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Rottwang: A story of Hate

I truly hate my neighbors.  It is no secret.  I know that I hate them.  They know that I hate them.  You know that I hate them.  The Russian Duma knows that I hate them .  The New York Times know that I hate them.  The Senate Armed Services Committee knows that I hate them.  Hell, even Dusty Baker, manager of the San Francisco Giants, knows that I hate them.  But what they all don't know is that I am plotting my revenge. 
We are not talking run of the mill revenge, but extraordinary revenge.  Revenge like out of an Edgar Allen Poe story kind of revenge.  But why would I wish to do this?  What did they ever do to me?  Ahhhh.

It was a long time ago... back before you were born.  The world was simpler place, populated by 1950's television stereotypes.  Men were men... and the men that weren't got jobs in the FBI.   Ike was in the White House but Richard Nixon and J. Edgar Hoover took took turns wearing Pat Nixon's respectable republican mink coats.  Life was good... until THEY came.

At first I paid them no mind, after all they were new to the block and on the surface seemed pleasant enough.  What I did not know was they just beneath the surface lurked a terror so grandly horrid that is could only be named in the darkest corners of hell.  

First they knocked on my door.  Knock, knock, knock. knock....on and on until I would open my door.  "Hi," they'd say, "we're your new neighbors, Andersons."  They did this every day until I didn't slam the door in their perky little faces.

Every Christmas they carol at my door, every Halloween their grubby little kids "trick or treat" until I give them something (usually some dirty socks filled with used Kleenex). It is always something with these people... and soon they will pay.  Bwaaah ha ha!

(To be continued)