Gruff Justice: Man Nips Neighbor's Nether Regions in Retaliation

It was a serene Tuesday morning, just the sort of day you'd expect to be filled with little else than the rustling of leaves and the occasional buzz of a downing bird. Oh, how disastrously wrong we were. If you happen to live in the blissful rural idylls of Squabbington, perhaps it was when you heard the howls echoing down the valley when you realized this wasn't going to be your average teatime.

Our tale begins with Irwin Spud, an otherwise humdrum man, with a penchant for gardening and a profound dislike for his neighbor’s goats. Ah yes, the goats, or the ruminating Menaces as Irwin would often call them. These particularly frolicksome wanderers had been neck-deep in the radishes and as if that wasn't enough, had treat themselves to a healthy side of Irwin's prized begonias.

Something in Irwin just snapped when he saw the destruction. His cheeks burned redder than the ripest chili as he cussed under his breath and made way towards Rufus Finkelstein's property-- the owner of the aforementioned Mammal Malfeasers. As fate would have it, Rufus was blissfully sunbathing, perhaps even a little too blissfully, with his nether regions a little more exposed than the neighborhood guidelines would recommend. As per potential explicit content norms, we'll refrain from providing any graphical image of this particular part of the story. The world doesn't need to see a bare-bottomed Finkelstein in nature's glory.

What ensued is something that one might delicately put as "crude revenge." After all, desperate times did call for desperate measures. Irwin's sense of justice took an odiously visceral turn when he landed a lethal chomp to Rufus' unwarranted exposure. As the howl echoed through the green expanse of Squabbington, so did the tale of the man with a mouthful of Finkelstein Flesh bit right into the annals of neighborhood history.

The air hasn't been the same since in sweet Squabbington. Irwin, now often referred to as Fangs-Spud, often reports a peculiar aftertaste when biting into his homegrown radishes. Rufus, on a wheelchair with a cushion, has developed an acute paranoia of dentures, even those on TV. And the goats? They've since been shipped off to Finkelstein's mother in the city. Irwin's garden, we hear, has never been more radiant.

Could there be a moral lurking in this whacky tale, a guide to neighborhood diplomacy perhaps? Well, probably not. But if we had to pin it down, it would probably sound a bit like this: Keep your goats (and other parts) at bay, Squabbington isn't quite ready to take any more 'bites' out of the ordinary.