Let’s say you’re having a dispute with your neighbor. The ones with those noisy kids. As if the little brats don’t raise enough of a ruckus on their own, the idiots like to play with their dog, too…in their own back yard for God’s sake. And they let the mangy mutt run around off its leash. What they need is someone to teach ’em a lesson is what they need. So when the smart-mouth jerk “apologizes,” you know damn well he doesn’t mean it. That’s when you pull your trusty hog leg to let ’em know you mean *burp* bidness. Who knew the smart-mouth bastard would drop a dime on you? . . .
When the county mounties finally show up, you think about offering them a sip of the Dewar’s you’ve been knocking back all afternoon, but why should you waste good scotch? Besides, they’re starting to piss you off. If they take another step onto your property, you know exactly what yer gonna do — call the damn NRA, that’s what. You know your goddam rights!
All of a sudden, one of the smart-asses slices through your screen and snatches your wheel gun right off the table next to you. You try to get up to give ’em a piece of your (slightly pickled) mind, but whoa!…maybe you downed a little more hooch than you thought. You almost *buuuurrrp* fall over. Ha!
Once they stuff you in the back of the cruiser, the gentle rocking back and forth as they drive you away from the Del Boca Vista complex lulls you right to sleep. Hell, you were about to take a nap anyway, right? But then you get to the county lock-up and they stuff you in this orange jumpsuit. Crap on a cracker, it’s itchy. You sure could use another pop right about now, but since they took your finger prints, you know good and well they’re probably gonna wanna take a picshur too and…cheeeeeeeeeeeeese!