Monday, November 08, 2004

The neighbors have spoken, the bastards.

And no, I'm not talking about the Americans (or Jesusland, as the case may be.) I'm talking about neighbors. Like two weeks ago, some friends and I were having a bonfire (it was Devil's Night, after all.) We didn't have a license, which the firemen seemed to disapprove of. We tried telling them that it was a legal barbecue, but they insisted that, grate or no, four-foot flames didn't count as a barbecue, they count as an illegal firepit. They took it well, considering they were dealing with a horde of unstable drunks that just thought they were wearing really good costumes who thought it was funny to dump large quantities of water on the blazing illumination of the giant Honest Head.

Now, this was not our first bonfire. They'd been going, oh, three or four times a week, for about a month. No trouble from the firemen. It's possible, of course, that they were just a little more attentative than usual (being, as aforemention, Devil's Night.) I was disabused of this notion the following day, however, when it was revealed to me in a somewhat abrupt fashion that, in fact, it had been our neighbor who had ratted on us.

The bastard. What did we ever do to him?

Except for, you know, stealing his wood. (Hard to find, wood, when you're in the middle of a city. Seems city hall has issues with people who chop down the trees lining the sidewalks....)

Which brings me to the incident that just happened, with another neighbor.

Our door-bell was rudely rang at eleven p.m., at which point I discovered a strange brown matron whom I have never seen before, though I have lived here lo these many months. From the expression on her face I surmised that she was doing her best to work up enough energy to be mad. Seems the poor creature had wandered over in a befuddled haze, her sleep-deprived brain manufacturing delusions of some sort of decadent western party involving drug addled mayhem set to a soundtrack of degenerate underground music. Seemed she and her brood had to be up for some ungodly reason at five in the morning.

I gave her a strange look, and shut the door.

To be fair, I was playing Skinny Puppy and Chemical Brothers.

On laptop speakers, at half volume.

There was no other music.

I submit that there is no way save her ears possess the acuteness of a bat's that she could have heard the beats emanating from these anemic speakers. The intensity of the sound decreases as the square of the distance, and it ain't all that intense to begin with, folks.

Thus: my contention that she was wildly hallucinating, perhaps in shock after waking up in the middle of the night to realize that she had, in the midst of a somnabulic nightmare, throttled her children.

So, being a nice guy, I turned down the beats, muttering the occasional deranged thought while committing to this blog my irritation at her interruption of my night.

Lady at 476 Brock, 478 1/2, or 480 (wherever the hell you live), allow me to wish you one of those night terrors where you wake up with a demonic creature sitting on your chest and breathing the foul stench of death into your face.

Fucking neighbors.


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