August 18, 2029 6:48 A.M. Port Angeles, WA

Ted always carries a tiny cannon ballpoint pen, just in case of a rare splendid coincidence as with Brewster McShirken. Today the Porsche is at a dealership garage for repairs. Ted is waiting for a bus to go shopping downtown.

 

Along comes a psychopathic Mexican transient about twenty two, He is tall, and in good condition.  The minute he sees Ted, that monkey’s itch seals his fate. He can’t resist.  He has to hurt this Gringo any way he can, to justify something within himself. He walks right up close, and with brewery breath, says.

 

“Hey man, you doan like Mexicans. I can tell. You not smilin’ for me, Mothafuck.”

 

Ted knows the futility of talk with subhumans, takes the ballpoint out of  his shirt pocket, aims casually it at the contorted face as he pretends to scratch his ear, fires, shakes his head, and says softly,

 

“There is no hope for you, Amigo.”

 

The bus comes in a nick of time. As he gets on board, Ted says,

 

“Adios, Senor”

 

The transient looks so disappointed and bewildered. He was hoping for so much more.

 

Three days later he gets it.  After drinking a great many giant glasses of discount beer, the transient is crossing the street when the poison hits him. He falls down dead. Seconds later, a young man turns a nearby corner driving a huge truck filed with bricks. He is distracted looking at a girl, doesn’t see the transient in the road, and reduces him to a classic squirrel style road kill. Later, the poor fellow literally has to be scraped off the hot pavement.

 

In the meantime, when the police arrive, and smell the beer, they make their report, and nobody even thinks to suggest an autopsy.

 

When Ted hears these details on the evening news, he is delighted. It’s always best to take the fight to the enemy, which means no war casualties in one’s home town.