With maniacal laughter, George Talbert slices through another tree. His fat arms quiver exhausted and the chainsaw buzzes mad, as if on the verge of breaking down. Talbert has felled about fifty trees so far. A whole livelihood of maples in fact. The air is pungent with revenge, sweet-sweet mapley revenge.
The tall tree begins to fall with a crack. He releases his finger from the chainsaws trigger and screams a sarcastic, “Timber!”
He wipes cold sweat from his bald scalp with shaky fingers and turns.
He smiles, jaw aching, at the wide fierce eyes of farmer Brown.
Talbert stares back, black splotches forming at the corners of his vision. This man’s reaction, trussed up, ball-gagged and fuming, is his reward.
“Didn’t have to come to this,’ Talbert wheezes. “You could have dammed the river elsewhere.”
The ache in his chest grows into an inferno of pain. He collapses to one knee, mouth working around a suddenly fat useless tongue. He is desperate to gloat more, but can’t, and dies.