Yesterday afternoon was hot and breezy as I stretched my legs on the front sidewalk.

A young black man, in his mid 20s, dark, fit, and dressed in an athletic shirt and buttoned white shorts that actually wore like pants rather than the normal diaper, was pushing his mo-ped slowly down the sidewalk, his face tight with resolve and perhaps anger. Like his clothes and shoes, the mo-ped was white. I soon found out that he preferred other things in white, or at least had until they grew fangs and a forked tail.

A red sedan cruised west on White as "motherfucker" sounded shrilly from the open window.

He ignored her and kept on walking, to which this haggard, forty-something brunette mudshark with sunken cheeks, turned on a dime before oncoming traffic [this is a busy secondary street], was nearly T-boned, and then sped back after our beleaguered hero spewing obscenities from her open car window.

He ignored, her, clenched his jaw, kept his head nobly elevated and walked on down the sidewalk as she heckled him, bullying her way through both lanes and causing the inhabitants of the halfway house on the corner of White and Sefton, to gather on the porch and front lawn.

A threat was screamed.

The man tried to push his mo-ped through the grassy yard to get across Sefton but she tried to ram him in the street, so he backed up into the yard on the White side of the corner, standing defiantly next to his bike on the grass side, proudly refusing to bicker with this savage she-fiend.

More of the recovering drug addicts—all white men his age—gathered on the lawn and porch and did lend moral support to his bachelor cause...which might have triggered the mudshark fury.

In a building rage, the woman zoomed back into the intersection, nearly backing into motorists who took evasive action, did a donut turn, screamed out the window and gunned the engine, jumping the sedan over the curb and crushing the mo-ped. The man leapt free just in time, nearly getting caught under the mo-ped as it was caught under the front end of the sedan and dragged, pieces popping off as he raised his hands in a "what now, bitch!" gesture of dismay.

[This morning I checked the concrete curb and found seven grooves, some an inch deep, from her man battering ram.]

The woman did another reckless turn, holding up two lanes of traffic and sped back west, drinking from a Pepsi bottle, in her wake, a cautionary hero, survivor of a public attempt on his limbs, if not his life, by a certifiable psychobitch.

Obviously, he was pushing the mo-ped on the sidewalk, knowing full well that it did not have the acceleration to get away from my ex-girlfriend, who fortunately does not recognize me with the white beard and pot belly—whew!

It was further surmised that this woman purchased the mo-ped for her paramour and that when he withdrew his services suffered this attack in retaliation for ending the mis·ceg·e·na·tion!

It ended better than it might have, with him being elevated to hero status in the eyes of paleface stoner kind as he stood over the wreckage of his bike.

Say it, Brother, "Free, free at last!"