…Because we are where the action’s at.
Item the First: on Thanksgiving Day, the cops set up a speeding/sobriety checkpoint right in front of our house, because — according to the officer on duty — by the time all the drunken, dog-murdering idiots run the stop sign on the corner at 80 mph and blaze past both the middle school and the YMCA, it’s too late. They’re done damn gone.
Item the Second: Some fool bought Homicide House. Many have tried, over the years — not because it’s prime real estate (it’s not) or a good investment (it’s not), but because it is a blight on the neighborhood and probably, at this point, ought to be destroyed — but none have succeeded.
Today, while walking the pup, I met the affable-seeming son of a friend of the owners, who apparently have finally been persuaded to sell the rental property they don’t maintain in any way, to the point of not mowing the grass, not fixing the broken windows, and…oh yeah, NOT RENTING IT TO PEOPLE.
Anyway, after ordering his “crew”* to unboard all the windows and outlining his plans to turn the backyard into a parking lot for future tenants**, he offered his opinion that all Homicide House needs is “a little love”*** and that “it shouldn’t take too long to fix up.”****
I almost said, “Have fun with knob and tube wiring. Also, the decaying roof. Also also, the crumbling foundation, asbestos, galvanized plumbing, lack of HVAC system, and vermin-infested walls.”
But I was trying to avoid spoilers.
Item the Third: Somebody’s pitbull mix probably escaped, probably with good reason. I’ll see your missing pitbull, Marge, and raise you one crawlspace cat.