Modern Warfare

**This is a true story of a brief and completely ridiculous time of my life. A sad, dangerous and absurd time, well over a decade ago. I'm not proud of the things that happened but I am also not willing to sensor my life or my writing, no matter how ugly or ludicrous it gets.

Some names have been changed (actually just one) or omitted for the sake of civility and maybe liability…probably should have changed the address but - what can they do to me now?

So without further adieu:

MODERN WARFARE

Chapter 1

A domestic rental application for a three bedroom house, that's 25 years past its prime and hood adjacent, is minimal. Just basic personal info questions: Name, Social Security number, work history, etc. But the more comprehensive, and I'd argue the more important questions, are left unasked.

Questions like: Do you have a history of excessive alcohol and drug use? And if so, are you currently in between raging benders?

Do you have a penchant for guns and exotic animals?

Have you ever entertained the idea that a wolf can be house broken?

Have you ever consumed an entire bottle of cough syrup to "cure" boredom?

Is this new house, and the illusion of a new start, the only thing holding a doomed relationship together?

Is your pretty, blonde, American as apple pie girlfriend, whose credit got you approved, just one more ridiculous incident away from leaving you destitute and alone in a world of self destruction, mayhem, and drug use?

If questions of this nature were posed (and answered honestly) on the renters application I doubt that we would have been approved.

Honestly, the landlords irresponsible application process is as much to blame, for the madness that took place on Purdue ave, as I am.

The equally guilty landlord, who learned the hard way, the damage that one unhinged drug addicted tenant can cause, though sharing in the blame, wasn't exactly an evil man.Though he was a world class asshole.

He was in his mid thirties. A college graduate, who undoubtedly did more drinking, hazing, (and probably date raping) than he did studying. He sported raven black hair slicked back tight against his scalp, held in place by ever present Oakley sunglasses. The same standard issue Oakley's handed out at fraternity initiations, police academies, and other satanic rituals. The rest of his uniform consisted of solid color Polo shirts, tan khakis, and pristine white Nikes.

His wardrobe seemed to say: "I'm trustworthy enough to handle your personal information, but also ready to quarterback a game of touch football, should one break out". Which I'm sure happened (upon his insistence) more frequently than you'd expect.

It was a cleverly crafted disguise. No doubt picked up from some motivational speaker at a self help seminar. Some "dress for the job you want" type of bullshit. But I knew better.

Chapter 2

We met in the driveway, just under the car port, of the little red brick house. Before we even set foot inside an unspoken War of personalities was well underway. Two primal forces lurking just beneath the surface. Destined to do battle in the sacred arena of Landlord vs. tenant.

We ceremoniously toured the estate. Maggie, my girlfriend, asked questions and made observations. I did my best to appear engaged and interested in the particulars of the property and rental agreement. I wasn’t.

So finally, with Maggie's credit score, a little finesse, and a fair share of omission we were able to put the landlords mind at ease, just enough to allow us to move in.

Initially we were busy enough, with the chores and duties of moving, to pretend that our deeper problems didn't exist. But it didn't take long for our relationship, built on that special mixture of chaos and love, to return to its natural trajectory of a downward spiral.

Her departure was inevitable. I saw to that. Even if it wasn't my intention. Honestly, she was a saint to stick around as long as she did. Though I can't recall what the last straw was, I'm sure it was as equally valid as it was ridiculous.

When she finally called it quits I was left holding the bag. All of our once shared responsibilities were now mine: the house, the bills, a wolf, a broken heart, and a massive drug problem. None of which I wanted, or could handle. Except the wolf, I liked him.

Towards the end, our relationship had devolved into a ridiculous farce. A charade in which I attempted to keep her in the dark to all the drugs and debauchery. And she attempted to believe me. When she finally left so did the need for the mask of moderation and sanity. Which in all likely hood was the last thing keeping me on this side of the cemetery fence.

