There is one fact that is un-arguable in this world, and that is that Warmheart is a man of passion. In today's story, Warmheart sets out to prove that not only is he the best of friends, but he is also the most incredible neighbor - and proud father - that you'll ever possibly meet. Be prepared to weep tears of joy.
There is nothing like new neighbors to add warmth and charm to a neighborhood, isn’t there? I sometimes think that the knowledge that these people are really strangers in a strange land makes them kind of vulnerable. It makes me want to extend a firm hand of friendship to them, along with a welcoming voice and a neighborly smile. It’s because that’s the kind of sensitive, considerate guy I am. In fact, I consider myself a very nice guy, really. So why is it that I’m sitting here with my son, planning the horrible slaughter of every person in my new next door neighbor’s family? Well, before you go judging me, hear my side of the story, then, indeed you will wish you could join me in my quest.
About a month ago, both sets of next-door-neighbors moved out. Having been good friends with both families, I was sorry to see them go. Who would move in? Who would our new neighbors be? I pictured friendly happy-go-lucky people like the departing families. In once case that was almost true, but in the first case, the new neighbors to our left, it was about as wrong a picture as anyone has ever had.
The car came belching down the street, loud and obnoxious. I could hear them from the back room. I got up to go have a peek as they pulled into the driveway.
Staring out the window in dumbfounded horror, I hoped against all dim hope that they were just some people who had gone to the wrong house. Or maybe it wasn’t the new people, but other horrible people who had just come to visit before anyone had moved in. I was pleading for something, anything other than what turned out to be reality: these were the new neighbors.
The car door opened up. A little cocker spaniel jumped out and made its way to our lawn where it immediately set about taking a dump. It then stood proudly in front of its creation and started merrily digging up my recently planted lawn in a feeble and ridiculous attempt at covering it up.
Without a thought, I went to my closet and pulled out my loaded .357 rifle and started making towards the front door. Only the quick action of my wife saved that dog from all being turned into fertilizer then and there. She took the rifle from me and made me promise to wait before acting. I did.
Back at the car, a couple had now stepped out and were stretching their limbs and looking around their new home. As welcoming and warm hearted as I am, I realized that I hated them. It didn’t take a few minutes, it took mere seconds. But bear with me, you would hate them too. The man was one of those types that you just knew had been beat up frequently as a child and for very good reason. He had a spiteful, know-it-all, better-than-thou continence that made even the gentlest person’s (i.e. me) thoughts turn to instant mayhem. You won’t believe this, but he was wearing those checked flairs that dorks wore in the early 1970s and a turtle neck sweater and had black rimmed glasses that were bent to one side. Where he had found these articles of clothing is beyond me. His wife was straight out of a Far Side cartoon with the glasses and everything. She was looking at her husband for approval or something. You could tell right away everything you needed to know about this couple. The man was the “smart” one and constantly berated his poor wife into thinking she was a dummy.
I stepped out the door, mouth agape. I didn’t want to meet these bastards, but just wanted to get a closer look at them. I walked across to their driveway and stood there staring.
The jerk must have thought I wanted to introduce myself and stepped forward and said his name, as if he’d practiced it a thousand times into a tape recorder.
“Dean Jeeter”, he said, holding out his hand. My mouth still hanging open, I shook my head, hoping to come out of the spell of wonder I was in. Then I put my hand into his.
“Warmheart”, I said.
“Warmheart?!”, he laughed. “Hey Gladys get this. This guy’s name is Warmheart. So, Mr. Warmheart, what’s your first name?”
I was now dumfoundedly watching their dog who had run across the street and was furiously chasing our neighbor’s cat. The cat did a quick feint towards the street and then was over the backyard gate in seconds. I haven’t seen him since. The dog then started scratching at the neighbor’s lawn.
“I say, what’s your first name?”, Dean Jeeter repeated in his sarcastic manner.
“Huh? Oh, Warmheart. That’s my name. Warmheart.” Deep in my mind was the burning question, ‘are these people really moving next door to me?’
