I rented a truck to drive over my neighbor. All of this because he’d taken a backhoe to my once beautiful lawn. I got the last truck the rental place had. It was a great lumbering beast. On the way home I stopped at a bar specializing in darts and arm wrestling and got blind drunk. Navigating the truck was difficult but I felt invincible.
I slammed into the curb in front of my house. My neighbor, Baxter, was watering his flowerbeds—the haughty prick.
Now was the time to do it. I gunned the accelerator and raced toward him. He dropped the hose and ran into his house. It took a few minutes to get the truck all turned around. They probably shouldn’t rent these things to everyday, non-truck driving people. I think I hit the house behind me but I was too drunk to tell. My body had gone numb. I was covered in an acrid sweat. I gunned the engine again and slammed into my neighbor’s house.
He looked out from the second-floor window. He had a shotgun. I guess Baxter had everything. A fantastic lawn. Gorgeous flowerbeds. Hi-tech weaponry.
I backed up and ran into the house again. I wanted to shake its foundations. He fired a shot and the windshield shattered. My heart skipped a beat. A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t quit. I couldn’t let this hobo win. I honked the horn. Laid on it. Loud and blaring.
He had probably called the cops but they wouldn’t respond to anything short of murder, kidnapping, or hostage situations. I backed up and rammed the house again. He fired another shot. Some of the buckshot peppered my right arm. Baxter—the violent fuck.
I pulled the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them. I opened the back of the truck, went into my house and, grabbing some essential items (knives, the television, a blowtorch, beer, and pornography), moved into the back of the truck.
I pulled the sliding door down and welded it shut. I watched TV and laughed as Baxter pounded on the door and fired his rifle at it, begging me to remove the truck from his once immaculate house.
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