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Morrison with ice cold lemonade and snacks, and Mr. Morrison with stories of his adventures in the Marines– and they always gave me a few dollars for my labor as well. Even better, I thought as I changed into an old T-shirt, I could find out when Charlotte was coming for her yearly visit! No, a little thing like an empty ant farm wasn't going to ruin my summer.I practically skipped across the street and rang the doorbell. "Hi, Mrs. M," I greeted as she opened the door. "I understand you and Mr. M have some things I can help with around the house?" I was always Sunday Church Picnic polite with the Morrisons, even when I wasn't hoping to glean information about upcoming visits from their granddaughter. They were genuinely nice people. They were the kind of people who bring out the best in everyone around them. "Salt of the Earth," to use my grandmother's terms, but at the time I really didn't understand what that meant.Mrs. Morrison was a spry sixty-something, much like my grandmother.. He was more handsome, more fit, made more money, took better vacations, owned a nicer house and a nicer car, and married a more beautiful woman. His wife, Chelsea, was a typical trophy wife. She was several years younger, with long blonde hair, huge fake tits, and a fake tan. Practically everyone in the neighborhood suspected that Roger habitually cheated on her, but she was too stupid to realize it. Their k**s were spoiled rotten, and were handed everything they ever wanted. The plan was to sip his coffee and watch for Roger to leave the house. Bill would confront him with the e-mail, and if the suspicions were true, knock out a few of the asshole’s pearly-white teeth. As he sipped his coffee, though, the holes in that plan became evident. Roger would simply deny any wrongdoing. The e-mail was vague enough that it could be interpreted any number of ways, and he was skilled enough with words to spin it any way he chose. Even if he confessed, and Bill knocked him out, Roger would sue.
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