Rance Trenton looked at his rearview mirror.

"Shit" he swore.

There was a red sports car...a super car coming up quickly on his rear bumper.

He was on his way home from the feed store. A few hundred pounds of chicken feed, nut coal for his blacksmith forge, along with various other things he needed for his small farm were loaded into the back of his rusty old seafoam green Ford pickup.

Rance liked to think of himself as a Homesteader, really a prepper and survivalist who bought a small rural farm after his wife had passed and his kids had grown and moved out of their suburban home. He found his farm through an acquaintance on a prepper forum. 35 acres of timber and fields nestled among million dollar horse farms scattered around it.

The Old timer he had bought from refused to sell to the rich folks and Rance had jumped at the chance. There was just one problem. Rich people liked to get their way.

The Car pulled up to his bumper, flashed its lights and let out that annoying squeal that is only associated with the horn of a super car. Rance gripped the steering wheel with both hands and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the driver behind him.

This seemed to piss the driver off and he darted into the left lane passing Rance and them cut in front of him in an erratic maneuver. Rance hit the brakes and spun the wheel to the right, barely missing the sports car. The driver flipped him the bird through the T-top and sped away.

"You little bastard" he mumbled as pulled his truck back onto the roadway.

Todd Beckwith XVII (or some other stupid Roman numeral) had been a thorn in his side ever since he had moved onto his homestead. The Beckwith family owned the poshest horse farm in the area. They also happened to own it right next to (In fact surrounding on three sides) his little farm.

Old man Beckwith XVI (?) lived in Atlanta and let his useless son live on the large estate. The kid had called the sheriff out to Rances place several times, and Rance had come to realize where the sheriff had his bread buttered. Complaints ranged from Wildflowers growing around Rance's mailbox ("Weeds" the sheriff said "Gotta take care of that") to a noisy rooster making too much noise in the morning. ("Disturbing the peace"). The sheriff or his deputies never had actual grounds for citations, but Rance knew that they were not on his side.

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"Shit, shit, shit!" he exclaimed as he rounded the curve, and his driveway came into sight. There was a red sports car parked there blocking his way.

Rance pulled onto the shoulder of the road just short of his driveway. He hoped he could deescalate whatever this was and XVII could back out and be on his way. "Whatever happens remain calm" he muttered to himself under his breath.

As soon as he came to a stop the drivers door of the sports car opened and a man in his mid 20's stepped out and walked toward him. With a sigh he rolled down the window and leaned out. "What can I do for ya?" he called.

"You hit my car, I'm gonna sue you" the young man called back as he walked to the rear passenger side bumper of his car. "The sheriff is on his way, just look at what you did!" he yelled pointing at his car.

While they had come close, Rance knew he hadn't come THAT close to colliding with the idiot. Besides there was no way it could be his fault. On the other hand...

"I have a witness!" yelled XVII pointing at the passenger seat. Rance could see a mop blond hair in the car.

He knew better but Rance opened his door and got out. Far away he could hear sirens.

"Probably headed here." he thought "I wonder what that ding-a-ling told them."

"Okay, what's all this about then?" he said walking up to Todd.

"Just that I am gonna kick your ass and teach you not to mess with your betters old man!" he said as he threw a wide roundhouse punch aimed at Rance's jaw.

Rance was a relatively big man. In his 50's, a shade over six feet and even though he still worked diligently he had packed on some weight and was pushing 260 pounds. He had salt and pepper hair, with a long grey beard that made him look older than he was.

He had never had to fight much, he was big enough and his steely gaze intimidating enough that most people would go out of their way to leave him alone. Not that he would back it up too far since he was a mellow, easy going guy. Basic training 35 years before had taught him the basics, and to this point in his life he had never needed more.

He blocked the slow punch without much effort and popped Todd in the nose with a short jab.

"Stop it!" he said "I didn't do anything and you know it." Rance didn't press giving XVII a chance to back down.

The jab had started his nose to bleeding. When Todd pulled his hand away and saw the blood you could see the anger turn to rage.

"Stop it Todd, wait for the sheriff." A whiny voice called from the front of the car.

"Shut up Margo and stay back!"

Rance was slowly backing toward his truck when XVII let out a guttural growl and bull rushed him.

The best defense is always to not be there when the blown lands, so channeling some of the greatest NFL running backs Rance stuck out his arm and used XVII's momentum to push him out of the way with a classic stiff-arm.

Todd careened to the side losing his balance and slipping on the gravel at the edge of the road and plowed face first into the front bumper of Rance's old F-100. There was a loud "CRACK" and XVII bounced to the ground, twitched a couple times and lay still.

Rance didn't know what was louder. Margo screaming "You murdered him!" over and over, or the sirens on the sheriff's SUV as it pulled up seconds later.