Just then, he heard wailing sirens in the distance, getting closer by the second. With a frightened glance at the drug-fueled conflagration, he knew he was going to prison!
© 2020, MikeS. All rights reserved.
- What can I say other than I know, and I'm currently in therapy