PRIZE FIGHT

The two men glared at one and other across a dilapidated wooden fence, the tension between them palpable. Hatred oozed like putrid perspiration from every pore.

Kyle Macgregore spoke first.

“It belongs to me! I seen it first and I intend to stake my claim!
“That may be so, but it’s on my property!”
Owen Smiley practically spat out the words between sneering lips.
“Possession is nine tenths of the law; that makes it mine now, don’t it?”

“You son of a …”
Macgregore swung a meaty fist, but Smiley ducked smartly, and countered with deadly aim.
Kyle winced and fingered his tender jaw.
“You’d be minced meat b’now!” He bellowed, “If I were ten years younger!”

“Oh yea, You and what army? Come on, fight like a man!”
Macgregore lunged and missed again; he grunted with the exertion and grabbed at the fence to steady himself. The rail came away in his hand.

Recovering quickly he hefted the wood and swung it like Babe Ruth’s favorite bat.
The makeshift club struck Smiley square on the shoulder, and sent him sprawling across the lawn.

Macgregore laughed.

“Not smilin’ now are ya,, ya smug bastard?”
Smiley grimaced as he clenched his injured shoulder. Outrage blazed in his glowering eyes and beet red complexion.

“You snot-picking coward,” he hollered, “can’t fight w’ya fists, so ya break up m’fence to do it!”
Macgregore scowled.

“Your fence? I don’t need no feeble stick to kick your ass. Come over here ya mealy-mouthed buzzard; I’ll thrash you old style!”

If he’d been in a comic strip, the steam would have been erupting from Owen Smiley’s flared nostrils. He snorted and bellowed like a rampant bull as he charged.
The eight-foot section of weary fence was no match; it surrendered with a single blow, and was quickly trampled under foot.

Macgregore growled and jumped on him, and the two brawlers tumbled to the ground. The Canny Scot and the Wiry Welshman fought tooth and nail. They clutched, clawed, and pummeled each other like savage beasts, neither man yielding an inch until finally they both dropped from sheer and utter exhaustion.

Pam Macgregore was hanging sheets on the clothesline when her neighbor, Denise Smiley, arrived on the scene. Neither seemed surprised at the sight of their bruised, bloody and battered husbands.

“Oh lovely,” said Denise sarcastically, “I see the boys have been at it again.”
Peggy grinned.

Denise chuckled, looked over at the two weary combatants and slowly shook her head.

“Yep, they sure have. I swear that fence is down more often than a duck!”

“So, what earth shattering event was it over this time?”

Pam was trying hard to keep a straight face.

“Well, it would seem that the first pear of the season fell from our tree on to your side of the fence.”
“Oh yes!” said Denise, “Here it is, and what a nice pear it is.”

It was big, plump and had a ripe rosy blush on its skin that foretold of the sweet juiciness to come.

There was a mischievous grin on her face, as she dashed, pear in hand, into the house.
.
“Hey, she can’t do that, “ Yelped Kyle McGregore, “It’s my tree!”

Owen Smiley shrugged, the good humor returning to his elfin eyes.

“It looks like she already has, boyo”

Kyle’s complaints were quickly muted as his neighbor’s wife reappeared. She was carrying the same pear, but now it was cut perfectly in two.

“Well I guess fair’s fair” Said McGregore as he awaited his share of the fruit.

Denise handed one half of the pair to Pam, and the two fighters watched in dumbstruck silence, as their wives, with looks of sheer ecstasy on their saintly faces, happily devoured the prize.