The incident had it all, including the booze and the broads and the wailing sax in the background. Bullfield Road resident and local bully Mick van der Meer took it personally when a black Escalade rear-ended his F-250 in the parking lot of the Stop n’Go last Saturday night, and then didn’t take kindly to the misplaced Yankee’s Jersey plates, smart mouth and global warming bumper sticker.
Armed with a pocketful of grudges and a mean slice on the links, van der Meer leaned back in his creaking desk chair, squinted up at the moaning ceiling fan through his gin haze and recounted the parking lot snafu. “That pathetic pretty boy had it comin’,” he muttered as he broke the filter off an Old Gold and poured a Medley Brothers with an Aqua Velva chaser in a Tupperware cup. “Don’t ask for whom the sax wails, it wails for that bleating punk I roundhoused in the bottom of the fifth when he jacked my wheels and did not, as you say, request my forgiveness.”
After the initial confrontation and as the pin-headed Corzine-hugging Jerseyite traded barbs with the bellicose bully van der Meer, the fracas turned ugly. “I had to wrench him out the window of his Escalade into the Stop n’Go parking lot like a volunteer fireman pulling a 2-week-old corpse off a smoldering mattress in a Route 1 fleabag,” van der Meer spit as he cocked his snap-brim fedora and ignored the jangling phone. “He was reticent at first to apologize, but he sang in response to a little chin music and my full nelson before coughing up a throaty act of contrition faster than a post-whack wise guy with a bloody shiv, a spaghetti-smeared bib and a guilty look on his face facing the Padre for the hundredth time down at St. Vitus.”
“I told that carpetbagging New England clam chowderhead that I was gonna bum two-bits from the one-eyed bag lady with the limp then poke him up the nose wid ‘em if he didn’t trade insurance information,” van der Meer continued, “Otherwise I was gonna have to go Ralph Kramden-style, with a one-two to the puss followed by a quick ass-ride to the pavement, wid no stops on the way down.”
“He ain’t so priddy no more,” van der Meer reflected, “now he’s ugly as homemade soap, sportin’ a mouthfulla bloody Chiclets as he drives home talkin’ to himself.”
There were no broads in this story, despite the tantalizing lead.