He laughed and I knew inside that his tittery laugh was the kind that didn’t say “I think something’s funny”. No, Dean Jeeter’s laugh said “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His was a laugh of superiority, a well practiced laugh that must have made anybody who has ever heard it want to knock his teeth down his tittering throat. I can’t seem to come up with the right words to describe Dean Jeeter’s laugh. It wasn’t just unlikable. It didn’t just make you uncomfortable. No, there must be better words. His laugh immediately brought to mind everybody you’ve ever despised in your life. When he laughed, he made Dr. Smith from Lost in Space seem like a likable and jovial fellow.
And then, as if his laugh wasn’t enough, he was the type of lousy stinking bastard that grabbed your fingers when shaking hands. It’s a cheap trick that only the lowest, most cowardly, conniving son of a bitch plays. It hurts and it’s cheap. It made me recover from my reverie and turned my attention from that dog that probably did not have long to live, to him. I focused narrowly.
”Yep. Warmheart.
That’s it, just Warmheart. Listen,
Dean Jeeter, I can be either a great neighbor to you, or the worst enemy
you’ve ever even considered having and I’m sure you’ve had your share of
sincere enemies so you know what I’m talking about.
I’m called Warmheart because I’m a serious, sensitive person.
But if you ever grip my fingers like that again, or if I ever see your
dog dig up my new lawn, I will lay in wait for you.
I will call a special squad of people together to make plans.”
I started back towards my house before trouble started.
He was non-plussed for a moment. The only non-plussed moment I ever saw him experience.
“Plans?! What kind of plans? I demand an answer, Warmheart, if that’s what your name really is.”
I stopped, my back to Dean Jeeter. Without turning I said “The kind of plans that were made before assailants, unknown to this day, took the side of John Kennedy’s head off.
“How did it go, dear?” asked my wife when I came through the door.
“Where are my bear traps?” was all I said.
The next morning I was merrily setting up bear traps in my front yard and, as is my warmhearted wont, was making them plainly visible so that there would be no doubt about my action. Dean Jeeter came out of his house and I could immediately sense his Annoyance Ray eyes burning into the back of my neck.
“What the hell are you doing?” his voice entered my body around my neck and left an exit wound at the bottom of my left foot.
“Oh, hello Jeeter”, I somehow cheerfully responded. “Gee, you know what? I’ve been finding dog crap on my lawn. I figured if I was going to find out what dog was doing this, maybe I should oughta trap them so that I could give them a good talking to. You know, I’m playing the good neighbor bit.”
It apparently did not occur to him that it was his dog I was trying to maul. He started in on the brand of bear trap I use.
“You’re using Blackon 500s for a dog?” he laughed.
“Yep. You know, until now I had doubted your ability to observe anything. But you’re right. These are Blackon 500s”
He was unruffled. “Nice little toys, but I don’t know how seriously people will take them.”
I remained cheerful despite a very loud and protesting voice in my mind; a voice calling, nay crying, for the immediate death of Dean Jeeter. “Oh yeah. They’re small. But although I appreciate your conveying disappointment in my choice, surely with the hopes that you could ‘set me straight’ on what traps to use, the truth is that it is not people I’m concerned with impressing here, Jeeter. It’s a dog. And when that dog goes walking on to my lawn to take another stinking dump, I think he’ll be very impressed with the steel teeth on these ‘toys’.” I turned to face him.
However, let’s say that I wanted to trap you. Just for example, of course. I’d haul out my Jack Bronsons. Those babies carry a 500 pound spring tension. The only problem with them is that they would snap through your shinbones and maybe even rip them from your body. You’d then unfortunately be able to crawl to get help. Still, it would be fun.
I’ve often since wondered if he noticed that I was placing these traps on the side of the lawn that faced his property. He never seemed to understand that it was his dog that these ‘toys’ were designed for.
Apparently it wasn’t only me that he was aggravating. The next day the Italian neighbor from across the street, Carlo Paisano, was knocking at my door.
“My dear Warmheart”, he began in his soft Godfather style voice, “all the neighbors are having a meeting at my house this afternoon. I want you should be there.”
“What’s up, Carlo?”
