The iron ore pellet rocketed from my slingshot, shattering the window of a K-Car being transported east by rail.
My friends and I split el pronto, fully aware there would be dire consequences if we were nabbed. And in the late 1970s, there would have been hell to pay — court, maybe reform school, and a very, very bad scene at home.
Today, “consequences” is not in the lexicon of aspiring underage criminals.
