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Don’t Complain to the Police

April 26, 2017 Leave a comment

The neighbour to the north of the sociopath has been suffering the aggravation for more than 20 years. His way of dealing with the sociopath is to yell and shake fists at him over the fence. He’s an idiot, and that’s why there’s been no improvement in 20 years.

The sociopath has a large diesel tractor. He spends his days on the tractor, dragging a steel beam around, eliminating any chance of grass coming up. The dragging on dry dirt adds clouds of dust to the stench of diesel exhaust. The man is not a farmer. His property is 60 feet by 200 feet, although he regularly transgresses onto neighbouring properties. His property is largely covered with crude sheds and an old school bus. The village is so small and insignificant, there are no bylaws to protect it. The area of the village is considered to be part of the surrounding farmland.

The guy with the tractor is a sociopath. He feels nothing toward the neighbours for whom he makes the days unpleasant. He breaks fences and denies it. He sweeps his dog’s droppings under the fence, onto the neighbour’s property. He pushes all the snow from surrounding areas onto the property to the south of his. This is because it’s the easiest way to get his area cleared, and the neighbours’ areas are of no consequence.

After a few years of trying to get some help from the city manager, the county counsel and even the mayor, the neighbours got a response from the provincial police. They had a couple of interviews at the police station, and one time they were told that the offending neighbour was in the building. Pressure was applied by the police to have the neighbours shake hands with the offender, and the good neighbour was blamed by the police for being unreasonable. The psycho agreed to stop putting snow on the neighbour’s property. That was strictly against the law, so of course he had to stop.

What the police overlooked, was the years of criminal harassment. He redirected rain runoff onto the neighbour’ garden. He used an old oil tank as an amateur incinerator, and burnt garbage in it. Often, he burned plastics and foam rubber, sending clouds of toxic chemicals over the neighbourhood.

The police felt that they had done a good job, blaming the complainant and ignoring the many infractions by the psycho. So don’t go to the police. They’ll blame you, because you make them work.

Treasure Lake – Like a deer in the headlights

March 19, 2017 Leave a comment

The canoes split the water silently as they glided across the small lake seeking cover. With great care, all four paddlers dipped their paddles into the still water with almost complete silence. Whatever sounds their might have been – whispered words or a paddle lightly touching a gunnel – were drowned out by the mating songs of a million insects and amphibians.

Suddenly the lake was alight. The airplane had turned on its landing lights for a last look around, and there they were – two canoes and four young people. They couldn’t see anything when they looked back at the plane because the intense light blinded them. Especially after the complete darkness. The sound of a small outboard motor came across the water.

“Shit!” Solly Cohen said. “They have a motorboat!”

“Paddle like hell for the weeds,” Rob Snitzer ordered.

“The weeds will slow us down!” Phyllis Snitzer said. “It harder to paddle, pushing through the weeds.”

canoe

“Shouldn’t we be looking for the swiftest way to go?” Caroline Rich said.

“The weeds will slow us down,” Rob said, “and if the motorboat guy doesn’t know better and follows us into the weeds, he’s gonna be stopped dead.”

“Why?” Caroline said.

“Those weeds will be caught by his propeller, and it will wrap around and around until the pressure pulls it in through the space between the propeller and its housing. It will stop the engine with sheer pressure, preventing the propeller from spinning,” Rob said.

“How do you know?” Caroline said.

“I’ve done it myself. Motored through a weed patch and took fifteen minutes to cut and pull the weeds out of the propeller shaft,” Rob said.

“What if he has a weedless propeller?” Solly said.

“We’re fucked,” Rob said.

“Well, what are we going to do, Rob?” Phyllis cried.

“We’re gonna paddle like our lives depend on it… because they do!”

With that, Rob plunged his paddle into the water and pushed. The others fell into his rhythm and the canoes cut through the tall weeds and soon they escaped the light from the plane in an area of dense foliage. Rob asked everyone to stop for a moment and listen. The motorboat was approaching. The engine began to sound strained, like it was labouring under an excessive load. At last, it stopped completely, and just in time.

