Block Chop "Sixty-nine, dudes!"

I had attempted to set my alarm for 6am this morning.  At 6.30am my girlfriend’s alarm went off accidentally, fortunately saving me from being late for work on my third day.  She works in the same place so we sometimes go in her car which takes a mere 20 minutes.  I never learned to drive.  Rushing a shit, shower, shave I made it out the door by 7.20am with a spray of deodorant and a packed lunch.

Immediately the grim grey cloak in the sky opened, dispensing watery torture.  The smashed drainpipe at the side of the house caused a filthy spray I had to step through, and the pitted pavement and potholed road served well in soaking my shoes and socks.  The drainpipe is that way after a disturbance involving the man in the downstairs flat.  One night a couple of weeks ago, vicious uncontrolled screaming blasted without warning.  The neighbour was roaring about being fucked up, I don’t know what I might fucking do, fuck off, and his friend was going I’m not fucking leaving you, you’re fucked up, I don’t know what you might fucking do.  The exchange was terrifying in its psychotic rage.  I could not see it happening, but it was below the kitchen window as I washed up. 

The next day the drainpipe was smashed.  We later found out from his girlfriend that he had been drinking and started a fight with his friend.  He tried to kick him out, but was in such a state that his friend was worried about him.  Our neighbour responded to the concern of his friend by emerging from the house wielding two machetes.  Swinging them at his friend he missed and struck our drainpipe.  Now I have wet shoes, cold feet, and an armed psycho for a neighbour.  If he’s reading this: please don’t hurt me.  I only have one machete, and it’s a flimsy wooden one carved for the tourists in Tanzania.  But I do have an awesome oyster knife; come near me with those machetes and I’ll well and truly shuck you.  When I shuck you, you’ll know you’ve been shucked.

Things seemed to have calmed down now, down below our floor, but rotten old furniture continues to pile up in their garden amongst the dog shit jungle and clothes left on the line for days.  Sometimes the dog barks for hours in the evening, or sometimes Eminem or hardcore blasts up in the early afternoon.  Beyond that all seems peaceful.  But who knows what goes on behind closed doors.  Perhaps this is all a distraction from their real activities.  They are intermittently digging a tunnel deep into the ground, to connect with ancient interconnected tunnels and chambers where they will conduct blasphemous rituals to conjure the dead.  Necromancy in the depths of the earth; converting the blood of the slain into fuel for the fire which burns in the place of absent hearts in animate corpses.  Walking dead who will reveal the lost and forgotten secrets of past druids and soothsayers.

Perhaps.  What is certain however is that I have been reading too much H.P. Lovecraft. 

P.S. Wyld Stallyns rule!