I was washing mildew from Catherine's (and my) trailer. It was summer. Harry Canfield, the owner was away. Canfield had left this thug/manager Mike LaCroix in charge. The grass was knee high, but Mike saw me working and chose that moment to suddenly cut the grass: the grass specifically under where I was standing, working. Mike could have cut anywhere, there are seventy or so trailer lots, all with the grass knee high, uncut for weeks: but he drove the tractor to ten feet from me, demanding to cut where I was standing first, told me to move. I said, "Cut somewhere else, I'm working here." He reved the tractor and launched it right at me. I jumped aside, threw my mildew remover at him. He ran over my hose, shredding it, spraying water.
Mike was forever spraying people with pebbles from the tractor mower's spining blade. I bet I wasn't the only resident with chipped ankles. But I'd never heard of him trying to amputate legs. I gave my job up as dangerous under the circumstances, started putting things away in the shed. Mike attacked me from behind. I curled up, covered my head with my arms. Mike broke my fingers, pounding away at my head.
I'll transfer some of the story from Knatz.com and I hope will tell parts I've still never gotten to.
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