We'll call her Bertie. On this night, though, she earned a more glorious handle.
Bertie, a widow, lived alone on Gordon Drive. A small, mature lady, she looked like a favorite aunt. When the burglar, Wet Willie, first saw her--sitting there in a rocker, with the latest best seller--he had the same impression. That is, after his initial shock of finding someone in a house he thought was unoccupied.
They saw each other simultaneously. She, having heard the sliding glass door open. He, hearing her soft, Who's there? Both stared at each other, their mental computers sorting the data. Bertie's had a faster processor. She sensed danger, that produced rage.
Bertie opened up a can of Whoopass. First she threw her book at him. Then she charged him, hammering him with anything she could use as a bludgeon. This included her foot stool, a floor lamp, and a putter she used for a walking stick. She continued the onslaught until Willie, battered and bleeding, staggered from the house and jumped over the rear seawall. Then, having taken out the trash herself, Mizz Bertie called us.
After we grabbed Willie, we asked Bertie why she'd done such a reckless thing.
I don't know, she said. I can't imagine me doing that. But, when I looked up and saw him in my home, uninvited, I just lost control. . .him trying to take advantage of a defenseless woman. (Yep, Bertie, defenseless. You and the 5th Marines)
We'd found Wet Willie on the beach, his hands shielding his head, sobbing. When we turned him over he seemed relieved it was just the cops. All we'd do is put him in jail. A better alternative than more Bertie. All the way to the jail he muttered, What's wrong with that woman. I was gonna leave, I was gonna run.
Could be, but tucked in Wet Willie's belt, we found a Ruger Single-Six .22 revolver. Just happened to have it along in case he broke into an empty house and found out it wasn't. A great plan. . .unless you happen to cross paths with a Bad, Bad, Bertie.
Bertie, a widow, lived alone on Gordon Drive. A small, mature lady, she looked like a favorite aunt. When the burglar, Wet Willie, first saw her--sitting there in a rocker, with the latest best seller--he had the same impression. That is, after his initial shock of finding someone in a house he thought was unoccupied.
They saw each other simultaneously. She, having heard the sliding glass door open. He, hearing her soft, Who's there? Both stared at each other, their mental computers sorting the data. Bertie's had a faster processor. She sensed danger, that produced rage.
Bertie opened up a can of Whoopass. First she threw her book at him. Then she charged him, hammering him with anything she could use as a bludgeon. This included her foot stool, a floor lamp, and a putter she used for a walking stick. She continued the onslaught until Willie, battered and bleeding, staggered from the house and jumped over the rear seawall. Then, having taken out the trash herself, Mizz Bertie called us.
After we grabbed Willie, we asked Bertie why she'd done such a reckless thing.
I don't know, she said. I can't imagine me doing that. But, when I looked up and saw him in my home, uninvited, I just lost control. . .him trying to take advantage of a defenseless woman. (Yep, Bertie, defenseless. You and the 5th Marines)
We'd found Wet Willie on the beach, his hands shielding his head, sobbing. When we turned him over he seemed relieved it was just the cops. All we'd do is put him in jail. A better alternative than more Bertie. All the way to the jail he muttered, What's wrong with that woman. I was gonna leave, I was gonna run.
Could be, but tucked in Wet Willie's belt, we found a Ruger Single-Six .22 revolver. Just happened to have it along in case he broke into an empty house and found out it wasn't. A great plan. . .unless you happen to cross paths with a Bad, Bad, Bertie.
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