He continued in his even voice. “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. If Dean Jeeter remains alive by the end of this week, there will be serious consequences, my friend. It’s by the slimmest thread that he lives at this very moment. It is my wish that he sleeps with the fishes.”
”You too?”
“Yes, me too. Just today, he was watching my little girl play on her slide and ridiculed the brand of underwear we buy her.” Carlo’s face went a deep burgundy red. No longer ice cool, I thought his mustache was going to catch on fire, but I didn’t blame him either. He went on after shrugging. “I had this burning desire to see what the tendons in his neck would like like….after I ripped off his fucking head. I also told him that it would be extremely unfortunate should his dog set one paw on his lawn again. Not only that, Warmheart, I also told him that I am a very suspicious man. Should any dog crap on my lawn, I am going to be forced to assume that it was his dog. Then, unfortunate incidents would occur. Legs would be broken. And I don’t mean dog legs, Warmheart.” His voice rose in pitch. “I mean HIS LEGS!”
“Name the time and I’ll be there, my sincere Italian friend.”
Later
that afternoon, we met. There
was Adrene and Urine Holler, recently moved in from the Ozarks and splendidly
done out in overalls with no shirts beneath (and didn’t Adrene look sexy),
there was Carlo Paisano, there was Dick Grabber and his wife Booby, as well as
me and my son. Unfortunately Al and
Soprano Capella, two singers from
“I’ve invited my son, Tenderheart”, I said by way of introduction. “He was of great assistance in assistance in helping me track down some midgets a while back. Now what seems to be the problem folks?”
“Well carnsarnit”, drawled Urine, “Ah’m about as teed off as a five hundred pound hog with only a chicken for a girlfriend. That new sumbitch Deek Jeeter done fried my eggs and ah ain’t yankin on yore teets. I hitched up my haywagon and rode awn over to say hey an all he could think a sayin was that ah should oughta git some shews fer mah kids feet!”
There was a hubbub of growling voices as we took this in. Everyone loved the Hollers and we all felt that the way they tore down the house they bought and built a little one room mountain shack added color and uniqueness to our neighborhood. But I still wanted to find a peaceful solution. “Remember my good neighbor credo, folks. Let us be sure of our feelings before we turn to burning and mayhem.”
The burly Dick Grabber rose to speak. “Damn it Warmheart, your credo was fine until now. I’m goddammed pissed off too, Urine. I took out my bike for a spin this very morning. He was standing there as if he was waiting for me. He said ‘that’s a nice little toy you got there”. That alone was nearly enough to cause me to put him in a body bag, but then he had the gall to ask me if ‘this baby torques out at 5K at 50 mph.’ Now because of my respect for Warmheart’s Credo, I let him live this time. But I gotta tell ya if that son of a bitch makes one more comment about my bike, I’m gonna lay some tread marks on his face.”
Carlo Paisano cleared his throat. “I think Warmheart’s Credo is due for a little, shall I say, revisioning.” There were murmurings of agreement. But just as I was about to respond, a loud rumble was heard coming from outside. We all walked out to see what was going on.
A car pulled around the corner, with music blasting out of it that could be heard three states away. The car, with a U-Haul trailer attached, pulled up into the driveway next to mine, on the other side of my house from the Jeeters. The other new neighbors.
Out jumped an overly lively couple. They were wearing tennis outfits and the woman actually had a sweater tied around her shoulders. They saw as standing there gawking and waved. The woman yelled “Did you hear that music? That was Michael Bolton! I hope you’re all fans, because you’re going to hear a lot of him!”.
They were the very stereotypical yuppie pukes that we’ve all, each and every one of us, has yearned to torture and slaughter with no thought for their families or loved ones. They immediately started unloading the trailer and the first thing we saw was a monster stereo system.
We all walked back inside.
“What about your credo now, Warmheart?”, asked Carlo Paisano.
I looked around the room. The faces were slightly accusing, as if I actually wanted these new neighbors to live in peace and harmony. I knew that I had to act, and act fast.
“My credo? Take a second look at it, good neighbors.”
