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133 pages

English

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A serene citizen becomes plagued with the Neighbors from Hell. Through this series of letters and journal entries, written to prevent irrevocable revenge and retaliation, Mommer 'n' Diddy's world becomes scathingly vivid. Our cultivated citizen documents his decline from annoyance to addiction to near insanity, as the surreal dysfunctions of his problematic neighbors continue to defy belief. The good neighbor battles revenge fantasies and continual waves of ignorance as his months of agony turn into years of desperation; he turns to writing as his only means to avoid vigilantism. In the course of these intensely comic epistles, the citizen reveals the true toll of the horror what live next door. Humor. In English. Sort'a.

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Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	15 avril 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781622875832
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0360€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Mommer ‘n’ Diddy What Live Next Door
C.W. Thornton

First Edition Design Publishing
Mommer ‘n’ Diddy
What Live Next Door

First Edition Design Publishing
Mommer ‘n’ Diddy
What Live Next Door
Copyright ©2014 C.W. Thornton

ISBN 978-1622-875-85-5 PRINT
ISBN 978-1622-875-83-2 EBOOK

LCCN 2014937744

April 2014

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
For Mister B.
Mommer ‘n’ Diddy
What Live Next Door

C.W. Thornton
Table of Contents

*****

Spring 2011
Summer, 2011
Autumn, 2011
Winter, 2011
Spring, 2012
Summer, 2012
Autumn, 2012
Winter, 2012
Spring, 2013
Postcard
More Mommer ‘n’ Diddy
Thanks
2014?
About the Author

*****
Warnin’
*****
Y'all.
Most'a this %*!# really happened.
*****
(It all still copywrit, though, so...)
Spring 2011

Dear Mommer ‘n’ Diddy what live next door,

Well.
Hey.
Y'all's here .
Yer Daughter, what live on yer other side, done sound the clarion call of yer arrival. She pipe up yestiddy, "My Mommer 'n' Diddy movin' in there tomorry."
I looks at the dismal shack, what were 'till late a silent, ivy-iced haven of stray serene felinity; an excellent side piece to my moss-tufted, waterfall-sung grounds, enclosed in places by reed fencin' and small forests of flora enjoyin' they spring bloom, though open at many points to what now done become the meanest of hovels. Even after the starkly shoddy remodelin' that were done, I still stands on my front porch many nights, starin' to my right, thinkin' ain't no way any conscious human being could live in such, with its slanty base jacked half-up with a hand vice and its mold-dotted sides and its ruined rusty pointy fencin' what half crumbled. Even as Yer Daughter, what live on yer right flank, tell me of yer plans fer residin', I refuses to believe she speak Truth.
But naw.
Y'all has.
And now, we has:
· Twin Toilets in y'all's side yard what I sees every time I gets out my car.
· Yer front porch, on a beeline right ways from mine, stacked 'n' stuffed with many implements. I calls it the Screeny Mess.
· Yer white winder-less van, of the Serial Killer variety.
· Hunnerd-watt bare bulbs blazin' through un-draped front winders.
· The Yard Propeller, Rusty Truck Guts, Curb Couch, and Concrete Pile.

I has me a fun chat with someone I'll call Nekkid Baby. He come runnin' at me off the Screeny Mess, nekkid, 'cept for a flappin' dirty diaper taped to the back of his knee. "Hi, Hi Neighbor," the grungy creature utter.
"Hi, Hi back," I says. He kind'a stare and grunt for a while. I goes to leave.
"Bye, Hi Neighbor." Then he get in yer winder-less van. I never sees anybody come gets him. I never sees him gets out.
I'm sure he's fine.
Well, I know yer busy with the unpackin'. Sound like y'all's kind’a testy with each other. Must be the stress of the move. Bet yer day to day voices fall gentler on the ear? And I's certain once y'all's settled in, someone over there will gets up all that trash.
So...
Welcome.
I guess.
If y'all needs anything at all, just...

Optimistically,
Hi Neighbor

*****

Dear Mommer ‘n’ Diddy what live next door,

My.
We had us a week, ain't we?
Y'all's house, what used to be empty and quiet, even though it were run down, has just sprung to life. Often I’s been on my lovely porch, readin’ or appreciatin’ the air, and I has me a vision of buyin' that jumble, tearin' it down and buildin' somethin' nice, thinkin' nobody would ever consider its current state livable. But y'all done popped in and ended that, ain't ya? Yer front yard is gettin' real interestin' too. The object that Nekkid Baby keep referrin' to as Jo Pop's Chevy look more like a military issue Humvee to me. Jo Pop might be introduced to the concept of mufflers, so's the whole street don't shake like Godzilla's indigestion.
Ain't yet seen the actual Jo Pop, nor the Diddy, but I's spied plenty of Mystery Dog. In my yard, chasin' my cats, runnin' the streets, peein' on my grapes. Look like a Doberman what grew up next to a nuclear reactor. Fully formed, but small. Like a dog-dwarf. With a piercin' yelp and idiot disposition. Can't cipher if it y'all's or it belong to Yer Daughter 'n' Them on yer other side. That Curb Couch is gettin' nasty looks from the mailman, who's no prize himself. While it look comfy and kind'a kooky, its color and odor are off-puttin', both reminiscent of spray cheese. You can imagine the ripeness the noon sun bring.
Yer lightin' design is keepin' me alert. Them fluorescents you's wired on the Screeny Mess gives a needlin' X-Files glow, but it the rude remark of yer front room bulbs that has calcified my retinas. Nary a shade been drawn, nor sheet tacked up. Just searchlight wattage nightly searin' the soul of my once shadowed and enchantin' yard.
Mommer, you sure do cut a dash. Grey shirt to the knees of yer bean pole jeans, scarecrow hair hangin' from that pink ball cap, cigarette clutched in yer two teeth, wigglin' with yer chainsaw chortle. Sometimes when yer smokin' on the Concrete Pile and the evenin' light hits, one can vision the hillbilly princess you must'a been in yer prime.

