When Garry was five, he saw the Next-Door-Neighbour give his wife a knuckle sandwich in the mouth, not just one but a whole platter full. So many sandwiches that even if you spun round and round looking at the sky and then wobbled over to the party table, closed your eyes and used your non-dominant hand and took as many sandwiches off of the tin foil-covered tray while the Next-Door-Neighbour was smacking her, you still would get one of every flavour; tuna mayonnaise, egg mayonnaise, cheese and tomato, cheese and finally even an English cucumber one. One might think it a statistical anomaly, but not really; if blindfolded, you keep sticking your hand over and over and over into a bucket of one hundred red balls and one blue ball, you will eventually grab the blue ball.

Her face had exploded in vibrant colours of red with the blue ball nowhere in sight, and yet she did not make a sound. Well, no sound out her mouth, her lips and nose and the rest of her face made sounds like “pop” and “crunch”, like your breakfast cereal when you first open it and pour in the milk.

Garry had just stood there and stared, unbelieving what he was seeing. She stumbled back, and he danced forward, keeping up the pressure; she was against the ropes, and he kept delivering the power punches right in her mouth. She dropped to the floor and stayed down, curled up in a ball like a cold puppy. The man, Garry, neverever knew his name – he was always just referred to as the Next-Door-Neighbour – turned around and looked right at him and then, smiled and then walked off inside, leaving the puppy on the floor and closed the door.

That night Garry climbed over the fence to see if he could find her, the Next-Door-Neighbours wife, but it seemed like she was up off the floor and back inside. In the driveway, parked under a sour cream moon, was the Next-Door-Neighbours white Land Rover Defender with the sticker that read “Live to Dive” written around a big pink tongue. Garry had never seen him load or unload any scuba gear, and Garry knew about scuba gear, his Action man, the one with real hair and movable eyes, had the suba kit and the deep sea hard helmet diving kit. The Next-Door-Neighbour had to be one of those fakers, the type of person who pretends to do something that they don’t really do, just to try and impress you.

No one was around, the porch lights were off, and so he climbed up onto the front bonnet of the Landy, pulled down his pants and his underpants, taking them right off completely and then bent his scared little knees and pushed. As it started to come out, he began to turn, doing it like a dog, like a perfectly triple-turned soft serve ice cream. A twirled triumph -nipped off so well you would have wished it was in a sugar cone. Garry had never had a sugar cone; those were for rich people.

The next morning there was a roar of those French words, and the Next- Door-Neighbour kicked his dog over and over and over. The Next-Door-Neighbour did not look at him this time; he just got in his Landy and left. The dog howled that night; it whimpered the next, and then nothing was heard the next night.

It was after this that Garry decided that bad people would not get away with things.