A Bad Day For Bad Guys

The Kid In The Attic, my imaginary reader a hundred years from now, is going to love this news.

My reports come from two sources: The London Daily Mail newspaper, and WEJZ Radio’s Morning Show news.

The Mail regularly carries articles about thug attacks. Bands of roving gangs beat up innocent targets—retarded kids, old folks, the weak and alone. Such problems are not confined to London; I heard a report that this morning some citizen shot at a school bus right here in Jacksonville.

But anyhow, these thugs in London spotted two men dressed as women walking down the street. They rushed the supposed transvestites.

But it turned out that the two “ladies” were cage fighters on their way to some costume party.

The cage fighters did not take kindly to being attacked and called names.

Poor thugs.

They ended up in jail… after being released from the hospital.

Closer to home, a mother in Texas heard two men trying to break into her front door late at night. She armed herself as best she could, slipped out her back door, climbed a tree to get on top of her roof, and quietly walked across the rooftop to the front.

How did she arm herself?

As she had crept out of her dark house, she filled her son’s bicycle helmet with billiard balls.

Positioning herself above the thieves, she hurled billiard balls at their heads screaming like an avenging harpy.

Scared the crap out of ‘em.

They ran away hurting.

A policeman responding to her 911 call asked why she threw billiard balls?

“It was dark and I couldn’t find my crossbow,” she said.

****

Nothing like that going on in my own life. Wednesday Patricia, our youngest daughter, and Clint, her fiancé, drove up from downstate to met me and make wedding plans. At the moment, they are thinking of an outdoor ceremony at Treaty Oak, a beautiful and ancient Jacksonville landmark.

We drove over there and checked it out talking about chairs and restrooms and parking and hotels and football—all in the rosy haze of young love. “Why would we need restrooms? We’re in love”.

Old drudge Dad in the gray haze of aching feet kept things practical—the killjoy.

It was such fun to see them together. I’m happy for them.

Back home, Patricia fell asleep in the big chair while Clint and I got acquainted. Our talk ranged from faith, work, education, and the military, to murals, movies, baking cupcakes and the art of Salvador Dali.

I look forward to talking with him again.

****

Late news just came—my dear friend Lloyd Dixon Sr. finally died this afternoon, a week after being removed from life support...

Rest in peace, Bubba.

It was a bad day for good guys too.