I was trying to secure a metered parking space near the Newport pier on July 4. Like a vulture circling the scene, I asked some dude if he was going to be vacating his parking stall, and he told me he would “in about 20 minutes.” I anchored myself near his space and started the countdown. When he finally reappeared, you and your buddies showed up with your little white Mustang convertible and asserted the parking space was yours since one of your compadres supposedly sweet-talked the soon-to-be-departed guy as he was walking over from the beach. Nah, I don’t think so. When I moved my car in a little closer, making it even more impossible for you to secure the space, you lost it completely and shouted about four times at the top of your lungs, thick ropes of saliva spraying everywhere, “I will kill you!” This caused a crowd to start forming. You and your buddies finally realized I wasn’t going to back down. You also felt my suggestion that we call the police to referee the situation was not a good idea. So, I won the battle, but you won the war: You pretty much ruined what would have otherwise been a very nice day.