Until now, our neighborhood had got along quite well under the jurisdiction of “Warmheart’s Credo”. A signed copy of this testament for good living was proudly displayed in each house of the neighborhood. But now, as these people met to discuss the unspeakable horrors that they faced with our two new sets of neighbors, they questioned its content.
“What about your credo now, Warmheart”, Carlo Paisano had asked upon hearing the strains of Michael Bolton issuing from our new neighbors’ car.
I realized at that moment that some people had, perhaps, not read its entire contents. Oh sure, they all knew of the declaration that –as a show of good neighborliness – they were to allow me to eat at their house and sleep with their daughters at any time. And sure they knew that all problems or squabbles would be worked out with me in charge of the proceedings. But had they read the fine print? Perhaps not.
“The credo, if you will look closely at the small print at the bottom, states – and I quote – ‘Thou shalt not play rap music or any recordings of John Tesh, Michael Bolton, Kenny G or any arrangements ever made of Tie A Yellow Ribbon Around the Old Oak Tree”.
As I spoke, the unmistakable and mind shattering sounds of Kenny G’s soprano saxophone issued into our horrified ears. Many of our group fell to the floor, writhing in agony, holding their ears and shouting for someone to stop the madness. I alone had the strength and will to act. I walked out of the door and started across the street. Sure enough the nauseating music was coming from the house the Yuppies were in the process of moving into. Apparently it was their prime intention to get everyone to despise them right away because they had not been moving in long, but the stereo was already set up and blaring.
The couple was inside as I walked up. The woman was giving her husband a hard time about being careful with some “box of precious trinkets”. When I walked into their house, she shouted “Hi!!! You must be one of our new neighbors. I’m Muffy and this is my husband Adam.” While her demeanor brought sickening images of the phony-assed people that populate infomercials, I ignored her. I had to remain conscious at least until the deed was done. Where was the damn stereo? There it was. I walked over to it, ejected the CD and broke it into pieces. Then I walked back out and across the street. The only thing I heard was Adam voice trailing away, saying “heyyy”.
Back at Carlo’s house, after I told of my heroic action, I was cheered roundly. When I told them that the woman’s name was actually Muffy, two people fainted. But now that I was, once again, looked up to and admired by my neighbors, I knew that I was in position to lead them in this new battle.
With
the confidence of spirit that George Washington must have felt when he mustered
his troops to cross the frozen
“Friends.
Neighbors. Throughout the
history of mankind, there have been dark and uncertain times when tough
decisions must be made. Sometimes
these decisions are not easy ones to make. When
Eisenhower decided to invade the Germans at
The people around me looked at each other nodding their heads in silent agreement with my words of wisdom. I had them in the palm of my hands. At that moment, the gardener who had been working out back walked into the house wondering what was going on. I continued my voice harder now.
“And now, we have here - in our very own neighborhood - two enemies that make Hitler as well as Harris and Klebold’s classmates look like mere lambs. Right here! Right now! One neighbor is a complete asshole while the others dress like yuppies and listen to Michael Bolton!”
“Miguel Bolton! Madre Dios!” cried the gardener, crossing himself.
I continued, almost screaming now. “Crucial times call for crucial decisions! When the enemy is howling at your door, can you stand by and let him burn it down?!”
“No!” came the angry response.
I went to Carlo’s wall, where Warmheart’s Credo was elegantly framed.
“Are we going to stand idly by and let these people soil and smash this credo of justice and fair play, to let them cover it with their vile urine?! Sorry, I don’t mean you, Urine.”
“No!” came again the angry response.
“Then I put it to you. It’s a time to act. It’s a time to put our very lives on the line! IT’S A TIME TO KILL!”
I acknowledged the cheers.
Dick Grabber stood up. “I’m glad young Tenderheart was here to see his father in action.” He wiped a tear from his eye and went on. “I AGREE with Warmheart. But, the question remains. ow do we go about killing them?” Indeed, it was a good question. How?
Now, Tenderheart stood up to address my neighbors.
“I am just a young man. Yes, a young man with foolish ideas and thoughts. I must admit that as I sat here earlier, I wondered why you all were so riled up about some asshole neighbor.”
