Fredric Humphrey Rudford, hunched and haggard, peers over his fence, eyes narrowed on the cluster of teenagers gathered nearby. His hand grips a stone, knuckles white with irritation, as he prepares yet another volley.
"Get off my grass! Stay off my driveway! No ball games here!" His voice slices through the evening, sharp and unyielding.
The sign—'no ball games'—taunts them from atop the fence, its letters faded but its message clear. The teenagers, hardened by life and their own struggles, debate amongst themselves, weighing the old man’s provocations against their own rising anger.
Darnell, the most outspoken, steps forward, his voice edged with warning.
"Yo, old man, throw one more stone, I will wet you up," he threatens, his words hanging heavy in the thickening dusk.
Fredric mutters curses at the screen and at the world outside, his solitude punctuated only by the shrill ring of his phone and the distant shouts from the street.
His family, long estranged, are nothing but ghosts within these walls, their absence as loud as his rage.
The old man’s anger transforms into fear as the pounding grows louder. He scrambles for his phone, dialing desperately, his words lost in the chaos.
"Who's at my door? You little thugs, I’ll have you arrested!" he shouts, even as his voice trembles.
The old man stands his ground, hurling insults and threats, but the tension finally erupts. Blades flash, blood spills—rage and vengeance collide in the cramped living room.
Within minutes, the deed is done. The old man lies motionless, tea spilled across the carpet, his final stone cast.
A few days later, the village church is nearly empty for the funeral. Seven mourners gather, their faces etched with indifference and relief. The priest speaks of a career in law, a fractured family, and a community scarred by conflict.
James Andrews, the reporter, stands quietly, notebook in hand.
"Some people are just mean," he muses to the group, "and in the real world, a bad temper can be fatal—at any age."
James listens, realizing that Fredric’s legacy is neither hero nor victim, but a cautionary tale of bitterness unrestrained.
Outside, the compost bin stands empty, the grass reclaiming its space, and the sign—‘no ball games’—fades into memory, marking the end of Fredric Humphrey Rudford’s last war.
