“Slow down!” Mrs. Abbus shouted as Krugman raced around the corner in his familiar maroon Cutlass. “Damn you, slow down!”
Then, impulsively, she picked up a stone and hurled it at the accelerating car and hit the back left door. It sounded like a gunshot it was so loud.
The car screeched to a halt and, immediately, Krugman got out and examined the dent in his door then glared at the furious woman. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You’re going too damn fast,” she scolded him. “There are children in this neighborhood.”
He shook his head. “You can’t go around and throw stones at people.”
“Your driving is a menace.”
“You’re the menace, lady, not me. I was minding my own business.”
“The safety of my children is my business. And you were driving too fast on this street. Just as you always do.”
“You’re going to pay for the damage you’ve done.”
“I’m not going to give you one red cent.”
“We’ll see about that,” he snapped as he climbed back into his car.
Early the next morning, as she drew open the curtains in her living room, Mrs. Abbus saw the crude homemade sign stuck in her front lawn. “Beware of the Crazy Woman in Your Neighborhood,” it proclaimed in dripping black paint. Grimacing, she stormed outside and pulled down the sign then hurriedly gathered up some stones from her garden and piled them in front of the porch so that she would be ready when that awful man drove back down her street.
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