There was a murmuring from the crowd. My son was in a perilous situation now. Going down the wrong verbal path at this moment could cause his untimely and bloody demise. I was deeply troubled because I as Warmheart, leader of this neighborhood, would have no option but to assist in killing him in order to save face. He went on.
“Your murmurings are in vain, friends. Yes, I wondered why the human cry for action had been sounded amongst you good people. Even when I heard the foul, disgusting voice of Michael Bolton, I figured that these new neighbors could be silenced or at least severely reprimanded. I thought then that perhaps only a good beating would answer this abomination.”
Again there were murmurings, this time louder and more vociferous. Weapons were brandished and hostile eyes were turned towards my son. I, again with the necessity of saving face, murmured with the rest of them, and must admit that I may have called for him to be lynched like a runaway slave. But rest easy dear reader because I, uh, knew all along that he would work his way out of this peril.
Urine Holler stood up and took the weed he’d been chewing on out of his mouth. “Now y‘all just get a grip on them thar horses. This yungin’s already wearin’ shoes so he must be important like. Just hesh up a minute and let the boy spake.” With this admonishment, the crowd quieted down. Revolvers were pocketed and Tenderheart resumed.
“Thank you Urine. People! Listen! As I say, I wondered why you were all showing such hostility, but when the disgustingly nauseating sounds of Kenny G being pumped out of that house and into my sorrowful ears, something clicked inside of me. It brought back wretched memories of visits to my grandmother’s house and being locked in a dark, rat infested closet for hours just for stealing a cookie from the jar.”
His reference to my well-known mother brought tears of rage to the people’s eyes.
“I…I’ve always felt that her death - shackled to her bedpost as her house and worldly possessions burned around her - was letting her off just a little too easy. I think, nay I am certain that both my father and I would like to atone for our shortcomings in that case by leading the charge against these new forces of evil and treachery. You can, each of you, rest assured that we will not tread so delicately this time!”
Carlo Paisano rose. His voice was even.
“The two of you have certainly won our hearts and our respect. I speak for all of us assembled here today when I say that we will look to you for leadership and guidance in this, our darkest hour.”
The crowd rose to its feet and held us aloft, chanting our names.
Urine and Adrene Holler hopped on to the sitting board of their hay wagon. Urine flicked his whip and the horses tugged the wagon towards their mountain shack. As they rounded the corner, Adrene reached behind her neck and started to open a zipper that had, unbeknownst to all who had seen her, gone over her head and completely down her front. Once unzipped, the Adrene disguise fell to the sides to reveal that it was really Al Capella - one of the protesters of the meeting - all along!
“What in the tarnation….lands agocean, I’ll be hornswaggled!”, cried Urine through his full scale buck teeth. Without a word, Al leapt over the side and was gone: gone to ruin the good plans that the neighborhood group was getting ready to form.
Back at the Warmheart household, he and Tenderheart were sitting down over a bottle of Old Crow whiskey. Pens and paper were brought out to formulate plans, but Warmheart was itching to show off his most recent purchase. It was an expensive automatic rifle he had picked up through his underground connections.
“Look at this baby, Tenderheart.”
“Wow”,
replied his son, looking down the barrel through the sights.
“How did you get this?”
”This thing was expensive, son. Remember
when Mom’s prized show-cat turned up missing a few weeks back?
Well, don’t ever tell her, but I secretly sold that little bastard for
just enough money to get this.”
“Well you old reprobate. But hey, that’s kind of cold blooded, isn’t it? I mean, considering your reputation and all.”
“Well,
you just listen to this and tell me who is being cold blooded.
I just had a talk with her, figuring she’d jump on our little bandwagon
of neighbors. Get this, she not only
won’t join us, but is against us using any form of violence on ‘em.
I could not believe it!”
”No kidding, Dad. Wow.” replied
Tenderheart, shaking his head sadly.
“Look
son. I think we need to make her pay
for that. As part of the plans we
formulate, maybe we oughta use her as a decoy or bait of some kind.
I mean, look at those yuppie bastards, Tenderheart.
