Dirty Harry’s Neighborhood Watch
I NEVER asked for this assignment, but I guess some dumb sonofabitch has got to do it. You see what those assholes in suits downtown don’t understand is that when someone lets their dog crap on the pavement it’s guys like me who have to put it in a plastic bag and dispose of it. And some dogs are really scared of plastic bags, so it’s not easy.
There I was minding my own business, sitting in my front room watching My Goddamn Family, when the doorbell rings. “Hello, I’m Martin, I’ve come to collect the Betterware catalogue I dropped off last week.” “Well Martin, seeing as we’re on first-name terms – Martin – I thought I’d best tell you that the last salesman who darkened my door ended up with a blowhole in their forehead.” And with that I returned his goddamn Betterware catalogue.
If it’s one thing I hate it’s Neighborhood Watch meetings. They’re full of fat-ass, pen-pushing beauracrats who don’t know the streets, who don’t know what it’s like when some doped-up punk is sticking a ’45 in your ear or soliciting donations to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.
Just about everyone had a beef at this meeting. Mrs Fosdyke’s dog taking a shit on Mr Thompson’s rockery, the white trash who live at Number 23 had dumped a sofa on their front lawn, and then there’s the Camel Jockeys on the corner who the Colonel thinks are a terror cell. Jesus, I thought myself, we’re going to be here all goddamn night.
In the interest of bringing the meeting to a point of order I put one in Mr Thompson’s leg from close range, then shot the light fitting out before telling all those assembled, ‘okay, meeting over – now if anyone cares to join me, I’m going down to West and 42nd for a chilli burger and a root beer’, only for Darren, my asshole assistant to point out that this is Woking. Sonofabitch.
I’ll tell you, if it wasn’t for those asshole liberals at the Mayor’s office I could have cleaned this town up a long time ago. They said ‘no’ when I suggested using piano wire to deal with the mini-motorbike problem; they said ‘no’ when I recommended using triangulated sniper positions to disperse local youths and, goddamn it, they even said no when I offered to blow the head clean off of Mrs Worthington’s yappy little terrier.
Everyone would sleep a little easier and I’d be all broken up over that dog’s ‘rights’.