So armed with zero inhibitions, the excuse of a broken heart, a viable location, and a wolf, I plunged head first into the fray.

My first order of business was to quit my carpentry job. Which I did posthaste. What would I need with a strenuous and labor intensive 9-5 when I was soon to be a new business owner?

With my new found (imposed) freedom, I decided that I would be the areas newest one-stop-shop for illicit substances. Mainly of the pharmaceutical variety.

An addict selling drugs out of his house. What could go wrong?

Chapter 3

I made my plans to open up shop in the next few days. With my future now secure, a celebration was in order. I invited a few colleagues over for a meeting of the minds and some product research.

It didn't take long for the festivities to get away from us. When I awoke the next morning I checked my surroundings and quickly realized that my night had ended on the kitchen floor (which wasn't too surprising). I also noticed that I was surrounded by a variety of trash in differing stages of decomposition (also not completely surprising).

I got to my feet, grabbed the largest cigarette butt on the sink, lit it and surveyed the damage.

It soon became obvious that the previous nights research wasn't the cause of all the destruction.And unless me or one of my colleagues were rooting around in the trash for food or gnawing on the furniture (again, not entirely out of the question), I was pretty sure I knew the identity of the culprit.

Doba! My wolf!

To be completely honest "the" wolf would be more accurate than "my" Wolf. You never really own a wolf.

Maggie had always been the one to handle the details with Doba. one of which was putting him in his crate at the end of every night.Which no one enjoyed but was now clearly necessary.

However, as Doba realized last night: there was a new Sheriff in town. And if I was now free to fully indulge in my nature, then goddamn it so was he!

I decided then and there that this realization, along with mutual respect, would steer our relationship. It didn't take long to learn that his definition of "mutual respect" differed from mine. In his defense, Timberwolves aren't exactly know for their impulse control. Over the next few nights he  consistently broke the rules of our agreement. So, almost immediately, our deal had to be renegotiated.

A large screened patio bordered the rear of the house.Logic and convenience (mostly convenience) dictated that this would be his new sleeping quarters. I felt better about this arrangement. I could put him out there at night to enjoy the fresh air. Plus all the smells and sounds should keep him entertained. So I arranged his bedding, bowls and toys out on the patio in preparation for his first night in his new digs.

I wanted him to be comfortable, but just as important, I wanted to wake without any wolf related problems. My new business was underway and I had several transactions lined up in the morning.

Chapter 4

I awoke to a confusing and frantic phone call.

"You need to get out here!"

I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the front door. Using my arm as a shield against the harsh Florida sun, I pushed my way outside. Before my eyes could adjust I heard the hum of an engine and the murmur of distant voices. My vision came into focus to find a teal Honda Civic in my driveway. An enormous wolf stood perched on the hood, trapping a startled customer inside.

Doba was an imposing animal but his nature was always loving. A mixture of sweet and mischievous. Though the trapped girl in the Honda knew none of this.

Standing there on the hood he looked at me with an expression that seemed to say: " Look what I got! What are you waiting for?! I got the front but you might want to make sure she doesn't get out of one of the back doors."

My groggy brain struggled to put all the pieces together. I surveyed the surrounding area.

What I saw was Doba's calling card of mischief. Toppled garbage cans and trash lay strewn across the front yards of the nearby houses. A few neighbors milled around, watching the scene unfold, from the safety of their porches.

"Shit!" Shaking my head in frustration, I instantly went into damage control mode. I yanked Doba down from the car and dragged him through the front door, shutting him inside. I held a finger up to the occupant of the Honda, letting her know that I'd be right with her. I quickly jogged from yard to yard standing trashcans, replacing the the scattered pizza boxes, beer cans, and dirty diapers. All the while announcing apologies and excuses.

I was lucky this wasn't a good neighborhood. If it was, I could have expected a few calls to the cops, the landlord, maybe even animal control. But most incidents, short of gunfire, were handled first, inside the neighborhood.

