Storytime --In the neighborhood

We are neighbors.

I don't like you and you don't like me, in fact I punched you in the nose a month ago because your dog ripped open my garbage.
Now I'm convinced you've bought a gun and are going to kill me. You deny it, but I don't trust you. I threaten to beat you up if you don't turn over the gun. You claim you don't have one.

"Prove it" I say, "Let me search your house."
You grumble, and when I spend a long time searching your teenage daughter's underwear drawer, you get pissed off. I keep searching.
"I don't have a gun, I haven't kept guns in years" you holler.
"That's it!" I yell. "I'm not searching any more. I know you've got guns, you shot that moose back in '77 when we went hunting together."

Jacques from across the road and his boyfriend Hans and Ivan who lives over on the corner have come over now and are telling me to calm down, that they don't think you have guns and they don't think you'd use them if you did.

"Fuck you guys! That goddamned Biff LaDen kid broke into my house last week and stole my TV and kicked my dog. And he's the same age as your son who left the bag of flaming dog doo on my porch the week before. They're in cahoots. They're probably smoking crack in your basement right now!" I yell.

Jacques tells me to calm down, points out that the whole neighborhood hates the LaDen kid and that even his own parents disowned him and moved away, after I keyed their car and ran over their cat. He suggests letting the cops handle it if I really think you've got a gun. Stupid Frenchman, the cops won't do anything. They're useless.

"I hate the LaDen kid as much as anyone," you say "he kept calling my daughter, my son used to hang out with him, but I told him if I saw him even talking to that little psycho he'd be grounded for life."

"LIAR!" I'm screaming angry now. "I know you've got guns, you can't fool me! Just because I didn't find them doesn't mean you don't have them! I'll get you before you get me!"

That night, I burn your house to the ground.

That guy Tony up the street even gave me a gallon of gas, the suck-up. You die in the fire along with your youngest two kids. Your wife is badly burned, but you used to beat her so she should be glad you're gone. I gave her and your daughter a job in my topless bar. I park my truck in their front yard while they live in a rusty old roach-ridden trailer I rent to them that's parked in what used to be your backyard.

Someone throws eggs at my truck every once in a while, but its not like he's willing to confront me, the coward. I think its probably one of your other sons or nephews. I heard they were talking to that LaDen kid. Stupid punks--they don't scare me. I never did find the guns, but they must be here somewhere. Maybe they were buried in the yard, maybe not. I guess it doesn't really matter. The whole thing is so five years ago.

You know who bugs me these days? That Persian guy, Ahmawhatshisname, the guy who lived behind you that you used to argue with over the fence back when we were friends. Yeah, he pisses me off. I bet he's got a gun.

(with apologies to Terry Jones for stealing his metaphor, it's not plagarism, it's an hommage)