When I was about ten years old, there was an elderly man, living across the road, named Mr. Anderson, that I (innocently) drove insane through a sequence of events over twelve months, which included painting his windows black, believing he would wake up and think it was still nighttime; tying his lawnmower to the back of his car so he drove off with it; and putting several packets of raspberry Jell-O crystals in his fish pond. The day I dipped tennis balls in paint and threw them at his house obviously broke him, and he came out screaming and waving a rifle before being arrested. I did not see
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