Castle Rock>Read the story!
Processed by: mavenimagery Labs, Universal Studios, Californa.
HDR PROCESSED with IRET (Iris Range Enhancement Technology)
IRET (Iris Range Enhancement Technology and MavenFilters are products of mavenimagery Labs Innovation)
Please read the hilarious true story. Names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. This is not the actual buling narrated in the story.
Click! Click! Click!
The sound of a four-wheeler engine could be heard faintly from a little distance away.
Click. Click!
Now, the sound of the engine was within a disturbing distance.
Click.
Less than in seconds, the sound was pummeling my eardrums.
Can I help you? Asked the man on the four-wheeler.
Having had had heard this question only God knows how many times in my life I knew what it meant: what are you doing in my property? Why are you taking picture of my house, boat, condo, barn, wife, horse, satellite dish, truck, junk, pet, lot, fence, door…and any other million of things that exist under the sun whether they belonged to someone private, company, government, nature or God. In this case it was a million dollar castle-like house. My answer, though rarely varies, is always the same; after a long pause and, “not that damn question again! Can’t you people get a bit more creative?", that is.
Not unless you know how to take pictures, I said casually.
Are you taking picture of my house?
Yes, sir. I think I am.
Why?
Still adjusting the settings, looking for a different angle, I said, I take pictures of beautiful things. And…I pause, wearing a fake curious expression. “Are you the care-taker? The butler? The reason I’m asking cause even the caretaker or the maid uses the expression ‘my house’, like they own the thing…this castle, or whatever.
I’m the owner and you’re trespassing.
That goddamn word hits me right between my eyes every time.
No, I’m not.
Huh?
I resume. Click! Click!
And can you turn that thing off? I’m not really enjoying this engine noise
Do you always go into people’s property and take pictures without asking permission?
Sharks begin swimming in my head.
Yes, I said. But we don’t go knocking on people’s door, disrupting their privacy asking for permission.
We?Professionals! Law-abiding citizens who bear A-Wear-Ness of the law and the privacy of others . Where other’s privacy starts yours ends. The latter is my motto, not in the book.
But you’re trespassing!The sharks transform into little harmless fish.
I’m not trespassing, I say, as matter-of-fact. See, I point at the white painted wooden fence. You’re on the other side of the fence and I’m on this side. If you’ve had owned this side, here, where I’m standing…hey! Look at where I’m pointing! Here! You’d have built your fence here and not here!
Does Terry know you’re in his property?
A shark tries to push or swallow the little fish in my head, but my brain stops it.
I sigh. Not ‘nless he is a psychic. And who the hell is Terry?
Terry is my brother. You could’ve asked him.I turn around. I look at the ram-shackle, falling apart barn. Someone lives in there? Te—
Terry.
Right. Terry.
You, Mr…?
Ratcliffe. Trey Ratcliffe. Cute names. Terry and Trey Ratcliffe. And Terry, your brother. Lives. There. In that pig-stile and you live in that castle, right?
Pause.
Friendly, conspiratorial tone. Listen, Mr Ratcliffe. Don’t get all cute and smart ass with me. I don’t know what’s your stash in that shack or in your castle. I’m not a cop... Excuse the pun Mr Ratcliffe, but I couldn’t care the rat’s ass. In this town if you own a house worth a million dollar, you’re stinking-dirty motherfucker. In LA, if you own a house worth five mil. and you’re not a celeb actor or sports legend-Tiger-Fucking-Woods or the likes, you’re stinking-dirty just the same. What do you do for living? How could you afford this house?
Silence. Mr Ratcliffe only stares, perplexed. Not expecting such an encounter in his present life.
Now, Ima gonna go. I’m losing light. I’m losing the sun.
You’re weird. You’re talking about the sun. What’s your name?
Take the license plate and call the sheriff, Mr Ratcliffe”.
As I drive away, I glance at the side mirror. Mr Ratcliffe driving his four-wheeler like a mad man toward his castle. Good. Call the Sherriff, I mutter to myself.