I made it back to the house and gave Tracey the sign that the coast was clear.She came and went. Continent with the deal I gave here for the trouble.

I locked Doba in the bathroom during the transaction. I could now hear him scratching furiously at the flimsy door.I left him there and went to investigate his escape.

I could do nothing but grit my teeth to restrain my rage, as well as a begrudging grin, at what I discovered. Upon opening the door leading to the back patio, his route of escape was immediately clear: every single one of the twelve screened in sections of the patio had been torn apart!

Now stop and think about that for a second.This Asshole ripped open the single screen necessary to make his escape. He then decided that he enjoyed this so much, that it was worth putting off his immediate departure to systematically destroy every single one of the remaining screens.

There was something about his ridiculous commitment to an overkill so thorough, so complete, that a part of me respected it.

I went back into the house to formulate a new plan for his sleeping arrangements. I opened the bathroom door and he came bounding out, leaving a ripped shower curtain and mangled door in his wake. And another room in the house proved to be unsuitable for a wolf.

Chapter 5

Eventually I found a solution that suited both of us: a 60ft length of heavy duty chain.

I pad locked one end around a pole supporting the carport and the other end around his neck.This way he could curl up, in the burrow he dug in the front yard, and sleep through the night with no chance of escape.The rest of the time, I'd leave the front door open, so he'd have the run of the joint.

The new limitations on his late night escapades meant significantly less mischief to be had. Doba considered this completely unacceptable.

Soon he developed a new game to keep himself entertained.

My new business had people constantly coming and going, giving him plenty of time to perfect his technique.

By this time most customers were aware of his tendency to use the hood of their vehicles as a climbing surface. So they stared to park on the side of the street just out of reach.

In response he stared to burrow into his sleeping hole, making himself level with the surrounding grass and dirt, leaving nothing but yellow eyes and laid back ears slightly exposed. Ready for ambush.

Once the car door opened the game was on. He'd assume his position, visually stalk his prey and wait for the perfect moment . His victim would be nearing the front door and just as they'd notice a chain leading to nowhere he'd spring from his lair and accost them in their moment of confusion.

His goal seemed to be whether or not he could knock them to the ground. Not too difficult considering his prey. If he succeeded, he'd simply drool over his trophy, nudging them with his snout to get up so he could do it again. And if he failed...Well I don't really remember him failing..

Usually by this time in the game I'd have made it out there to restrain him and to rescue the unwitting participant. Eventually the regulars got wise and managed to circumvent the pouncing wolf, usually by calling before exiting their vehicle.

So now, with fewer junkies to play with he had to find other mischief to fill his day and he rarely failed in that pursuit.

Chapter 6

One morning I awoke and made my way to the door to let Doba know that we were open for business. As usual his day was already well underway. After all; there was all kinds of shit to get into and the chaos wasn't going to cause itself.

I flung the door open and went back to my bedroom to start the morning ritual before the morning ritual: a swig from a nearly empty bottle of lower shelf Brandy, a toot of an Oxycontin 40, and a cigarette later, I was ready to take on the day. I went to the bathroom to start brushing and washing.

All the while I wondered where the wolf was. His absence made me suspicious. Usually, as soon as I'd crack the front door, he'd nose his way past me into the house, dragging his chain behind him. But today he seemed to be occupied or just plain missing.Neither of which was a good thing.

I wearily pushed the front door completely open, preparing myself for the inevitable destruction that lay outside. To my surprise I saw nothing. No dead mailman, no flaming trashcans, nothing but my normal disheveled driveway and yard. Which must have meant that he somehow slipped the padlock and was currently harassing a triplet of pigs. Threatening to destroy their respective domiciles and rental agreements if they didn't come out to play.

I noticed that one end of the chain was still attached to the carport. My gaze followed the chain, searching for the end that should have had a wolf attached to it. It lead towards the back yard and disappeared behind the Oldsmobile parked under the carport. With an equal mixture of anticipation and anxiety I followed the chain around the car.Inch by inch until it left the concrete of the driveway. It continued up the door of the Oldsmobile and dropped into the open passenger's window.