Observantly,
Hi Neighbor

*****

Dear Mommer ‘n’ Diddy what live next door,

Mercy.
Firstly, it satisfyin' to know the provenance of Mystery Dog. I finally gleans the pooch belong to Mommer, problematically named Lulu, as my Godchild, what live on my other side, also possess a Lulu. So I calls yers Doberman Lulu.
Doberman Lulu is one stubborn bitch. She like to give me the business every time I gets out my car, yarpin' at a pitch I know must be classified weapons-grade. And she is incessant. She yowl and yip and yap 'til I reach my cursin' point. Curiously, y'all don't seems to notice. Since y'all love to leave them winders open, Doberman Lulu often rail at me from yer Stephen King livin' room.
(It look just like one of his disturbed desolates gonna pop out that parlor with a blade.)
One time Lulu's mania get the best of her and she fall out the winder into them festerin' toilets what still in the side yard and gets her a throat full of dry geranium. I guess y'all realize I's forced to see the side yard when I gets out my car? If so, I thanks y'all for plantin' them dead toilet flowers. They really cozy things up.
I seen Nekkid Baby runnin' up the street. Twice. First time, nuthin' on 'cept half a diaper. I could not figures out how it stay on. He runnin' and pointin', and the three cars that come through was honkin', and I were watchin', and I thinks, "Huh." And I look 'round to see which of y'all was watchin' him, and ain't nobody. No Mommer, no Diddy, not Yer Daughter 'n' them. And I thinks, "Huh."
And then I goes inside. I guess he were fine, 'cause it happen again. Second time they was no cars, but they was a pit bull. I wonders what to do, but I ain't hears any screamin', and y'all seems cool with it, so... I goes inside. I know he’s okay 'cause this mornin' I seen him pee on one of y'all's van tires. Turn out the pit bull is Yer Daughter 'n Them's, sometimes in a backyard pen, but often out for strolls, it seem.
Good times.
Want to say thanky for y'all talkin' to Jo Pop 'bout his Godzilla Chevy. I's sure grateful fer the quiet. That we sometimes has. We don't has so much when Nekkid playin' with his Driveway Thing. It made of dang metal and it clank. Somehow he can rides it, but if it gots wheels they don't work 'cause they an awful scrape each time the child drag it up y'all's slopin' driveway. Which is always . Nine to nine, they's nuthin' but drag, scrape, drag, scrape, ride, scream, drag, scrape. With Driveway Thing.
Still waitin' to meets Jo Pop 'n' Diddy. I seen a big ol' shadow on the Screeny Mess, and it must'a been one of them, but I ain't seen who cast it. I's heard the Diddy voice . I must say, mighty bossy, that Diddy. With all that bellowin', I wonder if he raised by canyon people. I ain't real sure where y'all from.
'Course I ain't been askin'.

Enduringly,
Hi Neighbor
*****

Dear Mommer ‘n’ Diddy what live next door,

Nekkid Baby gots a hand saw.
It rusty, and it one that gots a thick blade at the handle and then it thin out toward the point, stiletto-style. It look toxic and I gets the feelin' some stabby gas-station-bathroom-clown is lookin' fer it. It do sing like a mountain saw when Nekkid Baby swipe it, but them high pitches is just uppin' the chill factor, if you asks me. Which y'all ain't.
Nekkid saw the air, saw at the clouds, then fling the saw to the ground like Excalibur. He scream, remove the saw, and do it again: a nekkid little Arthur enjoyin' his own private coronation. I watches fer a while, wonderin' when he gonna cuts his toe or his eye. I also keeps glancin' toward y'all's door, thinkin' surely any moment now Mommer or somebody gonna scurry out and remove the blade from the child.
An hour pass, and Nekkid done perforate y'all's land with saw slits of malice. Unable to bears any more, I calls out to the child, "Yer Mamma know you gots that saw?"
Nekkid Baby simply say, "Oh my God."
I says, "Gimme that."
Nekkid Baby scream and fling the jagged thing into Concrete Pile. Then he holler, "Jo Pop Chevy head!" and run off to Yer Daughter's.
And I's left there, just thinkin':
"Huh."

Questioningly,
Hi Neighbor
*****
Summer, 2011

Dear Mommer ‘n’ Diddy wha