The rumble in the jungle

I got into the habit of paintballing cars that drove by my house with loud stereo systems blaring. If my windows shook, you got a new paintjob. It wasn’t difficult to time the shots with the bass and nobody ever noticed as they sat at the stop sign trying to figure out where to cruise next.
Spring was here again and the cars were out loosening the foundation of every house they drove past and I sat on the porch with a pump action paintball gun waiting for my next victim. A 1980s Chevy Oldsmobile drove past and sat at the stop sign for a few minutes. The back of the car was covered in green paint that stood out with the beige color of the car. Once I was out of paintballs the stereo was turned off and I wondered if they had heard the thuds of the paintballs. The car turned the corner and stopped on the intersecting street in full view of my house. I sat and waited. Was I finally caught? Was this going to turn into a street fight?
The guy stepped out of the car and went to a house where he was greeted on the porch and hung out for thirty minutes. When he went back to his car, he walked around the back admiring his vehicle until he saw the new green paint that had been added.
“What the fuck!” he yelled as he tried to wipe off the dry paint that had sat there too long. “Oh hell no, some motherfucker paintballed my car. Motherfucker! I know who did this. I’m going to get that motherfucker.” The man jumped in his car and sped off down the street. I grabbed more paintballs from inside the house and waited for the next car.
A few days later there were sirens and flashing lights reflecting through the neighborhood. One street over smoke ascended into the air as a fire raged at 6 am. I learned later from some neighbors that a car had been firebombed and the whole thing was a loss. It looked like something you would see in Somalia or after a riot. The next week things became even more crazy.
The beige car was back with new chrome rims and the green paint was gone. It parked in the same spot as before and I sat on the porch reading a book. An hour later all hell broke loose. A different man, tall and skinny wearing a black wife beater, walked over to the car screaming all kinds of incoherent gibberish, and proceeded to smash out the windows, headlights, tail lights, he kicked in the doors and jumped on the hood. The grill was ripped out by his bare hands. When the police finally arrived, he was trying to tear the rims off the car.
The police stepped out and walked towards the man. “having a bad day?” and officer asked.
“bad day? Am I having a motherfuckin bad day? Ya I’m having a bad day.”
“Is this your car?”
“Hell no, it ain’t my car.”
“Whose car is it?”
“This motherfucker shoots up my momma’s house. So, I shoot up his fuckin house. Then he comes over and sets my motherfuckin car on fire. He burned my fucking car so I’m fucking his shit up.”
“where is he at?”
“he went out with some other guys to buy beer.”
“You think he’s going to be pissed when he gets back?”
“Fuck ya!”
They talk for a few more minutes. I have to give the cops credit, they just talked to the guy. He committed some felonies; the other guys committed some felonies. I guess the question was, who do you arrest in a situation like this. The cops left. They didn’t arrest the guy. They had to wait and see if the other guy wanted to press charges. Odds were he wasn’t going to call. The guy in the wife beater left and I continued to sit on the porch and wait for the next chapter of the story to unfold. This was like watch Days of our lives on crack.
A hour later, with the car sitting on the side of the street in pieces the group of guys came back to the party with their drinks.
“What the FUCK!” and the rumble in the jungle continued.


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