"FUCK!" I left the window open!

I lowered my head to survey the interior of the car and locked onto a pair of yellow eyes in the back seat. I glanced around looking for the reason a wolf would be hanging out in a sweltering car in the middle of summer.

I quickly ran a few possible scenarios to justify his occupancy of the Oldsmobile.

Maybe a female wolf, in heat, climbed into the car last night looking for shelter and a sexual partner...Nope....Only one wolf.

Maybe a wild turkey escaped from a hatchery years ago and has been surviving, all this time, in an urban environment on ruthless cunning and instinct. Maybe this turkey sought the safe haven of the Oldsmobile last night only to be devoured by a pursuing wolf..nope…no feathers or blood in the car.

Or maybe, just maybe, as the neighborhood settled into its slumber, the wily and mischievous wolf, noticed an open window and the opportunity to cause some previous unavailable chaos and just couldn't resist. This was the most likely of the scenarios and judging from the chunks of yellow foam scattered around the interior of the car it was also correct.

If any of you were wondering what the dashboard of a late model Oldsmobile is made of, take my word for it, its yellow foam. And if you were also curious about the contents of the steering wheel, the gear shifter, the headliner or the headrests, then please don't hesitate to ask.

The amount of damage done to the front part of the interior explained why he was currently in the backseat: He was clearly taking five to regain his strength before resuming his mission of digesting the Oldsmobile from the inside out. I'm convinced that had I slept a few more hours I would have come outside to a severely bloated wolf laying in the middle of four bare rims.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Both of us waiting for the other to blink.He broke first and looked towards the ground in shame, laying his ears back in submission. I declared myself the "winner" and quickly realized how ridiculous that declaration was. He destroyed the interior of my car. Though it was a piece of shit: unregistered, uninsured, and sporting tags from another one of my cars. I only used it in the neighborhood. A "scraper" used to peddle drugs. So in the end I settled on the battle being a draw.

After luring him out through the window we went inside. He watched me get drunk and I watched him be a wolf…and all was forgiven.

Chapter 7

As much shit as he got into I never lashed out at him, never beat him. That was me living up to our mutual respect deal and also my attempt at avoiding glaring hypocrisy. For some of the darkest times in my life that wolf was my only companion.The only other living being there with me. Our fate was a shared one. We were in it together and I loved him . Just two bachelors, called by nature, frowned upon by society, abandoned by a woman, and addicted to chaos.

Chapter 8

My memories of life on Purdue aren't defined by normal mile markers and chronological time passing. It’s more of a hazy drug fueled timeline of interconnecting fiascos and ridiculous happenings

Somewhere between wolf related mishaps and general mayhem was the incident of The Dueling Lawnmowers.

Over the span of a week I had received several phone calls and text messages from the Landlord about lawn care. Apparently his problem was that I didn't care about the lawn.So after several requests to start and several broken promises to do so, a line was finally dawn.

On one especially humid night, right in the middle of a bender, I noticed an incoming text. It read: "hope the lawn is done! I'll be by in the morning." It went on to extolled the virtues of a well manicured lawn and blah,blah, blah...I quickly deleted the message and accepted the challenge.

Now, one thing you should know about me is that I don't take well to threats and that's obviously what this was.

I prepared for battle by doing nothing more than chaining Doba up out back. Just in case the enemy actually did show up. After my preparation I quickly resumed my prior pursuit of intoxication beyond all acceptable standards.

Sensing a confrontation I approached the next few hours with vigor and indignation. Fueled by Xanax and Whiskey I ranted to all in attendance. Which happened to be small in number on this particular night.

In total it was: me, the wolf, and my best friend Cory Monopoli. My moral accomplice and audience for the night. A lot of pressure on his part but he handled it well. A truly great partner in crime and cohort. The silent agreeable type.

