The Matron's creative juices are more or less visiting the Bahamas.
So she's traipsing through the past for material.
When the Matron and her husband moved the crew into their current home, they were in love with the neighborhood -- a gem nestled above the city with a vast regional parks and (from her window!) a panoramic view of the entire city. All the houses were tidy and well-maintained and neighbors included golf pros, newspaper reporters, free-lance theater professionals, the Assistant Attorney General and other interesting ilk.
Except for the house next door.
This particular property was populated by people who seemed to hold no real jobs but held guns. Not that the Matron is fundamentally against guns (okay, she is) but should any 12 year old have a hand-gun in his pant's pocket? Let's just say that's not a rhetorical question.
The house was -- is -- owned by a single mother (call her J) with two adult sons. The problem was her boyfriend who brought with him two teenage boys from a previous relationship. The boyfriend, we'll call him K, was a big believer in all things dangerous. Not only did he carry a gun (and his kids did) but he had a 15 foot boa constrictor in the living room. NOT KIDDING.
Stryker: "Mom, can I go next door and pet the snake?"
Stryker: "Mom, can I just HOLD that gun?"
Stryker: "Mom, can I go with K on his motorcycle?"
Stryker: "Mom, do you like K's tattoo?"
To make the situation more interesting -- not that living next door to a life-threatening reptile and an ammunition factory wasn't fun enough -- the boyfriend fought with everyone all the time: his sons, the girlfriend, the neighbors. J was also a player at that table. Therefore, the Matron will forever be grateful to this household for introducing her to the term "small dick bitch" which is what you call your boyfriend at 3 am after a case of beer.
Now, the Matron is a good Buddhist and has been trying to disengage and not judge for many years. She worked hard to be friends with her neighbors, even while searching the internet for child-size bullet proof vests.
Still -- this very event occurred.
One day a large truck showed up. Turns out K was leaving.
Matron: "Really? You're breaking up?"
K: "Swear to Satan. I am f$%% going to Afghanistan and shoot something."
Matron: "With your children?"
K: "They're armed and ready to roll."
Yes, yes, she's prone to hyperbole. But it was that bad.
So when the truck left -- and the gun-wielding men packed up their rats (did she mention that?) and snake, and the block became suddenly silent -- she walked into her kitchen and fell to her knees.
FELL ON THE FLOOR.
Matron: "I believe in Jesus! Thank you Lord!!!"
Stryker: "Does this mean we have to go to church now?"
No honey.. . . . but you won't get squished by a 15 foot seventy-pound snake or shot in the neck, either.
