text: “I’ve had it. It’s time someone did something about this. And it looks like it’s up to me.” I had seen it happen once too often. There had to be a line drawn. “Yeah, so what are you going to do? Come on; you keep saying you’ll do something about it and never do. You just let it go every time.” My disheveled husband of forty-three years doesn’t even look at me as he says it. I roll my eyes, but not where he can see me. He would just laugh. And I’m unsure what I might do if he did that. What happened to that adorable long-haired hippie I fell in love with? I suppose it could have had something to do with what we were smoking then. I could use a doobie right now. Nope, got to keep my eye on the prize. Not a prize, a duty. Someone has to do it. Make a statement. Some of that good ole stubborn determination. My grandson thinks we’re all talk and don’t know what’s going on. We can see what’s going on. I have to wait until dark. Nothing in the light of day would do. I certainly didn’t want to go to jail for the evil that others do. It’s simply unforgivable that some people have no respect for others and would be so callous in their actions. I intend to do something about it. It’s time. Let’s draw the line. It’s becoming cloudy outside. That’s good; it will be dark sooner, dark enough, anyway. My once long-haired hippie, now bald, pot-bellied, muscles gone to shit husband, is asleep in his well-worn Lazy-boy. I can be out and done and back before he knows I’m gone. I’m not sure he would care. Over the past few decades, he has lost his attraction for making things right. Not me. Not this time. It’s time for a reckoning. It took forever for the street lights to come on; it’s dark enough now. Easing the truck down the driveway with lights off proved effortless. Only turning them on when I reached the main highway was simple. Okay, now I must think this through and not make any mistakes. I have my map with me. I suppose it is good that I’m a few more weeks from retirement. The job at the DMV has helped to make this plan much easier to accomplish. My list is on the seat beside me. A quick stop at the corner market, load up, and then I’m ready. Only four stops. There could be more later; I’ll take care of them when the time comes. Good old hubby never could understand the notes I made. The market isn’t crowded; the same street lights have been out for the past few months. It’s almost like the universe is telling me, ‘do it, do it, do it.’ Who am I to argue with the universe? The truck is full; I have all I need. Patting my front pocket, I assure myself, yes, I’m ready. And dammit, I’m gonna make a difference tonight! I feel almost happy. It’s so good to be doing something, even if it is against the law. I’ll be doing someone a load of good. Maybe a lot of someones. Who’s to know? It’s one of those things that you can never really tell what benefits there are; you just know that the detriments will apply to the bad, bad people. I understand, yes, I do, that there are levels of badness. A little bad, then a little bit badder, and then the baddest. These fall into the baddest, mainly because it’s the same bad people every time. They’re going to learn this time. Turning the radio on in the truck - thank god for Alexa - Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet Band are rocking out “Old Time Rock and Roll.” I relax as I make my way to my first stop. Lights are on inside, but it is noisy. There will be no tell-tell signs that I am here. The laughter and television will cover any sound. I almost hope there is an alarm, but no, there is not. Fifteen minutes later, I’m done. Oh yeah, I do want a picture. Taking out my phone, I make a few clicks. The next stop is tricky; there is no noise to cover my progress. I’ll come back to this one later, perhaps make it my last stop. The next two stops are as simple as the first. Typical jerks. Proclaiming ignorance of their evil deeds, going on about dinner and homework and television. The last one. Still quiet. Lights are on; my approach will be tricky. There is a garage, unlike the other three. Perhaps easier, maybe not. It needs to be done. My little town will not go the way of the bigger ones. I’ve heard about them. Tens of hundreds of them. The mayhem. Not here, no, not here. Just a few pics, and I’m done. I hear a car pulling into the driveway. Not good; if they open the garage door...I slide under the car just as the door begins to rise. Someone running, yelling for those inside the house. I slide out and run down the driveway, away from the yelling and outside lights. The truck is out of sight, around the next corner. I don’t breathe again until I’m driving home. Pulling off my stocking cap, I laugh. Oh, it felt good. And it will feel even better when I post those pictures for all the world to see. Once again, on the side of luck, I have a grandson who doesn’t know I was paying close attention when he demonstrated incognito postings. I might be old; I’m not dumb. Bald hippie husband stands at the open refrigerator door as I walk in, gulping milk from the carton. Great. No cereal for me tomorrow. “Where you been?” I took a chance. “Just brought the trash bin in from the road.” “Hmm. I’m headed up to bed; you coming?” He didn’t offer that he had been looking for me. He likely didn’t even know I had been gone. “I’ll be up in a few,” I replied. I had my laptop open on the table before I heard the water running from upstairs. He wouldn’t be back down. It only took me a few minutes to load the pictures and release them to the world. My next trip down the road would not encounter the same problems as before. I had eradicated those, as evidenced in the photos. Four cars, all four expensive cars. Dinged and dented, windshield broken, and the culprit which I had stolen - yes, stolen! - from the market, super-glued - with the super-duper kind (I checked it out) onto the hood of each car. A cart, well-used, rusting in various spots, wheels resting on the broken wipers and fancy hood ornaments, not removed easily, if at all. And a large sign on each one: PUT THE DAMN CART IN THE CART CORRAL, YOU DISRESPECTFUL IDIOT!