Almost ten minutes later.
As I look through the view finder, I hear screeching, breaking noise behind me. Then the sound of slamming door of a vehicle.
You’re not going anywhere! Snorts Mr Ratcliffe, holding a cell phone in his hand.
Oh, you again, I say in an indifferent tone. Mr Ratcliffe.
The Chevy truck parked face to face with my Audi, blocking my escaping, so to speak. Mr Ratcliffe is now talking with the Sherriff’s dispatcher, walking back and forth. All I think is, Finally, you dumb-ass-hillbilly-rat-fuck. There is a gentleman here, Mr Ratcliffe’s voice trails off. Acting very evasive...
After a few more clicks of another modern-gothic architecture, I walk toward Mr Ratcliffe and I lean closer to the cell phone, making sure the dispatcher on the other end will hear me.
Stop following me! I shout. Stop fucking wasting my time!
He walks away from me and says, He’s telling me to fucking stop waste his time...
I’m back behind the camera. Several minutes later Mr Ratcliffe finishes his sweet chat, his face ash pale.
They told you to go home, right?The expression on Mr Ratcliffe turned into crimson red and read, How the hell did he know that? Who is this guy?
Suddenly, he makes a dart to the truck, yanks the door open and grabs a weapon.
Didja know that this a cowboy town, boy? he snaps, pointing a .44 caliber Winchester rifle at me, his nostrils widens . Didja?No. Should I?Well, now you should, pretty boy! You’re talking to a cowboy!
Where’re your boots? Your cowboy outfit. You look like one them UPS delivery guys with that stupid shorts.
Well, that don’t’ madder, cause I have the gun now, a stupid, childish-Billy The Kid smirk.
OK, I say in a firm tone, pushing the barrel aside, looking Mr Ratcliffe in the eye. Mr Ratcliffe who turned this whole incident into a personal vendetta; who wanted me on my knees pleading, “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t hurt me,” and him yelling, “Who’s the bitch now? Who? Who’s the rat?”Easy now, Mary, I say as calm as they come. Put The rifle away. I don’t have time to play cowboys with you.
A lost, confused, and totally flabbergasted Mr Ratcliffe pivots on his sandaled feet and screams, Ima shoot your tire!
I let out a deep sigh. Sharks are taking over small fish rapidly.
You know you can’t do that—
Bang! Bang!
The sound was ear-splitting…
Blank cartridge.
I launch at Mr Ratcliffe, pushing him against his truck and press my elbow against his neck, pressing CWP Badge over his face.
Gulp!
I take control of my mind and tell the sharks to go swim and hunt somewhere else. Woosharks!
What’re you doing, man? A friend giving advice to a friend. There is penal code for this: felony! You can’t follow people, point guns at them. You do serious time for this. Get a grip of your wits you twit! See, I was minding my own business, treating you like a man. But, you couldn’t let it go, could you? You had to pull that territorial-cowboy shit with me.
You said you ain’t a cop, comes the garbled voice.
Still am not. This is a protection tool from mindless-rat-fucks like you. It’s a permit to carry gun. See, people get nervous when a gun pointed at them. They reach to their gun and fire back at your miserable-fake-cowboy-ass. You can’t point a gun at anybody. You do at least a year in a pen, that if you have no priors, which I’m sure you do—
Your words against mine,
I exhale. You know what? You’re right. But your neck is against my elbow…do you feel the strength? The suffocating pressure? I could fucking break your neck, beat you to death and call the Sherriff, taking my time and break some more bones until the police arrives. There is no court of law which could prosecute me in this country. It’s called self-defense. Blank or not you have a weapon—
You’re not gonna hurt me are you?
Hurt you? I would protect you against your stupid brains. Now, I’m gonna let you breathe. Are we gonna be cool?
A slight nod.
Are we gonna be cool like Fonzie? You know who’s Fonzie is, right?