We drank, Cory listened, as I professed tirade after incoherent tirade. About the injustice of it all. This imposed lawn care! This was clearly a first amendment issue! Maybe my lack of lawn care was a social statement against the Military Industrial Complex! Too big to fail banks, GMO's and Monsanto! Did he ever think of that? Eventually the night devolved in to me mumbling from a prone position on the floor and Cory nodding in agreement from the couch. My point was made none the less. I'm still not positive on what that point was but I'm confident that, by the end of the night, it was definitely made.

I awoke with a top notch hangover to the unmistakable sounds of a lawnmower living up to its namesake. I was in the same location that I delivered my last speech from: the floor. I crawled to the window and split the blinds just enough to see through. I saw my landlord in, what must have been, his lawn maintenance "uniform". Which was nearly identical to his normal uniform, except his usually solid color polo now had green horizontal stripes. What an asshole!

He was behind an industrial sized push mower, the kind with handlebars that you see on golf courses and highway rest stops. He was pushing the behemoth with determination and self righteousness.

Touch Mr "Lord of Lands". I see your passive aggressive act of war and raise you one psychotic outburst in retaliation.

I ran outside barefoot and completely disheveled. Battling the noise of the mower, I told him to "GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE! I WAS JUST ABOUT TO START MOWING!"

I noticed he was wearing pristine safety glasses and ear protection. Oh he was good! We couldn't be from more opposite ends of the human spectrum. The Goddamn ear protection he sported were the same ones that cops use at the shooting range! It took everything I had, not to spear tackle him right then and there.

No, this battle was too subtle and important to be resolved by a simple physical altercation.

He pretended to not notice me and continued to care for my lawn. I ran to the little wooden shed in the back yard to retrieve my ancient, beat up, lawnmower, complete with three working wheels. I checked the gas and could see the bottom of the tank through the little fuel that remained.

I defiantly pushed the battle tested machine into his direct line of sight.I made eye contact with him to gauge his commitment to this fight. He did not falter.Like I said: He was good!

His ear protection alone must have cost an easy $150. As far as I'm concerned, he bought them days earlier with the specific goal of infuriating me! And it was working. For Christ's sake: this asshole got up at the crack of dawn to hook up a trailer, just so he could bring his gigantic "Fuck You" mower. No, he would not be defeated so easily.

Luckily I had one very important advantage: I was an unhinged and ridiculous individual, with nothing to lose, fueled by narcotics and spite.

I maintained eye contact as I reached down to start my mower.

First tug…nothing

Another pull…nothing

The corners of his mouth turned up in the slightest of smug grins.

Damn it! I had to break eye contact to find the primer button. "Oh shit!" I prayed that there was enough gas to start the piece of junk.I jabbed the primer, resumed eye contact, and pulled the cord one more time. It finally sputtered to life.

The landlord kept mowing, uninterrupted.

With my mower now in the game, I started on the side yard. The driveway separated our paths.Honestly, at this point I expected him to admit defeat, pack up his shit, and leave. Satisfied with the thought that he finally got me to practice some lawn care.But this sick bastard refused to budge. He kept right on pushing his mower, making quick work of the overgrown grass.

I had to think quick to recalculate my plan. I couldn't let him finish the front lawn.The need to finish this battle in the front yard was two fold.

One: If he finished out here, he would claim a moral victory over me and my kind. Which was unacceptable. This was bigger than either of us.

And two: if he finished in the front and decided to go for total domination by mowing the back yard, he would become all too aware of the wild animal chained to the shed. See the total destruction of the once screened in patio and make the obvious connection.

He needed to be stopped immediately.He was already half way done. So I jumped the driveway and headed straight towards him. I started an intense, albeit slow, game of chicken. We inched closer and closer, neither of us willing to stray from our trajectory. He was calling my bluff! Dam it! I was running out of ideas.

