"I'll kill that little bastard sooner or later!"
Bowman Golding cursed and grumbled, seething with anger. The injuries on his body ached even more.
Besides, he had always suspected he'd been pushed into the ditch that night. Although he was drunk and woozy, his mind had been clear enough. He knew there was no way he would have just wandered into it himself. He vaguely remembered someone giving him a shove, but it had been pitch-black. He hadn't seen a thing, and the memory was hazy.
"Stop trying to provoke that little punk. After work, go up the mountain and clear some land. That way, we won't have to buy tofu for the wedding banquet next spring. Every penny counts. We still have to buy a sewing machine!" Sherman Golding sighed, his face a mask of misery.
