[dropcap]I[/dropcap] went to a garage sale yesterday. A little boy sat on his front porch, gnawing on a fresh watermelon slice as big as my leg. He was unaware of all the people around him, face-deep in that watermelon.

I used to love watermelon. Still do, in fact.

Growing up, Mister Tony, who lived up the road, grew watermelon in his garden every year. And every year, my buddy and I would sneak into his garden, and steal them. We’d plop one in our bicycle basket, ride down to the creek, and feast on our spoils like a couple of conquistadors.

One year, after nearly a dozen watermelon heists, old Tony’d had just about enough of our thievery. When we snuck into his garden, we found a freshly painted sign that read, “One of these watermelons has rat poison inside of it.”

“You think he’s serious?” I whispered to my buddy.

“How should I know, he’s plumb crazy.”

Such vengeful antics were not uncommon for Mister Tony. Once, we’d seen Robby Waller strung up by his underpants for shooting out a window in the old man’s shed.

“Hey,” my buddy whispered. “I have an idea.”

My friend and I snuck into Mister Tony’s shed, and borrowed some paint and a brush.

The next morning, when Mister Tony visited his garden, he was greeted by a sign that read, “Good morning. Now there are two watermelons with rat poison.”

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