Sunday, November 20, 2016

Blame It On the Rain

  "I'm tired of this fuckin' shit! I'M TIRED OF THIS FUCKIN' SHIT!!" The Van Man pressed his ear against the wall. He was at the apartment of his friend, The Ax Man, an old chum from his college days. The days when the beer kegs flowed like wine and that college ass was mighty, mighty fine. Ax Man sat on his couch, quiet and invested in a television program. Van Man nursed a cold one and listened to the wall, intently.
  "Shut ya fuckin' mouth and get the fuck outta my house!" A older man raged in the neighboring unit. By the thick accent, Van Man knew this was a New Yorker. Quiet. Van Man listened, waiting for more rage. A young boy, around thirteen, spoke lightly. The voice was inaudible.
  "I called and called and called, you don't answer your phone!", raged the Rager. The Boy responded, but was too quiet to be heard through the wall.
"Where was this concert?!", screamed the Rager.
"LA", replied the Boy.
"In the STREET?!", raged the Rager. The Boy answered quietly and the Rager exploded in terrifying anger. Van Man backed away from the wall. The screaming was too close, too intense, too full of hate and Van Man could not understand a lick of it. He looked over to Ax. Ax stared at the television program.
"We're done! We're done!", screamed the Rager. And all was quiet. The raging was over. Van Man sipped his cold one and studied the wall. Nothing.
"Does that happen a lot?", asked Van Man.
"Oh, just about every day. That boy is terrible. I don't know how his parents haven't put him out of his misery yet", said Ax Man.
  The two comrades stepped out into the evening. Ax Man lit up one of his trusty coffin nails and Van Man departed in the van. It was cold. Rain was coming. He knew he would need to bundle up extra tight for the drizzly November night. The Van Man drove on the park, all too aware of one thing: neighbors that do not fuck, suck.

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