Recently Reilly, asked "how the hell are you two?", so we thought we'd fill Reilly and everybody else in.
Dateline: Plainfield, New Jersey, last night.
It was a sweltering summer night and all our windows were open to let in any wisp of a breeze that might cool this sweaty hellhole down a half degree. Pan to the right: Juan and Claudia are the neighbors that live next door. Last year Juan built an imense brick barbeque. It stands half a story high from its base to the top of its chimney (which by design or coincidence is at the same level as our windows). Juan likes to burn things in his barbeque. Construction debris, plastic, asbestos, diapers, pigs, twigs, virgins and vampires -- Juan doesn't give a shit, he'll burn anything in his goddam gigantic barbecue.
A few weeks ago Noreen had a neighborly talk with Juan's wife, Claudia. Noreen told Claudia that our walls were turning black because of all the smoke coming from Juan's filthy smouldering pit, which burns from mid-afternoon to midnight most summer days. Noreen pleaded for a little relief from the toxic fumes and suggested that charcoal might be a better thing to burn than all the carcinogenic shit that Juan liked to torch up. Claudia said that burning stuff in the barbeque was Juan's only true pleasure in life -- I suppose this is because he doesn't drink -- and he would be devastated if he had to stop.
[Claudia didn't take this advice well and since that day makes cat-scratching-out-your-eyeballs hand gestures at Noreen whenever she sees her.]
The smoke did settle down for awhile... until last night. A bunch of Juan's buddies had assembled in the backyard and were proudly admiring their latest project - a 1000 watt security light (which is aimed straight at our house, making our back garden look like a prison yard). Many things must be burned to celebrate this achievement. We saw various large objects get pitched into the pit. Juan's barbie began belching thick sooty black smoke that smelled like a mix of burning tires, chino latino and old socks. Birds were dropping out of the sky.
It's was hot night and Noreen and I were pretty well lubricated by numerous Vodka spritzers with lemon slices. Noreen got a whiff of the cancer smoke and snapped. She's fed up and she's determined to teach Juan a lesson by blowing off some leftover fourth of July fireworks to demonstrate that she is not somebody to be screwed with. We have a well stocked arsenel: a few mats of firecrackers, some M-80s and blockbusters, roman candles, etc.
Pan to the left: John and Lynn are our other adjacent neighbors. They're quiet churchgoing bunnykissing types who'd be incapable of pissing off anyone no matter how hard they tried. They grow nice daisies in their garden....
After very little convincing, a deranged Noreen persuaded me to select a three foot roman to blow up. The result was loud and colorful, but not not *quite* enough. I revisited the war chest and selected a enormous seven-barreled cannon with a label that reads "use only on a solid concrete surface at least 250 yards from anything flamable; light the fuse and get away". I stuck the thing in some mud next to a woodpile out back. The fuse was lit and I staggered back to admire my work.
There was apparently a reason for the warning label on the huge firework. Shot one went straight up and exploded in a shower of green sparks. The soft ground didn't stand up to the recoil and the thing took a serious list to the right. Shot two went up in a low, wide arc and detonated on the roof of Juan's shed. Fortunately, the shingle fire went out quickly before much damage was done. The morter whirled around on its base of soupy mud and tilted at a 70 degree angle to the left. BOOM, a shot heads for Lynne's back window. After a bright red flash, we heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass somewhere in the darkness.
As best I can recall, fireballs three, four and five headed pretty much straight for Noreen and me. We ducked behind some flowerpots, hoping to survive with all our limbs intact.
By now, the firework was completely out of control, spinning like a roulette wheel. Blast six launched at a ninety degree bee-line angle towards Lynne's house, searing two rosebushes and crashing against the siding.
Number seven was a sight to behold. The cannon had spun back around toward Juan's house. The fireball's trajectory nearly took it nearly out of harm's way -- a nice forty-five shot towards the horizon. Then it hit a tree, got deflected, and landed smack in the middle of Juan's party. There was much screaming in Spanish. Then silence, dead silence.
We spent the rest of the night hunkered over the remaining vodka, all the lights out, awaiting the heavy tread of the law. It's nearly 11 a.m. now, and there have been no signs of retaliation from either side. We assume that Lynn and John are at church right now, praying for our souls, and that Juan and Claudia are busily practicing whatever bizarre form of Santeria they observe, voodoo dolls in hand.
So that's what's up Reilly.
-Jim