~ 1717, Weston, England ~

Israel was making dinner for himself that night, in his small house by the coast. It wasn't much, but he tolerated it. Of course, he was known as the grumpy bastard by everyone in town, and for that reason he had moved out further to the coast, where he wouldn't be bothered by idiot twats.

"Focking pansy shites."

He grumbled, angrily stirring his pot of stew. A couple of kids had wrecked his plants earlier. He had cussed them out, of course.

"Stomping on my focking garden. What if I stomped on their garden? Or their little evil throats, more like--"