Tenancy Adventures
My former landlord is apparently a prophet. Observing the inhabitants of the local flophouse, (who sit on ragged, moldy chairs, drink cheap beer and screech all day) inch greedily closer to our door every time they sat down outside, she pointed out to me that it was only a matter of time before they would begin congregating in our front hall every morning. That day has come, thanks to my brand new landlord, an irritatingly smiley African named Wally. He's apparently resolved to transform my current home into a slum as quickly as humanly possible. The moment the old landlords got their stuff out, he shut down the phone line (including internet access, which I pay for) locked the laundry room off, and rented out the living room and guest room out to a few of our beloved human lice from next door for practically nothing, giving the rest clear entry whenever they wish on pretence of visitation. They make use of this frequently; why live in their house, after all, when this one is so much nicer?
I've got a new alarm. At about 10 Screechy stumbles inside, smashing something. Usually it's one of the piles of empty bottles they have organized neatly all over the floor. She is greeted by Mullet, one of the few who actually lives here. He offers up a friendly "How you doin'?" Don't be fooled, though. He says this frequently whether or not there is anyone around. He thinks it's brilliantly funny. Screechy obviously agrees, as she responds with a laugh that chills my soul, the most inhuman laugh concievable. Imagine an unholy combination of crow, hyena, and vengeful goose. I'm certain that a laugh like that can only be earned by a lifetime of being the worst fucking person on earth. It pecks at my humanity bit by bit, every time I hear it.
Well, this din wakes up Frenchy and Speedo. Frenchy, a retired stripper with missing teeth and also a self professed "neat freak", proceeds to make everyone breakfast using all of my pots she can find, leaving them to fester in the sun once finished with them. Speedo, a fortyish, greasy man with a pencil moustache and heaving gut, serves to cut off all hope of escape on my part through lavish application of the "walk around in speedo underwear" tactic. Screechy finds this all hilarious, cackling hoarsely at everything. It's like a symphony of human wretchedness, a Fugue, each component bouncing off each other, raising in pitch and volume endlessly as new instruments wake up and stumble over from their spawning point next door. Trapped in my room, I silently entreat them all to die of mullet cancer or something.
I also now share a bathroom with all of these people. I tell you, there is no god.
I've got a new alarm. At about 10 Screechy stumbles inside, smashing something. Usually it's one of the piles of empty bottles they have organized neatly all over the floor. She is greeted by Mullet, one of the few who actually lives here. He offers up a friendly "How you doin'?" Don't be fooled, though. He says this frequently whether or not there is anyone around. He thinks it's brilliantly funny. Screechy obviously agrees, as she responds with a laugh that chills my soul, the most inhuman laugh concievable. Imagine an unholy combination of crow, hyena, and vengeful goose. I'm certain that a laugh like that can only be earned by a lifetime of being the worst fucking person on earth. It pecks at my humanity bit by bit, every time I hear it.
Well, this din wakes up Frenchy and Speedo. Frenchy, a retired stripper with missing teeth and also a self professed "neat freak", proceeds to make everyone breakfast using all of my pots she can find, leaving them to fester in the sun once finished with them. Speedo, a fortyish, greasy man with a pencil moustache and heaving gut, serves to cut off all hope of escape on my part through lavish application of the "walk around in speedo underwear" tactic. Screechy finds this all hilarious, cackling hoarsely at everything. It's like a symphony of human wretchedness, a Fugue, each component bouncing off each other, raising in pitch and volume endlessly as new instruments wake up and stumble over from their spawning point next door. Trapped in my room, I silently entreat them all to die of mullet cancer or something.
I also now share a bathroom with all of these people. I tell you, there is no god.