Childhood Stories: Vigilantes

In the height of my childhood, literally every weekend would be spent at my grandparent's house to ride Kawasaki dirtbikes. My grandfather owns a whole bunch of riding space and you can tear ass everywhere. He had 3 dirtbikes, 2 mini bikes, 2 street motorcycles, and a spree. Every weekend, fun would commence.

My grandfather was also into being a caretaker for wild ducks. He would feed ducks every day in the stream that ran through his property. This led him to trap for anti-duck lifeforms and so all along the stream he set patented Anti-Duck destructo traps. Some were at some moderate distances so he'd take his dirtbike for getting there.

One day it was business as usual, he parked the bike on the side of the road and walked down to check his traps. Empty... He returned to the bike.. or rather the empty road where the bike was. He's hard of hearing so it's no suprise that somebody made off with his bike without his knowledge. Gone....

He walked home got bike #1 and went back to the scene of the crime. But was unable to find any trace of the theives. Over the next few days he kept up his routines, now burying Bike #1 in the foilage and chaining it to trees. Business picked up when after a heavy rain, his custom tire tracks from Bike #0 appeared in the dirt road.

He followed the tracks to a house about a half mile away. Then he waited for the weekend to come. This was when I finally entered the story. My father & uncles were outraged. We went to that house in two carloads of people. We pulled up in front of this house and started offloading like one of those soilder transports. My Uncle started walking into this guy's backyard, but didn't spot anything. The guy came out of the house and asked what we were all doing there. We explained things, and I could tell by the look in his face he was holding back.

We drove to a sand pit right around the corner and sure enough, the custom tire tracks were everywhere. That was when we heard it. The scream of Bike #0's engine. Back to the cars we went, but the sounds were on the railroad tracks and out of reach. Our caravan split up and began a patrol operation. I think one car actually got on the railroad tracks. But as luck to this story would have it, it was our patrol that found Bike #0.

A teenage boy named Chad was at the end of his driveway with Bike #0. My father pulled up in our pick-up two inches from hitting the bike to cut off his escape. It was then that Chad told us that he found it in a ditch. I screamed.. "YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT ASSHOLE!!" He said something about me not having to swear at him and dad told me to be quiet so he could yell at him while I loaded the bike up. Then we drove away.

On the trip back, I examined the bike and found that it was pretty banged up. Either intentionally on not I wasn't sure. The hick from the first house was driving past as we were leaving and he shouted some obsenities at my father. He followed us to my grandparent's house and tried to make nice with us. But it doesn't help. He sucks and so does his children.

The End.