In Good Health

Ron Koppelberger

In Good Health

His defiance and grouchy persuasive savagery would soon be renown with the unfortunate tokens of trespass and an evasive thistle. They had Sundays blessing, the whole of them, but Monday was another day and tomorrow would tell the humble balance of his resolve.
Only three hours to go, they had used toilet paper in his trees, spray paint on his house and rocks against his now shattered windows. They had flattened the tires on his car and beaten him to a broken twig of uncertain existence.
He opened the bottle of chilled whiskey and toasted the window pane, a reflection of revolution he thought. “Here’s to your health!” he said raising the frosty bottle to his parched lips. He had tied lengths of wire in a crossfire circuit of woven gossamer, invisible silk, spider web sanctity through his yard. He had sharpened the stakes and dug the pits deep enough to cage a wild tiger. He cradled the shotgun in his lap and as the twilight drew its indigo cloak across the horizon he prayed, prayed to the shadows and silhouettes of an evening promise. He prayed in earnest supplication to the gods of vengeance and retribution. He flipped the light switch and settled himself down in front of the window; it was 12:01 AM.
A pleasant vista of rose blush and oak lined the yard and the beige shutters emphasized the eyes of the front windows, eyes of seduction in wooden thrall and sheets of glass, a taboo of blood and wrath, a defiant grace stepped in the promise of revolution and anger….tempting the violence, tempting the destruction of clapboard dreams. Simple coble stone pathways and loose garden hose tangles in subdued secret arrangements of invitation.
The car full of men pulled close to the curb, music throbbing; his heart pounded wildly and he raised the cool whiskey bottle in appreciation. The shotgun cradled in his lap clicked as he cocked it.
“Here’s to your health gentlemen………here’s to your health!” he whispered.