Flash Fiction Monday: My Grooved Swing and Civic Improvement

One man’s baseball swing turns from sport to statement in a story where anger meets irony under the glow of streetlights.

The tattooed arm in the red pickup leveled a gun at me as he pulled beside my car. He leaned out, glass down, and yelled—little more than static and bile. Horns filled the air like warning shots. I’d cut him off getting onto the expressway; I didn’t expect to be practiced in retribution.

For a moment, I thought I was dead. I hit the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. He barreled past, shaking his fist and the firearm the way some men shake a fist at God. I watched his rear lights until they disappeared and I memorized everything I could: the plate, the stickers—every ugly creed and petty slur arranged like trophies across his bumper. My pulse was a drum. He thought he was  finished with me. What he didn’t know, it wasn’t over. 

No one pulls that stunt on Tony  Nichols without answering for it. I had his plate number and I had a buddy at the DMV who would trace it for me.

I had to be careful how I made him pay since a judge gave me two years probation, ordered me to pay restitution, court costs, and see a psychologist for my anger issues because of a simple parking space disagreement.

I signaled to pull into a parking space close to the supermarket entrance. The car in the space backed out leaving the space open. Before I moved my foot from the brake to the accelerator, a sporty BMW came from the opposite direction and cut in front of me and pulled into the vacant space. 

The BMW driver, sporting Ray Bans and dressing like he belonged on the cover of GQ  flipped me a dismissive wave and went into the supermarket. 

I took a baseball and smashed every window on his BMW and laid waste to his sideview mirrors. I was proud of my art work and grooved baseball swing.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think about security cameras.  The judge didn’t admire my art work or my grooved swing. I took a plea deal to avoid to avoid jail time.  

The work I did on the BMW was nothing compared to what I was going to do this truck and its driver.

I told my psychologist what happened and my plans. My psychologist told me I wasn’t angry with the guy who pointed a gun at me, I was angry with my mother. 

I asked my psychologist how he’d feel is someone pointed a gun at his head. He said it wouldn’t happen to him because he wouldn’t cut anyone off.”

I told him about the bumper stickers on this idiot’s truck.

“I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

The psychologist said, “Show him you’re the better person.”

My psychologist was the one who needed counseling, not me. 

“I was only ranting. Thanks for listening,” I lied.

I took a couple of personal days to follow this guy. His name was Randy Twilk. He worked at a hardware store.

The next morning I walked in the hardware store. I found him restocking a shelf. I had an urge to kick the stool he was standing on and watch him crash to the floor. I had something better in mind. 

All the pieces came together for me. What made it even better was that I bought what I needed from the shelf he was restocking. Pure irony gold. 

It was two a.m. when I pulled into Twilk’s apartment parking lot. I didn’t care about cameras. I was going full commando, I put black makeup over my face. I bought a ski mask with only openings for my eyes and mouth. I slipped on latex gloves. 

I worked my way in between cars, The only signs of life were me and two rats working the overflowing dumpsters. 

I went to work on Twilk’s truck with three cans of spray paint and painted a masterpiece Rembrandt would envy. At six a.m. I made a phone call to EyeWitness New 6. 

At 7 a.m. I turned on the TV, there was Stephanie Gibbons, Eyewitness News reporter standing next to Twilk’s truck with a microphone stuck in Twilk’s face.

“Mr. Twilk you’ve made a strong political statement with all the pro minority groups art work on your monster truck. it must take a heaps of courage for someone with your background to support gays, blacks,  open borders, and a ban on guns.”