Old Harry Kritikopoulos was a crusty old curmudgeon, a throwback to a much older generation from the Old Country. Since his youth, he has been a sheep herder and a hunter. Nothing satisfies old Harry more than hunting wild hares in the mountains near his village of Goranous, Sparta.
At the ripe old age of 100, the fruits have yet to fall from his tree. He still hunts, herds sheep, and occasionally fights off the local youths who mistake him for an easy target. At his old age, he has yet to incur a bruise from a youthful punch. The kids can't seem to hit him dead on.
"He's a quick old fart," one young thug said, as I probed his opinion of the old man. "By the way, got any money on you?"
"No, I don't," I replied.
"You sure?" he inquired again, with squinting eyes that failed to hide a cunning mind.
"All I'm carrying right now is my gun permit," I answered.
The young thug's eyes widened. "Gun permit?"
"Oh, and my glock too," I added for good measure. The youth took a step back.
"Alright, I have to go now. Any further questions?" he asked with his back half turned already.
"Goodbye," I said, and he scampered off to a full trot.
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