Milo

Milo was a squirt of a kid.  He loved nothing more than to walk down the road with a big ol’ baseball bat.  He was a punk, that one.  And in his case I say that as a compliment. 

From his appearance you would think him just an average kid were it not for his atypically short stature relative his age bracket.  Anyhow, he had this way about him, that, you would say, extended far beyond his reach.  I mean that both figuratively as well as literally.  

Anyhow, that little son of a bitch gave you pause when he came marching by. And I say that being an adult damn near twice his size at the time.

For one thing, he did just that- he marched.  Not like some ol’ god damn drum major all eager like to please-as-you-will-servant-leader.  

No siree. This kid marched as though he were urgently going to battle and was pissed as hell he weren’t there yesterday.  

He never had a different speed or gate.  He was walking, as they say, with crystal clear intent.  All…the…time. 

And boy would he use that bat.  For nothing good, I’ll tell you that.  Far as I recall he never played an inning of ball.  Was never in little league.  Never in sandlot games.  Far as I an tell that bat never touched a damn ball in all its days.  Mailboxes. Short signs. Car windows. Store windows. That boy down in Windhill. Thems the things that bat encountered.

Anyhow, he came a marchin’ up Main one day with his god damn bat. And I’d just about had enough.  I knew he was all laying carnage across hill and dale smashing up everything a boy of his stature could smash with a bat that size.  But I could never catch that little fucker in the act. 

So I say to him “Hey Milo! What do you intend to do with that bat, son?”

And he says to me “I’ll do whatever I intend to do with this here baseball bat.”

So I say “Now look here son, you best not be sassin’ me. I’m a cop.  Don’t give me reasons to come after you.”

And he says to me “You do that and you’ll see what I do with this here bat.”

And you know, I believed him.