Kwazy
Shared on Mon, 01/28/2008 - 18:15You can't exactly pinpoint when things began to unravel. Your tax exempt status comes due for renewal...two months early. "Just a glitch," the woman who calls from IRS tells you, "nothing to worry about...but it would be a good idea make sure your books are in order." A visit from some Assistant to the Deputy of Something of Other from the Department of Homeland Security. He doesn't call...he just shows up on a Tuesday morning. You don't invite him in, but rather leave him on the porch. With you standing in the doorway playing goalie, he uses words and phrases like “prudence” and “post 9/11 world,” all the while subtly rising on his toes to see over your shoulder into the house. Your house.
Next week you notice your neighbor across the street and two houses down is remodeling her home. The insurance sales biz must be picking up, given the furniture delivery truck that's parked in front of her house on three consecutive afternoons. Suddenly everyone has termites. Or leaky toilets. Or dirty carpets. Two dozen white vans with two dozen laser-cut, vinyl stickers on the doors. Lots of joggers with eyes way to bright to really be listening to their ipods. People talking to lapels. To wristwatches. To themselves. In a way, it's all sort of flattering...in a way. Sean suggests maybe you should get a gun. You suggest maybe he should gather his shit and move the fuck out of your basement.
You leave notes in your garbage: “Dear FBI Guy, How are you? I am fine. I understand that next week is J. Edgar Hoover's birthday. Are you doing anything special? Me and some of my friends are going to dress up like The Supremes and hit that new GLBT club on Bleeker....you know the one. Heck, I saw you there just last week. It should be the social event of the year. Tell you what, I'll save you a seat next to the champagne fountain.”
Next week you notice your neighbor across the street and two houses down is remodeling her home. The insurance sales biz must be picking up, given the furniture delivery truck that's parked in front of her house on three consecutive afternoons. Suddenly everyone has termites. Or leaky toilets. Or dirty carpets. Two dozen white vans with two dozen laser-cut, vinyl stickers on the doors. Lots of joggers with eyes way to bright to really be listening to their ipods. People talking to lapels. To wristwatches. To themselves. In a way, it's all sort of flattering...in a way. Sean suggests maybe you should get a gun. You suggest maybe he should gather his shit and move the fuck out of your basement.
You leave notes in your garbage: “Dear FBI Guy, How are you? I am fine. I understand that next week is J. Edgar Hoover's birthday. Are you doing anything special? Me and some of my friends are going to dress up like The Supremes and hit that new GLBT club on Bleeker....you know the one. Heck, I saw you there just last week. It should be the social event of the year. Tell you what, I'll save you a seat next to the champagne fountain.”
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Comments
Submitted by millfire517 on Mon, 01/28/2008 - 20:50
Submitted by microscent on Tue, 01/29/2008 - 08:29
Submitted by Kwazy on Thu, 01/31/2008 - 18:39
Submitted by Kwazy on Tue, 01/29/2008 - 15:03
Submitted by microscent on Wed, 01/30/2008 - 23:10
Submitted by microscent on Fri, 02/01/2008 - 11:21