His acolytes in their yellow vests are Bethel’s finest. And two patrol cars. All this to control the little traffic that there is. Think of the overtime, and the imputed rent on the two cars. And it’s all on the taxpayer. On one occasion they arrived at 7:30 AM, an hour before the Butcher of Bethel arrived with his equipment and illiterate crew, ready to do battle with the old dead ash trees.
No safety perimeter; cursing at each other, fucking this, fucking that. And then the cops join in, fucking this, fucking that. And the nearby residents have to listen to this, never mind any children being about.
His promises of not damaging the decades-old rhododendrons underneath actually resulted in their total destruction. The Butcher of Bethel struck again. Then there is the matter of how Butch brought the trees down. His technique is to cut off huge chunks of limb or trunk, and just heave them over the side, landing violently wherever they fall. Such artistry, such finesse.
And yet the town keeps hiring him. Must be the low bidder.
When confronted on another occasion about the inferior quality of his work (we accused him of being a butcher). He accused us of being on Valium! As it happens, that is not our drug of choice. We thought that his drug of choice must be Irish whiskey, given his red face and angry pacing like a caged animal, eager to pounce on us and pound us to hamburger.
He did say one human thing. He stopped pacing and said, Do you know hown hard this job is? We softened suddenly, and took pity on the poor man. But not to worry, we quickly recovered, and did not yield to that sentimental impulse.
Meanwhile, the yellow-jacketed cops just stood there, no doubt enjoying the show; their job wasn’t hard, just boring as hell. Why would a man submit to that?
