Karma

I grew up next door to an only child that was about 2 years older than I was.  His parents spoiled the crap out of that kid and if he did anything wrong, they never lifted a finger against him.  "My child didn't do it" syndrome.  In front of his parents, he was always an angel.  Once he was away from his parents, always causing mischief.  One time, it was just he and I playing with his Lionel railroad set outside in what was called the carport.  After a time, he became bored so he caught a green lizard.  He disconnected part of the track so that the leads of the rail were sticking out.  He turned the train on just enough so that there was electricity flowing through the track.  He forced the lizards mouth open and held it to the leads.  Immediately, the lizard began to contort and change colours.  I told him to stop because I think he is killing the lizard.  He wanted to see what happens he said.  The lizard was looking worse.  I couldn't stop this kid because I was much smaller in stature and he was a bully anyway.  I don't even know why I was over there except that he was just next door and I had no one else to play with.  I couldn't stand watching him torture one of God's creatures, so I left.  Along Six Mile Creek, someone must have had a lot of time on their hands.  They had dug a series of tunnels into the bank of the creek.  One of  them even had a radio installed into the wall of one of the tunnels.  The next door neighbor kid and several others rode our bicycles to the creek to do some exploring.  While crawling through one of the tunnels "Mr. Mischief" let's call him, was having one of his moments.  He had caused a cave in.  It was not a serious one, but for a child of our age, it was serious enough.  He couldn't stop what he had caused, so he climbed on his bike and rode home; not to get help, but to pretend that he had nothing to do with the situation.  The rest of us were left to dig out the poor sap that was covered up.  Another time, we were riding our bikes through an old grave yard.  We all got off to walk our bikes through for a better look at the grave stones.  We all came upon a bee's nest that was on the ground.  We had the good sense to see the swarm swirling in the air and to leave it alone.  We gave wide clearance for the swarm.  I had noticed that "Mr.  Mischief" had turned around and went back, but I didn't pay attention to why.  It wasn't but a few seconds later and he had run by us like he was running for his life. I wound up getting stung by a couple of the bees and we ran like hell also.  He had gone back to poke at the nest on the ground and stirred the bees up good.  By the end of the day my arm where I had been stung, began to swell.  The next day my arm was twice its size.  My father was asking questions and I couldn't tell him because I wasn't supposed to be so far from the house.   I didn't have his or my mothers permission to ride for miles away.  On the third day my arm was so swollen that the skin on my arm began to split and look nasty.  My father said, "Ok.  That's it.  I'm taking you to the hospital".  It turned out that I was allergic to bees and I had to have a shot of antihistamine.  The swelling had gone done in a couple of days.  Years later, this same kid and a group of other bad asses from school that this kid was hanging with were out at the property that his parents bought for him to go deer hunting on.  I never heard all of the story because few ever spoke of what actually happened, but as the story goes, they were sitting around the campfire after a day of hunting.  All had been smoking grass and doing other "stuff".  Someone had a shotgun laying across their lap and pointed right at the head of the kid sitting next to him.  The gun accidentally went off.  I'm sure that after looking the situation over, they decided that this kid was surely dead.  Too much of his head if that was his head, was missing.  Rather than take him to the hospital to be pronounced dead, they just took him straight to the morgue.  I never did catch who all was involved and it really doesn't matter.  Later in time, "Mr. Mischief's" father was looking for his guns.  "Mr. Mischief" had stolen them and hocked them at the pawn shop to buy some smack.  He was an addict.  Probably trying to forget what had happened with the kid.  His parents later sent him to a rehabilitation clinic, he married, had a kid, and divorced.  He found a job up in Dallas, Texas and was working up there.  One weekend on his drive home, he stopped off at one of his friend's home because he was so tired he would have never made it home safely.  His friends made him a pallet to lay down on and go to sleep.  He did.  At thirty three years old, he had done enough smack to wreck his body.  When he went to sleep, he never work up again.  Karma. Karma always comes around sooner or later.
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