Little Damian had seen very angry people before in his previous life, but the sheer intensity of the male middle aged witch’s wordless hostility, currently being directed toward the women, was something he’d only seen in a bad horror film. The intimidating spectator wore a furious scowl, a tall black hat, and plain black robes at least two sizes to big for him. It looked like hiis clothing was older than him. The witching bonnet’s pointy tip and large, disk shaped bill drooped over matching his baggy robes. He held a broom and stood next to a sign with a cauldron painted on it.
“Yep, definitely a witch,” little Damian thought, wondering if stuff like Hansel and Gretel happened for real around there. He wasn’t afraid of ghosts stories and witches, until he saw this one. The women seemed to share his sentiment. Rose and Mary both shielded their babes, while Samantha hid her face with her hand as they scuttled by. “Maybe this is why everyone is armed,” he speculated as they passed the menacing witch without incident, much to his relief.
The real incident occurred after passing through a set of fancy gates into a much nicer, walled section of town. Golden gates and a guard house divided the tan-brown dirt road from the paved ones lain with red-brown brick. The two guards in light leather armor smiled and waved.
Unknown to little Damian at the time, the incident in question was actually a commonly occurring family squabble.
A drunk man stumbled out of a nice looking restaurant with a plate of food and pitcher of ale painted on the sign. He looked like he'd seen better days. His heavily embroidered clothing was probably nicer than anyone's in the group, but they were dirty. Brown splotches, darker than the color of the unpaved roads, were especially dark on his knees and right shoulder.
“It probably has to do with the bruise on his left eye,” little Damian thought.
The dirty drunk called out to the group with a condescending tone. “Well, well, well, if it isn't Dillon Dirt and the Dirt Squad.”
Judging by the expressions all of the women wore, this man smelled disgusting, but he was standing too far away for little Damian to tell for sure. “Do these women have magic smell?” he wondered sarcastically. Still, he couldn't discount the possibility that they did, and this man does in fact smell terrible.
Dillon was the one to respond, “Peter,” is all he said.
Peter didn't take the hint. “Hey dirt lady,” he hollered at Rose, “I see you have some new dirt there. Congratulations, but the cat dirt that beast fucker’s holding is cuter.”
“Hey! What did you call my wife?” Victor yelled startlingly loud.
Dillon held his hand over Victor's chest to restrain him. “Calm down Victor, Peter's not worth it,” he said.
“Yeah, calm down cat shit. No matter what I say about that nasty, beast fucking glory hole you call your wife, it's not something to get upset about, right Dillon?”
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“Thunder cat,” little Damian thought has he found out Victor, who seemed like such a nice guy, could turn violent in an instant.
“I’ll make you pay!” the ferocious cat-man shouted, sprinting toward Peter with his raised spear in hand.
Little Damian thought this Peter guy was a goner. Peter thought so too.
“Ahh!” Victor, roaring at the top of his lungs, leapt the last twelve feet striking a near superman flight angle that was somehow reminiscent of something little Damian saw a long time ago, in another life. That guy had a sword though.
“What’s the sound of two cats slamming into each other?” little Damian wondered after he heard the loud “thud” it makes.
A cloaked figure he recognized prevented Victor’s, probably very sharp, spear from impaling the terrified drunkard. While Victor's attitude was somewhat up right as he soared through the air, Vance’s was level with the horizon when he intercepted his older brother. “Is this considered a dog-fight?” little Damian wondered, while the cat ball made a hard landing.
Peter took two steps back, and fell on his ass. Judging by the color of his face, he didn't think it was funny at all.
Little Damian didn't know how Vance was able to get in position, nearly thirty feet away, in time to stop Victor from shoving his spear through Peter’s, “holy fuck, I’m going to die,” expression, but he was glad not to have witnessed an interracial homicide on his first morning stroll.
With Dillon and Vance bringing Victor in tow, Peter summoned enough courage to stutter, “Ddamn it, Dirt! Pput a leash on your pet. That thing’s dangerous.”
Mary checked to see that, incredibly, little Theressa was still sleeping and said, “Shut the fuck up Peter,” as the procession started to move along again.
Oddly, old Dean, Victor, and Vance wore pleased smiles after they left Peter behind, where as the rest of them looked concerned, alarmed even.
“Damn it Victor. What are you thinking starting trouble with Peter, especially on this day?” Mary took a sharp tone with her husband.
“Relax,” Victor casually replied, sporting a full faced toothy grin, “I knew Vance was right there, and we scared the shit out of Peter.”
“Well, I guess it's fine then, but tell me next time you're going to do something like that. You scared me too.”
“How was I supposed to tell you without Peter noticing? That's beside the point anyway. How’s my little princess? Daddy didn't frighten her did he?” Victor asked like he was talking to a baby instead of his wife.
“She’s still sleeping, and don't refer to yourself in the third person when you're talking to her. Mrs Meadow said that kind of thing can make kids retarded,” Mary said, and immediately recalled Rose’s concern over little Damian’s mental health.
Not only did she nonverbally express her apologies to Rose, she extended her sympathy to little Damian as well.
“You don't have to apologize to me. I’m plenty smart for a one day old,” he thought.
“Ackhem. The church is right up ahead.” Old Dean's obvious effort to change the subject was timely.
“I know, I'm so excited. I hope little Theressa gets a good one.” Mary didn't hesitate to grab on to his life line.
“I think she will,” Rose said before the group succumb to an awkward silence that lasted the rest of the way to the church.