The incident occurred while I was purchasing a cache of lemon trees from Uli's Unconventional Nursery on Broadmoor. As I surveyed my floriferous crop of citrus divinity, I was approached by a surly looking fellow in knit stockings and rather short shorts. His curly mustachio was comely enough, but in all other respects he had the appeal of a box of burning kittens. Being polite, as well as sober, I refrained from commenting on the man's unusual garb and face. The man, however, was not so graceful.

"I know you," he said, or rather grumbled.

I was quite surprised then and said, "Do you? I am quite surprised then!"

"You're that scrivener what writes about nekid ladies and men's johnsons." He spit on the ground. "It's a disgrace, it is. A grown man and you can't think of nothin' better to do than go on like a five year old boy. Disgraceful, I say. You ought to be ashamed."

What recourse did I have? Not wanting to cause a scene in my favorite nursery, I tried to play it off. "My good man," I said, " I am not a scrivener, I am a doctor and sometime writer. You seem to have mistaken me for Mr. Walloff Domburg, Notary Public. Happens all the time, actually." To be honest, it was just the once. But, as I said, I felt it best to avoid a confrontation.

"No!" he cried. "You're the one!" His left stocking slid down his leg a bit as he quivered with anger. "You're that dirty old man, Bartleby. Not only dirty, but blasphemous! And talentless, to boot. You're a hack!"

Clearly, I was not going to shake this cretin. I decided to be direct. "I am Bartleby, yes. But who, may I ask, are you? And why, exactly, are you so filled with venom?"

"Why? Why, you ask? Better ask why the oil hates the water. Or why the farmer hates the wolf, eh? Eh? He hates it 'cause it's EVIL. Wolves are EVIL, with their rows of big pointy teeth and their wee beady eyes just starin' at ya." His curled mustache twitched up and down as he spoke.

"That sounds perhaps more like a shark than a wolf, though I imagine no shepherd longs to see his flock devoured by sharks. Sir, by any chance, does your train of thought have a caboose?"

"Shut it!" he yelled. "Shutup you! You're a blight on my ass, you are! I will not suffer a witch to live!" As he shouted at me, he began jumping about nervously and shaking his fist in the air.

"Indeed," I said. "It is unclear whether you are threatening me or having a seizure, but you are certainly validating my inherent mistrust of strangers."

At this comment the man lapsed into vociferous incoherent babbling. I still had no clue about his identity, but I turned my back on him and made to leave. He grasped my arm so that I swiveled around to face him again. He said, "Curse your eyes!" and poked me in the chest with his index finger. "You don't deserve to live!"

I could stand it no longer. "Sir, it appears you have the mental capacity of a tree. I should not hold this against you, as I expect your conception involved your mother's mistaken insemination with the postnasal drippings of a sinus-infected Great Dane, but threatening a man's life is no small matter. I suggest you withdraw while you are still able. You are obviously less fearsome than my goldfish, Rupert, who has recently taken ill with the retched Ichthyophthirius."

Of course, this did not go over well. The well-girded man swung his right fist at my head with considerable force, and I was lucky to step out of the way. "Damn fool," I said. "I see you have set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public. Now begone!" I gave him a light punch to the nose, but he seemed not to notice. He only roared like a bear and charged me full on. I leapt back, much to the protest of my creaking knees, and managed to avoid the raging idiot once again. This time I grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into a collection of sticker bushes where he and his stockings became firmly lodged. I took the opportunity to make a hasty retreat with my prized lemon trees.

Uli, if you are reading this, I am terribly sorry if my actions caused any harm to your plants, your nursery, or your staff. I will gladly pay for any repair caused by lapse in judgment. However, I have no intention of ceasing my provocative publications, so in future I will  be asking for delivery of goods to my estate.

Yours,
Dr. Bartleby Mollygrubs