They drive an SUV, they wear tennis clothes, they…gulp….listen to
Michael Goddam
“Right Dad, but let’s remember that we really want to impress the neighborhood committee. I still haven’t lived down the way we let grandma off the hook, and I for one want to clear up my name on that account. Mere shooting won’t do it. We need something better. Now let’s get down to work.”
While the sensitive and caring duo went to work trying to figure out how to make their neighborhood safe from tyranny, Al Capella was at work in a vile attempt to upset their plans. Within minutes after doffing his disguise, he was at Dean Jeeter’s house telling him of the plans for his eminent demise. Then they both went to visit Adam and Muffy.
“I
know just what we’ll do” said Adam after hearing the news.
“We’ll build a cyclone fence that completely surrounds our property.
We like that sort of thing anyway, don’t we Sugar Pop?”
”Oh yes, Adam has always built strong, sturdy fences around wherever we’ve
lived. We have to protect our
precious SUV, don’t we bumpkins?”
“Protect your SUV? With a cyclone fence?!” Dean Jeeter sneered condescendingly. “What the goddam hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you see? We have got to defend our property. We can’t just stand by and let these crazy maniacs ruin what we’ve spent so much money on. Look at this house you’ve just moved in to! It’s like a small mansion. It’s going to be a show house, and it’s easily the nicest house on the block. You going to let that go to waste? Well, I’ve had it talking with you; I have defenses to lay.”
While evening turned into night and darkness fell over the neighborhood, Dean Jeeter worked alone in his front yard. He worked without light because he knew what he was doing: laying Claymore mines all along the perimeter of his property and he went about it with the skilled hands of a seasoned pro. Finally done, though the evening was cool, he mopped beads of sweat from his brow. Then he thought for a minute. If Adam and Muffy, yuppie pukes that they may be, were destroyed, he would lose his only allies in the neighborhood. But how were these brain-dead pukes defending themselves?!! Building a cyclone fence! They needed protection laid down and they needed it tonight. He cursed to himself and walked into the garage.
Mere minutes later, Dean Jeeter was working under the cover of darkness at the yuppie’s house, laying mines for their defense all around their property. To be certain of their safety, he laid cement colored mines across their driveway. The thought occurred to him that perhaps he should advise them of his action so that they wouldn't carelessly set off one of the death dealing chargers themselves but a glance at the household showed that they were well ensconced for the evening. Anyway, he entertained a sneaking suspicion that Adam and Muffy would be mortified to find that the instruments of war had come so close to their "secure" home front. These were the types of people that showed they cared for others by sending checks to charity. To see reality literally at their front porch would be too much for them to handle. He decided to wait until morning and then break the news to them over coffee. What he could not know as he finished laying the mines was that he would never have the opportunity to give them the news.
Warmheart and Tenderheart were in the living room, the older man standing at his lap top and playing a Powerpoint slide show of his new plans onto the pull down screen. He mentioned to Tenderheart that he used to show slides onto his Uncle Waldo's fat ass until he died, and thus had found the need to go high tech with the lap top thing. “Now, here’s my plan, son. It’s going to be beautiful. In the morning, we’re going to tell your Mom that we’ve concocted a plan so devilish and deviant that she’ll have no choice but to go to warn the neighbors. Something foul and hateful. What could it be.”
“How about if we tell her something like we’ve put together an atomic bomb?”
“That’s
perfect! With that approach, we know
she'll go running to knock on Dean Jeeter's door to warn him of imminent danger.
Meanwhile, I have concocted an explosive device that we can have placed
at the doorstep. As soon as he opens
the door, it triggers a wire and, blam! Shards
of glass and burning shrapnel will turn Dean Jeeter into a writhing mass of
bloody cartilage. I’ll
put enough in to maim him. It
shouldn’t kill him right away. That
takes care of Dean Jeeter. What
about the yuppies?”
Tenderheart took a swig of whiskey. “Hmmmm.
I’ll bet when they hear that explosion, they’ll come running out.
I can have bear traps set at their door.
They’ll be caught in the traps and we can do as we will after that.
There’s only one problem with your brilliant plan, Dad.”
”What’s that?”
“Won’t the first explosion kill Mom too?”