A more vigorous nod.
Processed by: mavenimagery Labs, Universal Studios, Californa.
HDR PROCESSED with IRET (Iris Range Enhancement Technology)
IRET (Iris Range Enhancement Technology and MavenFilters are products of mavenimagery Labs Innovation)
Please read the hilarious true story. Names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. This is not the actual buling narrated in the story.
Click! Click! Click!
The sound of a four-wheeler engine could be heard faintly from a little distance away.
Click. Click!
Now, the sound of the engine was within a disturbing distance.
Click.
Less than in seconds, the sound was pummeling my eardrums.
Can I help you? Asked the man on the four-wheeler.
Having had had heard this question only God knows how many times in my life I knew what it meant: what are you doing in my property? Why are you taking picture of my house, boat, condo, barn, wife, horse, satellite dish, truck, junk, pet, lot, fence, door…and any other million of things that exist under the sun whether they belonged to someone private, company, government, nature or God. In this case it was a million dollar castle-like house. My answer, though rarely varies, is always the same; after a long pause and, “not that damn question again! Can’t you people get a bit more creative?", that is.
Not unless you know how to take pictures, I said casually.
Are you taking picture of my house?
Yes, sir. I think I am.
Why?
Still adjusting the settings, looking for a different angle, I said, I take pictures of beautiful things. And…I pause, wearing a fake curious expression. “Are you the care-taker? The butler? The reason I’m asking cause even the caretaker or the maid uses the expression ‘my house’, like they own the thing…this castle, or whatever.
I’m the owner and you’re trespassing.
That goddamn word hits me right between my eyes every time.
No, I’m not.
Huh?
I resume. Click! Click!
And can you turn that thing off? I’m not really enjoying this engine noise
Do you always go into people’s property and take pictures without asking permission?
Sharks begin swimming in my head.
Yes, I said. But we don’t go knocking on people’s door, disrupting their privacy asking for permission.
We?Professionals! Law-abiding citizens who bear A-Wear-Ness of the law and the privacy of others . Where other’s privacy starts yours ends. The latter is my motto, not in the book.
But you’re trespassing!The sharks transform into little harmless fish.
I’m not trespassing, I say, as matter-of-fact. See, I point at the white painted wooden fence. You’re on the other side of the fence and I’m on this side. If you’ve had owned this side, here, where I’m standing…hey! Look at where I’m pointing! Here! You’d have built your fence here and not here!
Does Terry know you’re in his property?
A shark tries to push or swallow the little fish in my head, but my brain stops it.
I sigh. Not ‘nless he is a psychic. And who the hell is Terry?
Terry is my brother. You could’ve asked him.I turn around. I look at the ram-shackle, falling apart barn. Someone lives in there? Te—
Terry.
Right. Terry.
You, Mr…?
Ratcliffe. Trey Ratcliffe. Cute names. Terry and Trey Ratcliffe. And Terry, your brother. Lives. There. In that pig-stile and you live in that castle, right?
Pause.
Friendly, conspiratorial tone. Listen, Mr Ratcliffe. Don’t get all cute and smart ass with me. I don’t know what’s your stash in that shack or in your castle. I’m not a cop... Excuse the pun Mr Ratcliffe, but I couldn’t care the rat’s ass. In this town if you own a house worth a million dollar, you’re stinking-dirty motherfucker. In LA, if you own a house worth five mil. and you’re not a celeb actor or sports legend-Tiger-Fucking-Woods or the likes, you’re stinking-dirty just the same. What do you do for living? How could you afford this house?
Silence. Mr Ratcliffe only stares, perplexed. Not expecting such an encounter in his present life.
Now, Ima gonna go. I’m losing light. I’m losing the sun.
You’re weird. You’re talking about the sun. What’s your name?
Take the license plate and call the sheriff, Mr Ratcliffe”.
As I drive away, I glance at the side mirror. Mr Ratcliffe driving his four-wheeler like a mad man toward his castle. Good. Call the Sherriff, I mutter to myself.
