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As a teenager we lived in a little town of maybe 200 people which was generally very quiet except for one young man on a dirt bike who would tear up and down our gravel road in the middle of the night. One moonless night, my father pulled a long piece of wood from the woodpile and placed it just beyond a small rise in the road. The bike races were truncated that evening, and did not return again afterwards.
(By the way, the biker was smart enough to wear leathers and a helmet, and on both sides of the road was lush farmland with soft soil. It was the kind of town where everyone knows each other or knows about each other, and it was the general consensus that the guy got what he deserved.)
Also, don't buy guinea fowl if you live in the country. We bought some once and let them roam around, but luckily someone shot them soon afterward. I hope they tasted good.
