MT. ADAMS – The smell of success fills the air as yet another set of condos goes up in this pricey enclave. Large trucks block the streets; workers, both documented and undocumented, park on the sidewalks, tearing up parking tickets as fast as they can be written. A sheriff’s deputy is cold-cocked by the developer as he puts on his jacket to leave a meeting of local residents expressing their concerns over a complete lack of consideration for their welfare during construction. The deputy files a lawsuit, and the case is postponed, time and time again.

Just who is this mighty man, builder of big buildings, maker of mondo money, and slayer of all civilized rules of behavior?

I caught up with Rick. Dickhead as he stood outside his building site on Belvedere Avenue, yelling at a local landlady pissed off because the electricity to two of her buildings had just been cut off, depriving both a laundromat and a beauty salon of power.

“Shut up, you old bag,” he yells in a thundering falsetto voice. “I’m the big penis here, and you can’t touch this!” A large man in a daring latex skullcap, untucked shirt, and knee-length shorts, Mr. Dickhead struts and preens as he gets his game on with yet another annoying citizen of The Hill.

“You’re just a fly buzzing around my head, lady. I can squash you anytime I please.” He pauses to do a pirouette. “You ain’t got no daddy like I got, sugar. So just go home and hide under your bed, bitch.”

The irate woman is speechless. Fearing that she may pass out, a kind neighbor comes and gives her a glass of water. Mr. Dickhead just shakes his head. I ask him about the incident with the sheriff’s deputy.

“Look, he pissed me off. Not a good idea.”

And the court battle?

“What court battle? That case will never see the light of day.”

He must have powerful friends.

“You don’t know the half of it. And for all I’m doing for this Hill, buddy, they sure do owe me.”

I mention that some people are concerned about losing the historic character and feel of the old neighborhood. Do the many recent construction projects pose such a threat?

“Look, this is all about money. And I am a money grubber. Get it? Fuck all that historic crap, anyway. That’s for pussies.”

I ask him not to break my nose like he did to the sheriff’s deputy.

“Hell, it’s not like I’m some ghetto kid punching ‘the law’ in the nose every chance I get. Lock those kind up and throw away the keys. I’m a reincarnation of JP Morgan with a touch of Superman thrown in. Respect me or pay the price.”

Has Councilman Crowley had anything to say about how his constituents are being treated?

Snorting like a pig, Mr. Dickhead gives a dismissive wave of the hand. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, honey, there ain’t no such thing as 'representative government.' I build things. Me and my kind own this town. In fact, we own about this whole country. If you don’t like it, there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it, now is there?”

Feeling like a poor ignorant farmer back in the days of the Wild West, I start to slink away, knowing that the forces of government and commerce have conspired yet again to keep me in my place. Just in the nick of time, however, I remember my pride as a journalist, and give this guy the finger. Then I run like hell all the way home.