Almost ten minutes later.
As I look through the view finder, I hear screeching, breaking noise behind me. Then the sound of slamming door of a vehicle.
You’re not going anywhere! Snorts Mr Ratcliffe, holding a cell phone in his hand.
Oh, you again, I say in an indifferent tone. Mr Ratcliffe.
The Chevy truck parked face to face with my Audi, blocking my escaping, so to speak. Mr Ratcliffe is now talking with the Sherriff’s dispatcher, walking back and forth. All I think is, Finally, you dumb-ass-hillbilly-rat-fuck. There is a gentleman here, Mr Ratcliffe’s voice trails off. Acting very evasive...
After a few more clicks of another modern-gothic architecture, I walk toward Mr Ratcliffe and I lean closer to the cell phone, making sure the dispatcher on the other end will hear me.
Stop following me! I shout. Stop fucking wasting my time!
He walks away from me and says, He’s telling me to fucking stop waste his time...
I’m back behind the camera. Several minutes later Mr Ratcliffe finishes his sweet chat, his face ash pale.
They told you to go home, right?The expression on Mr Ratcliffe turned into crimson red and read, How the hell did he know that? Who is this guy?
Suddenly, he makes a dart to the truck, yanks the door open and grabs a weapon.
Didja know that this a cowboy town, boy? he snaps, pointing a .44 caliber Winchester rifle at me, his nostrils widens . Didja?No. Should I?Well, now you should, pretty boy! You’re talking to a cowboy!
Where’re your boots? Your cowboy outfit. You look like one them UPS delivery guys with that stupid shorts.
Well, that don’t’ madder, cause I have the gun now, a stupid, childish-Billy The Kid smirk.
OK, I say in a firm tone, pushing the barrel aside, looking Mr Ratcliffe in the eye. Mr Ratcliffe who turned this whole incident into a personal vendetta; who wanted me on my knees pleading, “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t hurt me,” and him yelling, “Who’s the bitch now? Who? Who’s the rat?”Easy now, Mary, I say as calm as they come. Put The rifle away. I don’t have time to play cowboys with you.
A lost, confused, and totally flabbergasted Mr Ratcliffe pivots on his sandaled feet and screams, Ima shoot your tire!
I let out a deep sigh. Sharks are taking over small fish rapidly.
You know you can’t do that—
Bang! Bang!
The sound was ear-splitting…
Blank cartridge.
I launch at Mr Ratcliffe, pushing him against his truck and press my elbow against his neck, pressing CWP Badge over his face.
Gulp!
I take control of my mind and tell the sharks to go swim and hunt somewhere else. Woosharks!
What’re you doing, man? A friend giving advice to a friend. There is penal code for this: felony! You can’t follow people, point guns at them. You do serious time for this. Get a grip of your wits you twit! See, I was minding my own business, treating you like a man. But, you couldn’t let it go, could you? You had to pull that territorial-cowboy shit with me.
You said you ain’t a cop, comes the garbled voice.
Still am not. This is a protection tool from mindless-rat-fucks like you. It’s a permit to carry gun. See, people get nervous when a gun pointed at them. They reach to their gun and fire back at your miserable-fake-cowboy-ass. You can’t point a gun at anybody. You do at least a year in a pen, that if you have no priors, which I’m sure you do—
Your words against mine,
I exhale. You know what? You’re right. But your neck is against my elbow…do you feel the strength? The suffocating pressure? I could fucking break your neck, beat you to death and call the Sherriff, taking my time and break some more bones until the police arrives. There is no court of law which could prosecute me in this country. It’s called self-defense. Blank or not you have a weapon—
You’re not gonna hurt me are you?
Hurt you? I would protect you against your stupid brains. Now, I’m gonna let you breathe. Are we gonna be cool?
A slight nod.
Are we gonna be cool like Fonzie? You know who’s Fonzie is, right?
A more vigorous nod.
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