When Dale swung the weed whacker at her, Jodie knew he meant business.
It wasn’t the first time he complained about the political sign in her yard, but it might be the last if he didn’t put that demonic power tool back in his garage. His grass was dry and brown, thinning over cracks of dirt just like hers, so he had no excuse to use it for its true purpose.
Only as a threat.
She was more annoyed than afraid, and while Dale had always seemed a bit unstable, Jodie didn’t believe he would hurt her. Not really.
Maybe a little bit.
When she backed up, stepping carefully as she moved further up her driveway towards the side door of her house, he followed, his pace growing faster than hers until their neighbor’s dog barked.
And barked.
Cleo had been quiet, oddly enough, while Dale and Jodie argued over the sound of the whacker. Usually, nothing kept that dog quiet. Everyone on their street wondered if and when the dog slept with her busy barking schedule.
The dog drew Dale’s attention from Jodie and the sign, angering him further until he rushed towards the neighbor’s fence. Cleo was standing on her hind legs, reaching up to press her front paws on the gate, and a sudden fear struck Jodie’s heart, that the dog would set herself free and launch her enormous weight at Dale’s whacker.
Before Jodie could shout a warning, Dale tripped over a crack in the concrete and fell, landing face down on the whacker head. The droning stopped as the whacker squealed, its high-pitch matching Dale’s screams.
A warm spray of blood slapped over Jodie’s cheekbones as Cleo bounded across the yard into Jodie’s driveway, her tail wagging enthusiastically as she lapped at Dale’s shredded face.
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