It was an evening in January and Brighton had shut down because of blizzards for the first time in twenty years. I had trundled my way to the shop for provisions and on my way back I noticed a doddery figure with a wad of new snow in his hand on the opposite side of the street. As I neared him I feared him less for I determined he was of an age that was no threat. Or shouldn't be. Still, he clocked me and moved into the road. He slurred some words in my direction, "You've stepped over the over line there, Son!" and as he did so he raised his fistful. Now I knew it was too big for him to throw with any kind of accuracy, and I also knew that I too had an ice ball cocked and ready to go in my right paw (for I had been keeping my eye in at lampposts and such). "Go for it!" I offered, showing him what I had prepared. He looked and considered and laughed at the position he had put himself in. "Ha ha! Well done! You got me. You go on". But the thrill of the thing must have turned his head because at ten paces he hollered and aimed and counted to three, then he shot his load… straight into a tree. He stood there silent and who knows what watery thoughts dribbled away, but he was ready to take whatever I had. His sense of irreverence reminded me of my dad, and I let fly at his head hoping to smash his few remaining teeth in. I missed him too as it turned out. You should always aim for the heart.