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And that’s when the police ring the doorbell.


So, I do have a small confession to make.   I’ve mentioned the neighbours before – the ones on the left who spend more than they earn (usually on psuedo-designer decor items), drive SUVs badly, and would like living in my street a lot better if I wasn’t in it.   They complain about me playing music, staying up at night, going out at all hours (I’ve made this Eddie’s problem now, as a ‘security guard”), harrassing their dog (he likes my occasional left-overs) and spying on them (that’s because I rang and asked once if they could fuck quieter as they left their bedroom window open, and the noise was making it hard for me to keep food down).   They’ve accused me of hooning, drug-trafficking, vandalism, under-age drinking (that one made me laugh my fucking head off), verbal abuse and trespassing.   Usually I don’t give a shit – they’re too bloody stupid to actually discover any of my real extra-curricular activities, and mostly they’re just useful cover for the school boy persona.   ‘Eddie’ tends to grunt and hang up the phone on them, and I roll my eyes and ignore them.

But that night – Py was coming over, and I was on a fucking excitement high, and those pompous shitheads kept ruining the buzz.   They rang twice to complain about music volume, and me leaving on every light in the house, and that my Cat had walked over their newly-washed SUV, left pawprints, pissed on the driver’s-side wheel, and smacked their dog with a fistful of claws.   I promised faithfully to turn down, off and the Cat out, after the first call, and immediately went straight back to joyous anticipation of the event of Py.   They rang again, and I ignored it.   One of them came over and knocked, and I turned the volume a little higher.

When the fucking phone rang again, I saw red.   Dunno what got into me – you don’t eat where you live, for fuck’s sake.   Too easy to trace.   But I was ravenous and twitchy and forgetting my usual ettiquette, and throwing self-preservation out of the bloody window.   And it seemed like such a good idea at the time.

It was quick (didn’t want to miss Py’s arrival), but messy.   And I was more careless than I would normally be.

To be perfectly honest, I felt like I needed a bit of practise to warm up before hitting the streets again with Py.   Didn’t want to look like an amateur in front of him.   Compared to him.

And to be even more honest, after the night out we then had, I’d totally forgotten about the neighbours.   It was that kind of night.   Hell – they were those kind of people.


But – the cop cars have arrived.   The bodies were clearly discovered (wonder if they’ve found the dog yet?)   And so the doorbell is still ringing here.

And upstairs is a room swathed in plastic, with a fish boy from school called Mitchell tied up on the floor, making small muffled protests about his predicament.


This fucking day just keeps getting better and better.




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