Just before losing hope, staring into his sunglasses under his safety glasses, I saw a possible path to victory, literally. His weakness was his confidence in materialism. Which I was unburdened by. Both by choice as well as circumstance. Even though his equipment was of higher quality and superior craftsmanship, it was large and cumbersome, rendering it slow and less maneuverable. My equipment, though lacking gas, a forth wheel, and integrity (both structural as well as personal), was faster and more agile.

Just before we collided I jogged right, onto the un-mowed section of grass. I quickly spun around and slid up next to him, mowing parallel to his path. I had the prime position.He struggled to adjust and overtake me and my contraption. But I had the high ground. As he sped up, I sped up. When he slowed down, I slowed down. When he stopped, I stopped. I mirrored his every move, for two full passes. Until, eventually, we were both standing still. Mowers idling.Side by side. Staring at each other. He finally realized that he was bested.

He released the throttle on his behemoth and yelled " WE NEED TO TALK!". He pushed the mower back to his trailer. I pretended not to hear him and continued to mow. A sly grin spread across my face. I crossed the fingers on my left hand and prayed that the gas in the tank would last long enough for him to leave...it did.

Chapter 9

After Maggie was out of the picture, the house and my life in general held up about as well as a Tuna fish sandwich in the sun.

The incidents that caused the steady degradation of the house on Purdue Ave were as varied as they were ridiculous. A chaotic cocktail, garnished with gun powder and stirred with a shotgun.

I had several firearms during my occupancy of the tuna fish sandwich but only two would take part in the chaos.

A gun rack sat above the black leather couch in the living room. It hung there facing the front door, ominously greeting everyone that entered. It was a small rack and held two shotguns of completely different backgrounds and demeanors. They sat horizontal one on top of the other.

The top spot held a Mossberg 500 pistol grip pump shotgun. This particular model was euphemistically called the "persuader" (that's not a joke). It was sleek, black, and pristine. Its vibe was 'swat team and riot gear’.

The other spot was occupied by an ancient and rust spotted double barrel shotgun. This model was more of the 'Jed Clampett’. Its vibe was cousin fuckin and moonshine.

Now, I knew that the Mossberg worked fine. It was practically fresh out of the box. The Jed Clampett, on the other hand, was an inheritance from my recently deceased Grandfather. Its functionality was questionable to say the least.

One unremarkable afternoon my curiosity, about the old piece of iron, won out.I decided a test run was needed. I planned on taking it one step at a time. Just to see if the shells would fit, I pulled the old beast from the wall. I thumbed the barrel release and cracked her open, exposing two empty barrels.

For those who don't know; those old shotguns have a hinge that lets the barrel fall forward. This allows you to load the shells into the back of the barrels. Snap it closed and you're ready to rob a stagecoach or to run a stranger off your property or whatever one does with such an antique. Well, that's in theory. Unfortunately life doesn't always unfold so smoothly.

I pushed the shells into the waiting cylinders. It took some effort. The accumulated rust made it a really tight fit. I managed, barely. Reasonably pleased, I grabbed the barrel in one hand and the butt in the other. As I snapped the weapon back into a straight line, it exploded from my grip and lodged butt first into the drywall. At the exact moment the gun leapt from my hands, Doba leapt into the air, pulling his chain with him into flight. He came back to Earth, startled beyond belief.

After assuring that Doba was buckshot free and literally wiping the sweat from my brow, I retrieved the old battle axe, to see why things went sideways.

I cracked the barrel open, to find that both shells had simultaneously discharged. The hammers that strike the shells were rusted in place, so when I snapped the barrels closed, they hit the live shells hard enough to, well...trigger them. The rounds blasted through my couch, and the wall behind it, missing Doba's ass by inches.

We stared at each other with raised eyebrows. Stupid expressions plastered on our faces. I removed the shells and placed the decrepit shotgun back in its place on the rack. From that point on it would be nothing more than an ornament. A well deserved retirement.

Now, a sane person would think that I had learned my lesson and would take a hiatus from treating my house like a shooting range. I would not.

