There we were, waiting by the road, hands and arms full of rocks and lemons. The scout made his report: "He's coming!" As we waited eagerly for the red late 60's Plymouth to appear, the ammo was readied...there he is! Open fire!!! A volley of improvised projectiles immediately strike the car, which comes to a screeching halt, turns around, and tries to go after us and run us over, as per usual. Realizing he can't catch us, he yells out, "I'M GOING TO CUT YOUR NUTS OFF, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!!!!", as we chuckle, stashed away in the bushes like so many little teenage Viet Cong. Another day, another encounter with The Old Fag.
Among the characters in the neighborhood in my early teen years was The Old Fag. He stood out in a neighborhood full of assholes, miscreants, and weirdos. We called him that for no particular reason, but his name should have been "The Old Kid-Hater". He wasn’t your typical bully and apparently didn't like kids, and especially kids on bikes, as he routinely tried to run us down merely for being on the road. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and where he lived was a mystery for a while. Some of the parents complained to the cops, but nothing ever came of it.
The Old Fag, who evidently drove around town all day looking for a fight, went too far one day and tried to run over a couple of little girls, and the cops finally came to clean up the mess that was made after both The Old Fag and his aptly-named Plymouth FURY were put out of commission by relatives of the girls, who also happened to be a combination of ex-Marines and Mexican gangsters.
Several months later, we were riding around in another part of town when we saw a beat-up red late-60’s Plymouth Fury parked in front of a beaten-down house, parked next to one of those ridiculous-looking giant campers attached to the cab of a tiny little Jap truck. Was it The Old Fag? Some cursory surveillance indicated it was him, alright. We rode to one of our hangouts and started to hatch an attack plan. One of the dudes informed us that he knew where to get large quantities of toluene, which is, among other things, a powerful paint thinner. Light bulbs appeared over all of our heads. We knew exactly what we were going to do in the near future. Ammo was gathered.
A couple of days later, we struck. The first round was hurling bags of toluene at both of his vehicles; a bolder kid started pouring the toluene on the camper from the can. After that, and seeing no reaction, Phase 2 began: A furious fusillade of eggs, rocks, and lemons, which broke several windows. We hauled ass after that, laughing diabolically the whole time, especially as we weren’t being pursued. After regrouping, we actually were kind of concerned. Did we kill The Old Fag? Oh well.
We waited a day or so, and then asked someone to drive us by there, so we could see the damage. It was successful beyond our wildest imaginations!!! The lame camper in particular fared very poorly; huge spots of bare metal showed where the paint thinner had eaten it away. Anyway, some of the latest assholes around here remind me of The Old Fag. In dealing with these morons, words will have to suffice, although I long for the days of lemons, rocks, paint thinner, and BB guns!