Tuesday, 12 August 2008

56. Herb The Landlord

Of course, I remember them.
They were the worst tenants I ever had.

Those guys became millionaires?
Those bums? I don’t believe you.

Doing what? Drug-dealing? Intimidation?
Sucking dick? Interior decoration?

Let’s just say the roaches moved out
when those pricks moved in and it took

three years to get the smell out the furniture.
I mean, who cooks animals on open fires indoors?

They trashed the sofa, the bedrooms, the kitchen,
smashed the sink, the windows, put holes in the ceiling.

One time I showed up to collect the rent and there
were nude girls everywhere. And I mean girls

and I mean everywhere. Not that I have anything
against nudity but they barely had a cunt hair between them.

I even found a half-buried dog in the back yard.
Boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me they

were Satanists, terrorists or they kidnapped children.
I mean - they dressed like they were in a sex cult.

In the end I had to do what I always do: call in
the Samoans and kick their asses to the curb

but they’d already upped and left. They even stole
the turf from my lawn. Now, why would you do that?

I always knew there was something odd about them.
Now it makes sense: they were artists. 'Creative types'.

My kid bought their record; a terrible, terrible noise.
And you can tell them that if you see them. Tell them…

tell them Abe says they’re not exactly Herb Alpert standard.
And tell them they still owe $500 deposit, motherfuckers.

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