Chapter 10

For quite some time the tactical Mossberg sat, untouched, on the wall of the little red brick house on Purdue Ave. To be called upon, only occasionally, to be a mock microphone or guitar during an overzealous moment of musical inspiration. The most ridiculous aspect, that I'm just now realizing, is that: I had several real guitars. But I guess, when caught up in the moment, a shotgun somehow makes a better improvised guitar than a Stratocaster does. Aside from its occasional use as a prop, the Mossberg managed to remain absent from most of the early chaos that took place, but its time was coming.

Somewhere towards the end of a 48 hour bender, Cory and I found ourselves back at the house with half a bottle of E&J. With no plans to end this party, I called up a couple of ladies of ill repute, who shared our love for illicit activities. They soon arrived and upon seeing our state of inebriation, were either slightly disgusted or completely jealous. Probably both.

To even the playing field, I broke out a mini buffet of party favors: coke, smoke, liquor, and enough pharmaceuticals to fill a medicine cabinet.I even had a few grams of mushrooms stashed away.Needless to say; it was now officially a [good time]. Music, drugs, loose women, and a wolf. What more could you ask for?

The next few hours passed, as you would expect; in a haze of debauchery and sinful acts. Only occasionally interrupted with trips to the bathroom or the kitchen sink, which ever was closest, to "regroup" for another round.

Sometime during this fog of activity I decided that the nearly toxic level of chemicals in my system, had done well up this point, but was missing something. Apparently I also decided that the "something" that was missing was a psychedelic. I suspect that I reached this decision partially partly because the shrooms were the only substance that I had yet to ingest.And also because it just made sense.

I snuck off to my bedroom and ate the few remaining shrooms from a ziplock bag in my dresser.In my state of inebriation, I soon forgot all about the psychedelics churning in my stomach and returned to the festivities. I jumped back into the duel roles of host and madman. Until sometime later when I suddenly remembered my most recent snack.

My stomach began to bubble with anticipation. My skin tingled with the first waves of a mushroom trip.The drugs in my system battled for control. Initially it was a hell of a fight with no clear victor. Though I suspected/feared/hoped that the strength and stamina of the psychedelic would soon reign supreme.

During the height of this internal holocaust, I found myself sitting on the couch with the sleek black tactical shotgun resting In my lap. I ran my hands over the cool metal of the barrel. I stared at the metal and plastic with admiration and pity.

Here was this masterfully simple and aesthetically pleasing piece of machinery. Designed for just one task. Full of potential and possibility. Yet ultimately unfulfilled. Left to waste away on a wall as nothing more than than an implied threat and distasteful decoration. And to add insult to injury: its only companion was the elderly Jed Clampett.

The old war horse looking down on the Mossberg had seen better days no doubt, but it was secure in the knowledge that it had served its purpose. It had fulfilled its destiny. It had truly lived and boasted to have war stories for days. The tales etched into its rusted barrels and chipped and scarred stock. There it sat, just inches above the pristine black Mossberg, silently mocking its virginity.

I related to the weapon. And so, with the same agreement that I had reached with the wolf, I decided to let the Mossberg explore its nature.

In case you were wondering, this is the point when the mushrooms gained the upper hand. The war was over.

I was so lost in thought that all of my surroundings had faded away. When I raised my gaze from the shotgun I was instantly transported back to the reality of my environment.

The thud of music reached me first. Followed by the blue glow of white fabric under the influence of a black light. As my awareness came flooding back I noticed the two ladies of ill repute, staring wide eyed at me and the Mossberg. They sported comically raised eyebrows and extremely uneasy expressions.

Cory sat in the recliner in the corner of the living room. He stared back at me with an expression that seemed to say: "fuck it, I'm down"...the girls exchanged glances and must have been weighing the risk vs. reward of the current situation. Apparently free drugs beat out possible gunplay, because they didn't leave. Though I suspected that it was a close race.

