The Mouthy Road Worker

I walked down the street with Otto. As we headed down to Smith Street, the same two guys paid to stand around and, well, I'd say direct traffic, but all they seem to be doing is gossiping like a couple of old blokes at a loss at what to do with their lives, one of which who threatened to 'teach me a lesson' last week when I, guess I, refused to take his complaints about Bruno pissing on his dirty old witches hat seriously. 

A smart arsed cunt, I think he called me.

Well, anyway, I entertained the thought of telling him I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, if he bought it up, as we passed by. And he was someone who liked the sound of his own voice, voicing his opinions, I knew that.

"Hey, you?"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah, you smart arsed cunt."

"I'm sorry, I think you must have me mixed up with someone else."

"You and your pissy fucken dog." 

"Nah, sorry mate, I don't know what you are talking about."

"You let your fucken dog piss on me witches hat."

"No, mate, as I said, you must be confusing me with one of your other friends." (Do you like what I did there?)

"Last week, or so, walking up here."

"No, mate, you are confused. My dog never pissed on any, um,  witch's hat, you say." (Remember, I had Otto with me, not Bruno.)

"You were real smart arse about it."

Return a look of concern for his mental state. You know, grimace, and look sorry for him.

That's the scenario that raced through my brain when I saw his ugly mug yapping onto his mate at the end of the laneway there as Otto and I headed down to Smith Street. It made me chuckle.

They have been standing there for weeks, well at least one week, doing nothing.

But, I crossed the road instead. I don't want to waste any breath with a dope like that. He reminded me of Fred Flintstone. In fact, his buddy in standing around was a bit Barney Rubble.

I told myself I must walk back up one street sooner on the way back, and I did.