Caroline could see it through the brush. The boat was illuminated by the plane’s lights, and two men were arguing. They tipped up the engine and began reaching back to grasp at the weeds that were tightly wound around the propeller shaft, as hoped.

The way to safety was clearer now, and they paddled steadily and without strain. They discussed the next problem they would have to face.

“If we tell the cops about the dead guy,” Solly said, “they’ll soon know about the gold, too.”

“If we don’t tell the cops,” Phyllis said, “and we keep the gold, what do we do with it?”

“I think I know what the perfect answer should be,” Caroline said.

“So do I,” said Rob. “We tell the authorities about the dead guy, and we turn the Krugerrands in wherever stuff like that goes. They will probably know who owns it, and are probably looking for it as we speak.”

They told the authorities about the corpse and gave them the gold. They expected the corpse to be killed, and the theft had been fairly recent. They solved the murder and the grateful Bank of South Africa gave each of the young canoeists one hundred thousand dollars. Everybody is happy.

10. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 26, 2015 Leave a comment

I assumed Bianca’s inappropriate offer of sex for favours was because she was an illegal immigrant. She must be in this country without a visa or other documentation. I believe her when she says she was pretending to change a front tire as she was instructed by her employer, Kimberly Rashid-Monterrain. I don’t think she knew that it was a setup as Beryl and I now believe it was. Rashid-Monterrain was putting Bianca’s life in danger because it was a murder plot.

We spent a week looking for the truck as described by Bianca. Of course, it’s understandable that she would have only vague information to give us because it was night, and the truck’s headlights would have blinded her until it passed. She could only tell us it was white, the kind with the flat front and a frame on the back that would normally haul an eighteen wheeler type trailer. So we searched for a white cab-over tractor type in body shops. We assumed that the truck would require repairs after wiping out an Alpha Romeo and a man’s life.

We split up so we could cover more ground in less time. I didn’t find the rig in any of the twelve shops I checked out but Beryl spotted it parked among trees behind a rural body shop. I rushed to meet her when she called to tell me. She waited for me before going into the shop to ask questions because she feared a killer might be there. I question her wisdom. What did she think I could do about it? I have nothing but a camera. ”If I take his picture, it ain’t gonna help.”

The shop was labelled “Mighty Rite coachwork repairs” by a sign in cracked and faded red, white and blue paint. Looking at the broken stucco that covered the exterior, I thought the owner must have a sense of humour. He boasted an elegant phrase like ‘coachwork repairs’ on a dump called ‘Mighty Rite’. I gathered my guts and led Beryl through a dented metal pedestrian door beside the huge, truck-sized overhead doors.

The interior was like a gigantic, dark cavern. It was crude, with greasy work benches along a wall and the obligatory calendars presenting naked girls pinned above the benches. On the left was a crudely fashioned cubicle of unpainted, oil stained plywood. Inside the enclosure was meant to be an office of some kind. I peered over the edge of the cubicle and saw a young man in greasy coveralls, sleeping in an old office chair with his workboot-shod feet on an ancient oak desk.

“Excuse me,” I said rather loudly. His eyes popped open and his first act after taking his feet off the desk was to pop a greasy cap onto his head. Through the grease I could see the logo ‘Carruthers’ on the cap.

“What! What?” he stammered. Beryl pushed me aside.

“Who brought that white truck in?” she said.

“What white truck?” he said.

“The one hidden in the trees,” Beryl said.

“Oh, that’s the one that little lady brought in,” the kid said.

“Lady?” Beryl and I said in unison.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What’s her name?” I said.

“She didn’t leave no name. All she said was that if we can fix it, we can have it.”

“Isn’t that a little odd,” I said.

“Damn straight it’s odd, but the boss ain’t gonna sweat too much over getting’ a free rig like that.”

“Describe the lady,” Beryl said. The kid looks at the ceiling and muses.

“First off, she was a really lush piece, y’know. A bit older, but still, really hot,” said the kid. “I figure she’s rich, not just ‘cause she gave away a valuable truck, but she was wearing spotless suede pants, jacket and boots that all matched. I don’t usually notice that stuff, but this babe was really sweet.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“A Volvo was waiting out front for her when she left, and it looked like another dish was driving it.”