I stood up and retrieved the box of ammo from underneath the couch. I loaded eight buckshot shells into the Mossberg and pumped the first round into the chamber.I walked from the living room, through the dining area, and into the Florida room that ran the length of the back of the house.

The Florida room had been converted into an indoor storage space as well as a laundry area. A washer and dryer combo sat at the very end of the long corridor. The only structural break in the entire space was a partial wall near the washer and dryer. The wall created some separation of the laundry area from the rest of the room.

There was an open doorway on the left and a large opening in the middle of the wall. It looked as if it were originally designed to be some type of bar area. An idea that had since been abandoned.

Through the opening you could see the top of the washer and dryer. Everything outside of that space was littered with miscellaneous junk. My Ex's abandoned items. Items that she deemed sacrificial in her break for freedom and sanity. The relics of a recently deceased life cluttered the space that I stood in.

I flipped the light switch and the fluorescent lights flickered to life.The new light was harsh and depressing in the details that it revealed. Cory stood behind me, in the doorway, offering moral support. And a witness to the mayhem.

I turned to my left and without hesitation I fired the first shot at the knee wall protecting the washer and dryer. The impact peppered the wall just beneath the bar opening, splintering the thin wood to shreds.

When I entered the room I hadn't planned on emptying the shotgun. I hadn't really ruled it out either. But after that first shot something overtook me. Maybe it was the drugs and drink. Maybe it was the pain and self loathing. Or maybe it was just the gun living out its nature.

I racked the pump and fired again. Chunks of wood and drywall exploded. I heard the hollow tin sound of the pellets blasting through the wall and piercing the thin metal of the washer and dryer. I continued to fire shell after shell with increasing damage.

I pumped, what turned out to be the last shell, and pulled the trigger. Everything went dark and the music evaporated.

What I didn't realize (not that it would have stopped me) was that an electrical outlet and wiring ran through the dividing wall. The last shell blasted through the outlet severing the wires. The circuit blew, killing the power in part of the house.

Standing there in the silence and darkness I realized that tears were rolling down my face and onto my chest. Being in that room, completely intoxicated, surrounded by the remnants of a life that I had built with Maggie, and single handedly destroyed, just overwhelmed me. Frozen there, in a daze, I felt an arm around my shoulder. It turned me around.

It was Cory. All he said was "come on" as he guided me back through the door into the living room. He sat me down, took the shotgun and placed it back on the rack. He disappeared for a few minutes.

He must have reset the breaker because the blacklight and music returned.

Under the blacklight I saw two sets of glowing white eyes, bulging in panic. The ladies quickly rethought their decision to stay. They gathered what they could’ve of their things and fled.

Cory came back into the living room with the half empty bottle of E&J in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

We sat there on the couch. We drank and smoked and talked till the sun came up and the bottle was empty. And somehow, after all that, I felt better. I had exercised some demons. I was finally ready to move on...and I did.

After all I did, to win the unspoken war with the landlord, I could do nothing more than fight to a draw.

There were no victors.

Both parties suffered casualties.

His were monetary.

Mine were dignity and sanity.

Like most wars: nothing was solved, nothing resolved. We left the battle to be taken up by other landlords and tenants to, no doubt come to a similar conclusion.

EPILOGUE

I could fill a book with all the debauchery that took place in that little three bedroom, hood adjacent, house on Purdue Ave. But if I documented all the drug related mishaps, all the degenerate roommates that came and went, and all the damage to property and self, I'd still be writing. So for the sake of a reasonable story length and a real inability to recall most of what took place beyond just a foggy idea, I digress. I didn't choose to write about the most traumatic, dramatic, or even exciting stories. I just wrote what I could remember. The rest will disperse into the ether. And forever remain in that moment of time that they came to be. They will stay free from the distorted lens of memory. Unshackled by perspective and time, leaving no trace, other than a vague spark in my mind...and an unforgivable renters history...