The Meanest Man In Town

I grew up in a small prairie town in the seventies. At the end of our street lived a man we only knew as Mr. Johnson. Everyone said he was the meanest man in town. He would never say Hi to anyone and drove this scary old truck. We were all terrified of him. One fall, we decided to have some fun so we picked some crabapples and headed off to Mr. Johnson’s house. We snuck closer and closer and when the time was right we began to lob our apples at his windows. Our laughter soon turned to fear as an angry Mr. Johnson came out after us. We scattered in all directions, and as I ran in terror I stepped on a rotten board that covered an old well. The board gave way, and I plummeted into the inky darkness. I cried for help but all of my friends had abandoned me. My grasp on the ledge began to slip. I would surely die here. Just then I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. “Hang on son, I’ve got you!”. It was old Mr. Johnson! He pulled me to safety and brushed me off. “That was a close one! We better get you inside and clean you up!”. He brought me into his house and while my wet clothes hung by the fire he gave me a bowl of hot soup and some milk. Then he drove me home and as he left I remember thinking how wrong I had been about him all these years. That was until the next day. The miserable old prick had spiked my soup with a powerful horse laxative and I spent the next three weeks glued to the toilet. And after that whenever Mr. Johnson saw me in the store or at the market he would laugh and say, “Hey, looks like this little asshole could use a bowl of soup!!”. He really was the meanest man in town…