Grassroots Justice
CHAPTER 1 — “Grassroots Justice”
“They say a man’s lawn is his legacy. His green-flecked, sweat-stained declaration to the heavens that he gave a damn. But in Welvin, Massachusetts, that legacy can vanish faster than a crabgrass bloom in July—and brother, when it does, you better hope to God I’m on the case.”
Frank Peniston stood on his front porch, arms crossed, squinting into the golden hour like he expected a Soviet sniper in the azaleas. The wind caught the hem of his slightly wrinkled white button-up, sending it flapping like a battle flag. His neon green crossing guard vest gleamed under the sun’s judgmental glare. To the untrained eye, he looked like a man casually sipping a Full Throttle in his driveway. But to those in the know, he was locked in full tactical surveillance mode. Off the books, of course.
A faint whirring echoed down the block—Chet Loomis’s mower. Frank tensed. Precision-cut patterns. Diagonal pass. Repetition of lines.Tooclean.Suspicious.
“That’s not mowing,” Frank muttered. “That’s psychological warfare.”
Just then, the screen door to Frank’s house squealed open like a dying possum and slammed against the siding. Ronald Whitaker emerged, moving at a brisk pace that screamed “emergency,” if you were the kind of guy who regularly performed wind tunnel simulations on dandelions.
“Frank,” Ronald wheezed. “It’s gone.”
Frank didn’t turn. “What’s gone, Ronald?” he said with the calm of a man who’d once disarmed a suspicious sprinkler system using only a paperclip and a packet of Tang.
“My mower,” Ronald said, voice cracking like a teenager on prom night. “It was there this morning. By 2:40 p.m.—gone."
Frank inhaled sharply through his nose. He tasted nitrogen. Fertilizer.Malice.He turned slowly. “Model.”
“GreenTech QuietStorm 500. Electric. Self-propelling. LED display with adjustable height settings. I had it dialed to 3.5 centimeters for optimal summer growth taper—”
Frank held up a hand. “You had a damnbeauty,Ronald.”
Ronald looked down, devastated. “Claire’s out visiting her sister in Hyannis. If she comes back and sees I let someone just walk off with my mower—”
Frank walked forward and clapped a firm hand on Ronald’s shoulder. “You didn’tletanything happen. That mower wastaken. And whoever did it... just declared war on the American dream.”
***
Inside Frank’s garage, clutter reigned with purpose. Duct-taped gadgets, exposed circuitry, several “as seen on TV” products repurposed for semi-lethal use, and a wall calendar from 2003 featuring bikini models posing with chainsaws.
In the corner sat a lone angelfish in a bubbling tank. Fitch. Watching. Judging.
Frank sat at his workbench, magnifying glass over his eye like a jeweler who moonlit as a war criminal. In front of him, a single grass blade Ronald had brought as evidence lay on a microfiber cloth.
Frank powered up hisTurf Tracker 5000™—a handheld device made from a Nintendo Game Boy, an electric toothbrush, and what looked suspiciously like parts of Ronald’s missing toaster.
Beep. Beep.BLEEEEEEP.
Frank turned to Ronald, dead serious.
“This blade’s been traumatized.”
Ronald blinked. “Trauma—what?”
Frank stood, pacing. “Sheared. Not by dull blades. These wereprecision cut. Probably a 202-series rotary slicer, the kind soldonlyin landscaping catalogs you need a subscription to even look at. Someone with connections. Experience. Access to blade lubricant.”
“Jesus,” Ronald whispered.
Frank pointed to the base of the blade. “Notice the discoloration. Neon green residue. Not your average battery acid. That’sGreenForce synthetic lithium polymer blend. Industrial stuff. This wasn’t a petty theft.”
He turned, gazing into the distance like he could see straight through the pine trees into hell itself.
“This was a message.”
Frank slowly leaned back against the wall. A fan rotated dramatically.
“You know, I didn’t always do this.”
Ronald sighed. “Frank—”
“I used to be a crossing guard.”
“I know, I live next to you—”
“There was a time I believed in the system. Believed that if I held up that stop sign high enough, loud enough, maybe—just maybe—we could stop tragedy from crossing into our lives.”
Ronald rubbed his temples.
“There was a parade,” Frank continued, voice thick with pathos. “Seniors on scooters. A runaway Choco-Cherry Chillz ice cream truck. I shouted. I pointed. Istopped. That day, I became more than a man with a vest. I became something else. Somethingoff the books.”
Ronald just stared.
***
Frank cracked open a fresh Full Throttle. The can hissed like a snake about to deliver its final sermon. He sipped.
“Bold citrus blend. Uncompromising energy. That’s the taste of justice.”
He walked to his Malibu—Madge—parked at an aggressive angle in the driveway, always ready to go. Limp Bizkit’sRollin’was already queued up on the dash-mounted MP3 CD player.
He opened the trunk, revealing a foam-lined case of oddly-shaped gadgets, chrome tools, and at least three handguns, none of which he could legally own.
Frank snapped on a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses, his reflection catching the glow of the fading sun and the trembling eyes of Ronald behind him.
“Whoever took your mower thinks this town’s a joke. Time to prove we’re not laughing.”
He got into Madge. The engine roared to life.
“Let’s mow some truth.”