“Hmmmm. That would be a bit harsh, despite how angry I am at her. Back to the drawing board. We need to come up with something and we haven’t much time or we’ll lose the respect of our neighbors forever. We need to think and think hard. Hand me that whiskey, son.”
Shortly
after
Muffy was enthralled. "Oh, what a perfect night for a martini", she said while taking a sip of their favorite refreshment. " We can sit on the porch and listen to music. Don't you think the neighbors are impressed by us?"
“Impressed
isn't the word. Didn't you see the way Dean Jeeter ran back to
his house the moment I mentioned cyclone fencing? I'll bet he's making
plans this very instant to buy some of his own."
Adam borrowed Muffy's compact and looked in the mirror at himself.
He was in the prime of life, he realized.
He was 30 years old and, as a
Two doors down, Dean Jeeter, keeping a lonely vigil in his dark garage, heard voices coming from the yuppie house. Adam and Muffy! “Oh God!” he muttered. He had to stop them from getting into their SUV and backing out of that driveway! He began to run recklessly towards their house. The memory that he had planted mines around his own house flashed through his mind one second too late. He tried to pull up and stop himself but he was unable to. He saw a blinding flash of light and knew no more of this earth.
Adam and Muffy recoiled in horror at the sound of the explosion. Violence in their own neighborhood was something they'd not only had never experienced, but never even dreamed could happen. Their only thought was to get into their SUV and flee the neighborhood before anything untoward happened to them. Adam put the vehicle into reverse. "When the fellows at the golf club hear about this, eyebrows are going to be ra..." Before he could finish the last sentence he would ever attempt to utter, the SUV was hurtled violently through the late night air.
The noise brought father and son to the window to see what happened.
“Oh…my….God….Tenderheart. Look what has happened”, said Warmheart with a voice so forlorn and broken that his son thought he would break into tears.
“Dad! Man. This is perhaps the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re
right, son. Our enemies have
all killed themselves. Now,
how am I going to face the world? What
will the neighbors say?”
”They’re gonna say that we didn’t kill them, Dad.”
”That’s what I’m so upset
about!”
By
“I
had them, son”, he said drunkenly. “I
had the neighbors eating out of my hand. You
saw them. They revered me as a God.
Oh, what am I to do?”
”Wait a minute, Dad” said Tenderheart, taking a fierce swig.
“Remember how, when I was small, you would speak to me of Wiseheart,
your mentor and teacher as a young man?
And how, whenever you needed someone to turn to, you could turn to
him?”
“Wiseheart…oh
yeahhh. Oh, but I am allowed to call
Wiseheart only when it’s absolutely necessary.
And anyway, by east coast time, it’s pretty damn late.”
”Well, Dad, I don’t know of any situation you’ve been in where you’ve
been in more dire need of help than right now.
Why don’t you call him? Look,
it can’t hurt. Can it?”
A
few minutes later, the sleepy east coast accent of Wiseheart came on the line.
”Who the hell is this?”
“Wiseheart….it’s me…..Warmheart.”
“Warmheart! You son of a bitch! What the hell you doing calling now? Do you know what time it is?”
“Just a moment, Wiseheart. Hey Tenderheart. Do you know what time it is? Wiseheart wants to know.”
“Ummmmmm.
Where’s a clock. Oh yeah,
it’s
“It’s
”I wasn’t asking what time it is, Goddam you.”
“Yes you were.”
“You
son of a bitch. I was asking do you
know how Goddam late it is. Geez,
it’s
“Sorry. Look, I really need your help. You’ve always been there when I really needed someone to turn to. You’re….you’re like the father I never had.”
“Okay”, said the irritated old man, “what the hell predicament you gotten yourself into now?”
Warmheart recounted the events of the last few days and ended the story with an account of the recent bloody deaths of his two neighbors and told of his fears that his neighbors would now lose respect for him.
“Lose
respect for you?” cried Wiseheart.
“Lose respect? If
dat was your main worry right now, I’d hang up on your ass and be back to
sleep widdin two minutes.”
”Huh?”
“Don’t
‘huh’ me you stupid bastard. Dunce!
