13/09/2025
Ex-veteran takes justice into his old hands
In the quiet farming town of Willow Creek, Billy Mercer lived a life most would call simple. After decades of service overseas, he came home to nothing but his small patch of land and silence. His wife, the only love he’d ever known, had passed while he was away. All that kept him company now were the animals on his farm, creatures he poured his heart into.
Among them was his donkey, Daisy, the same one his wife had surprised him with years earlier. To Billy, Daisy wasn’t just an animal; she was the last living link to the woman he lost. Every morning, rain or shine, he brushed her coat, whispered to her like an old friend, and fed her the best hay he could afford.
Willow Creek had few neighbors, but enough to remind him he wasn’t entirely alone. Most were decent folks, but one family stood out, the Riggs. Their boys, back from college, had a reputation for reckless hunting, drinking, and raising hell. Billy had caught them trespassing more than once, rifles slung low, laughing as if the world owed them no consequence.
Then came the day Billy would never forget. Walking out to Daisy’s pen, he froze. His beloved donkey was standing there trembling, an arrow lodged in her side. She hadn’t fallen, but the sight cut him deeper than any wound he’d suffered in war. His hands shook as he stroked her neck, rage burning hotter than any battlefield he’d ever seen.
The police took the report, but Billy could see it in their eyes, boys will be boys, no proof, just suspicion. Within hours, the Riggs kids were back home on bail, smirking like nothing had happened. But Billy knew. He knew it was them.
That night, Billy made his choice. He walked the dirt road to the Riggs’ house, his boots crunching in the gravel, each step heavy with purpose. When he arrived, he called them out by name. The boys came, laughing at first, until Billy’s fists silenced them. He fought with the fury of every memory, every sacrifice, every injustice. One by one, he beat them down until they broke, until their voices cracked, admitting what they had done.
By the time the police arrived, Billy wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding. He was standing in the yard, bloodied knuckles clenched, smiling through the chaos.
As they cuffed him and led him to the squad car, an officer asked why.
Billy’s answer was calm, almost peaceful:
“Not everyone deserves to be protected. But animals? They always do.”