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Without Boundaries


The Owner of The Deathtrap


For the past year I tried to pinpoint what precisely I detest about M Butterfly as I've such a panoply from which to select. {Please read this post for background: The Instigator.} M Butterfly is a hotshot properietor of the local restaurant, Madame Butterfly, otherwise known as The Deathtrap. Us locals call it The Deathtrap because there are so many ways to end your life there starting from the food to the illegal extension of the deck and non-code enforcement of the electrical wires. People who want to flirt with death go there to play Russian Roulette with their lives.

M Butterfly is running for Mayor again this year and targeted his patrons. His patrons, by and large, are summer residents who have no idea that he is as well. Because they don't come up here 10 months a year, they've no idea he closes his restaurant for 5 months while he goes to the Virgin Islands. They'll do his beckoning for free bagels and cream cheese. Gives you an idea of what goes on up here.

The problem is that M Butterfly runs around town like a rabid dog. He'll say whatever he wants and do whatever he can get away with just to screw people to the wall. Because no one has stopped him. That's when it dawned on me while in the shower that he's not a lunatic, he's just someone whose boundaries are unchecked.

He reminds me of a dog I once had. He was such a pretty dog and I fawned over him to the point where one day he attacked me. Fortunately, only snarling and growling. I brought him to the vet, crying, "What's wrong with my dog?"

"You didn't train him properly. This is an animal. He suffers from spoileditis. You have to give him boundaries to show him you're the Alpha dog."

"How do you do that?"

"You hit him over the head with a stick. Once his eyes stop rolling, he'll obey you."

Spoileditis is PRECISELY what's wrong with M Butterfly. No one here has the guts to put him down or hit him over the head with a stick. Lately, he has run amok even more than normal. He has insulted the Mayor, the cops, his friends. Yet, they do nothing, but carp.

Each time people bellyache about M Butterfly, my friend's husband succinctly sums it up: "They all end up here in our county." Our county is rustic with a series of towns that interlock through gravel roads. Due to the relative isolation, a lot of people gravitate here: musicians, artists, hippies, ex-cons, pedophiles, the homeless drug addicts and gang members. Not to mention the summer residents which include Hasidim and Russians.

It makes a lot of sense that a piece of shit like that who wouldn't fit in anywhere else on the planet made a bee-line here. He couldn't get away with this nonsense anywhere else. In my small town, a beacon to the disgruntled, inept and challenged, he's a superstar. We're quite tolerant towards aberrant behavior. Now you know where my tolerance comes from: my upbringing and environment.

Despite my finite tolerance to lunatic fringes, M Butterfly knows better than to lock antlers with me. He started in a year ago to test the waters. After I ripped him a new asshole and flayed him alive, he knows I remove my boundaries when dealing with people who don't have them. In other words, I don't fight fair. That brings fear to his heart; I'm a loose cannon. For I learned from the best - my feral dog. I hit him with a verbal stick and once his eyes stopped rolling, he made sure to have nothing to do with me.

Directly.

Indirectly, he has others, his minions to do his bidding in exchange for free bagels and cream cheese. It doesn't matter: I feel like Superwoman, thwarting evil with my pen. Besides, it gives me blog fodder.


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