Meaner than a Junkyard Dog

So I'm sitting on my recliner reading "Skinny Dip" by Carl Hiaasen when I hear such screaming outside that dogs start howling, kids are running to their moms, and moms are dialing 911.  I went to the window to see what possible reason there could be for so rudely interrupting my leisure.

I saw a woman at a stop sign being loudly berated by Leroy the junk man for some offense, real or imagined.  Leroy has trouble distinguishing between the two.  Instead of just driving off and leaving him to rail at the heavens, he being on foot, she sat there behind the wheel of her car and just stared in disbelief.  I wondered whether I should make an appearance on my porch as sort of a deterrent to potential violence.  I envisioned how it would go down....

"Whut the hell you lookin' at?"

"I don't know.  I didn't major in anthropology."

"Whut?  Anthro-whut?  I'll come over there and kick yore ass!"

"Then you would truly be as stupid as you look."

"Whutchu mean, stoopid?  You'd be the one stoopid, all lyin' on the ground bleedin' and stuff."

"Just out of curiosity, how'd you go about kicking my ass?  I'm at least a head taller and 100 pounds heavier than you.  You look like a refuge from a concentration camp, like Joe Walsh when he was doing drugs."

"Maybe so, but I'm also about forty years younger and a lot faster."  Here he might demonstrate his hand speed and perform a little Ali shuffle.  "I'll put yore ass in the hospital in a body cast."

"Yeah, but see, you'd still lose.  Who you gonna brag to about beatin' up a 71-year-old man?  Plus, they have laws here in Florida that are especially harsh on redneck crackers like you who beat up on seniors."

"Well, you'd still be in the hospital."

"Maybe.  But I know where you live.  I'd get out of the hospital before you got out of jail, and when you do get out, everything you own will be gone.  Disappeared."

Everyone knows where Leroy lives, which is a couple of blocks up and around the corner from me.  His house is surrounded with enough junk to make a landfill operator proud.  He collects his "objets d'art" by driving his pickup truck around the 'hood and picking up whatever homeowners have put out by the curb.  He's gotten around attempts at code enforcement by claiming his pieces of scrap are "lawn decorations."

"You know, Gomer, you really should be more selective in picking your fights.  Last time you went all postal on a driver, he pounded you into the pavement.  My 11-year-old granddaughter could whip your scrawny butt.  Your neighbor across the street told me you threatened her one day, and when she invited you to take just one step across her property line, you backed off.  'He won't mess with me,' she said."  (Truth be told, I wouldn't mess with her, either.)

"Whut the hell you flyin' that Georgia flag for, anyways?  Man lives in Florida, he ought to fly a Florida flag!"

"That 'G' stands for Green Bay, Forrest.  You know, the Pakcers?"

"Oh.  Yeah, I know.  I'm a Bucs fan, myself."

"Gee, I never would have guessed."

I decided to lend moral support to the beleagured driver.  By the time I reached for my can of Wasp killer--mace and probably pepper spray being illegal--Leroy had exhausted his spleen and had gone stomping off down the street.  Luckily for him.  He'd have come with 20 feet of me, he'd have needed a guide dog to get home.