I'm Not Your Babysitter

Get this. I come home from work tonight, only to find a gaggle of slackjawed children on the sidewalk in front of my palatial estate. They were playing some kind of game involving crudely drawn chalk patterns and jumping. Not to mention noise.

"What the hell is going on here?" I barked at them, causing a few to instantly scatter.

"We're playing hopscotch Mister Carver," one of the remaining brats explained. I think it was Bendemix's daughter, but to be honest all children look alike to me. Just a bunch of hairless chimpanzees in midget clothes, crawling with disease and snot.

"Hopscotch? I don't see any goddamn scotch. I see a lot of goddamn kids trespassing on my goddamn property! Now beat it, you little shits! Get the hell out of here before I eat you all for dinner!"

Beat it they did, leaving me to some well-deserved peace and quiet. Sure, there'll be the usual round of angry phone calls later tonight. So what. As you may have noticed, I rather enjoy confrontations.