It goes a lot deeper dan respect.
If I were you, I’d start arming myself for da assault of your life,
kid.”
”Assault?”
“Shit yes, assault. Look, let me spell it out for youse so I can get back to sleep. Let’s start wit the root of your problem. Mainly, your neighbors. Listen, dey went to bed tonight tinking that you was going to pull off some sort of spectacular mayhem, right?
“Right.”
“Don’t answer me, just shut up and listen. Dey’ve probably heard the explosions and da woid is getting around the neighborhood right now that youse had nuttin’ to do with dese deaths, right?”
“Right.”
“Listen, would you shut up for one second and let me finish. You ain’t got no time for all dis sitting around talking. You gotta get ready. Once everyone finds out you duped them, dey’re gonna come gunning for you. Look, do you hear what I’m telling you. They are going to want you dead. That’s just da law of the Goddam jungle. So, be ready Warmheart. I don’t want to read about you in da goddam obituary..”
There was a click in the receiver. The phone was dead.
Warmheart’s face was ashen with terror. He quickly ran around the house turning out all the lights. Then he grabbed his rifle.
“What did he say, Dad?”, asked the anxious Tenderheart.
“Shhh”, Warmheart whispered. “Don’t make a sound. He says the neighbors are gathering forces right now to come and kill us.”
“Kill
us?”
”Yes. I have no time to
explain.” Warmheart opened
the curtains just an inch and peeked through.
The streets looked cold and deserted.
They had a lifeless look to them that frightened Warmheart.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
It didn’t mean they were not out there, right now, waiting for their
chance to strike.
Warmheart sat down, drinking now right out of the bottle of whiskey. He had to clear his mind and think. But how?! It seemed that there was terror and doom in each avenue his mind walked down. He had to get out of this with his skin intact somehow. How? He glanced up from to see Tenderheart gulping down another shot. He was clearly under the influence; his head nodding from drink.
Warmheart sat up. A plan was forming in his mind. A way to escape had come to him. He went over and over the plan, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He had convinced himself that his neighbors would not attack under cover of the night, and this is what crystallized things in his mind. Ahh, to think clearly, was his last thought before drifting off into slumber.
At
He made preparations and when he had everything ready he shook his son into wakefulness. It was a difficult task, but Tenderheart finally roused himself.
“We’ve got to move. NOW!” said Warmheart as he grabbed his son from behind and pushed him towards the door. After pausing and listening for a moment, he kicked the door open and pushed Tenderheart out in front of him. He knew the helicopters would be directly overhead and his son would have to do as a human shield until he could take some hostage somewhere.
Pushing hard, he moved out towards his car. His voice rose above the sound of the motor. “You’ll never take me alive, cocksuckers!”
They moved closer and closer to the car. It looked so far away to his fear soaked eyes. Then they were there at last. He opened the passenger door and threw his drunken son in and then ran around to get into the driver seat.
“Oh my fucking God!”, he cried, digging through his pockets. He had forgotten the keys.
Across the street Carlo Paisano stopped the motor on his lawn mower. ‘That was the helicopter sound I was hearing’ thought Warmheart in desperation. He froze now, as Carlo started walking across the street towards him. In what he thought would be his last chance at survival, he reached for his weapon but realized that he had left that in the house too. This was it, he thought to himself and decided to sit back and accept it. Warmheart’s story was about to come to a violent end. His life passed before his eyes: all the good he’d done for so many people. What would it matter now that he was dead? All the times that he had gone beyond what any normal mortal human being would do, and for what? For this. For his senseless death because he had failed to remember to bring keys or a weapon to defend himself. He sighed as he heard Carlos’ footsteps come very near the car. His mind sank into a pit of oblivion. This was it.
“Warmheart! Tenderheart”. Carlo Paisano’s voice was even. There was not a hint of the anger of the betrayed that he had expected to hear. “You’ve done us proud, the both of you.” Carlo Paisano reached in and kissed Warmheart on the cheek. “And you were very resourceful. We came out this morning to find that our sworn enemies had all been blown up by landmines. You two are heroes.”