by Charles McKelvy
They weren’t entirely sure they should invite Karen and her new guy friend over for an evening on the dock they had just installed on the pond at the foot of their property, but their good natures won out, and so they extended the invitation to Shirley’s sister Karen and her new guy friend, Larry.
And so on an absolutely gorgeous evening in early summer, Shirley and Ken hosted Karen and this guy friend Larry of hers for an evening of wine and nibblies on their new dock.
Karen had warned her sister to avoid politics at all costs, so Shirley kept the conversation cool and clean, focusing on the varied life of the pond they shared with four neighbors in the most desired neighborhood of a Midwest city known for its progressive politics.
Larry, who did something with mortgage-backed securities, seemed fine at first. Just a regular guy out there on the dock enjoying a sublime evening with a sun that was in no particular hurry to set.
And then the drone appeared.
And not for the first time.
“No,” Shirley said, “this is their new toy, and they love showing it off for us.” She pointed across the pond at a man standing in a yard outside an enormous McMansion with the controls in his hand.
Concerned for her sister, Karen said, “Have you said anything to him? I mean this is an invasion of your privacy.”
Shirley and Ken shrugged, and Ken said, “Yeah, but a lot of good it did. He owns the pond, and we built the dock without his permission, and well, we just—“
“No!” Larry interrupted. “No, you DO NOT and WILL NOT let this stand!!!” And with that he went to the pond’s edge, selected a suitable rock, aimed, and threw a blistering fastball into the drone’s strike zone.
The buzzing little beast broke into many pieces and fell into the pond with an angry splash.
Karen, Shirley, and Ken were utterly speechless, but Larry was quite pleased with himself. He gazed intently at the drone operator across the pond and observed: “Doesn’t look like he’s going to call the police. Looks like he’s a real cowboy, and he’s gonna drive over here in his monster pick-up and give us some frontier justice.”
When she was able to speak, Shirley said: “Maybe we should be the ones to call the police?”
“No,” Larry said, watching the enraged toy pilot raise dust on the gravel road leading to Shirley’s and Ken’s place. “I got this.”
And with that Larry sauntered to his high-performance driving machine, calmly opened the trunk, and prepared to administer some frontier justice of his own.
All Shirley could say to her sister was: “You need to find a better class of guy friends.”