14 Rambo, Marshal Dillon, Nietzsche, baby Drew

The sluicing sound of skinny bicycle tires on respectable gray pavement, and three hunched-over bodies passing Yolanda Drive’s colonnade of oaks, alerted little Drew to another Guss family tradition. He jumped up and down as if Granny Guss were shouting out of her twisted grin to “Send ’em a message!” Then half a dozen gunshots cracked the serenity in San Anselmo’s gem – in fact, a gem unsurpassed of American upper middle class neighborhoods. A moment before, the three bicyclists had disappeared where Yolanda Drive joined Alder Avenue. Aunt Kar beamed. “Rambo!” Uncle Joe screamed. But little Drew’s excitement abated in the same flash. It was not street justice being meted out to the lycra sapiens, the flies, the ferets, the scum of the earth as bicyclists were deemed within the Guss household, even by one like Kar, practically a saint. It was the kindly, hard-of-hearing Racanellis watching “Gunsmoke” with their window open.
“Thus Spake Drewathustra,” the infant said to himself in goo-goo language, devoid of the usual plethora of hard consonants. He was an intimate of The Western Channel, as well, during many of Granny Guss’s smotherings of the remote, and of his father’s Nietzschean ravings. Thus the Guss family vituperation for bike riders, a questionable ideal, observed, as ever, in vain.
Drew knew the sixth shot was Marshal Dillon’s.

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