Some new people moved in across the street recently. At first, I thought they were nice, they kept to themselves and never spoke to me which is the best kind of neighbor. If you want my immediate respect just leave me alone and that’s exactly what they did. By then I noticed something.
My dog started barking at the door, not an unusual occurrence. I think my house is haunted and the amount of times my dog barks at nothing just confirms it. I haven’t met the ghosts yet but I deduced that their names are Mildred and Gerald, a married couple from the 1920s who were killed while smuggling booze. They haven’t corrected me yet so I’m pretty sure I’m right. Either that or they’re slowly plotting my demise. I hope they work more quickly.
As my dog was barking at the door I went to look and sure enough no one was there. The streets were empty. Except for the new neighbors across the street. They were outside their house having a cigarette. While I thought it was nice of my dog to be concerned about our new neighbors giving themselves cancer I informed her to stop barking as it was none of our business and frankly, one less person in the world wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Then it happened again. Empty streets save for the neighbor across the street. Except this time they weren’t smoking, they were working on their car. While I thought it was nice that my dog was trying to warn them that the Mitsubishi Mirage they had was a piece of junk I informed her it was none of our business and that was that.
Then it happened again. This time my dog was barking at the door from halfway down the hall. I checked. Empty streets save for the neighbor across the street. Hanging out on their driveway. It was at this point I was truly suspicious. Why did my dog bark every time they were outside? Not even near our house. Was my dog racist? Was I racist for thinking my dog was racist?
All I knew for sure was that I had to get to the bottom of it. I wanted for the cover of night before donning my tactical gear. It’s been years since I was last on a mission so I was pleasantly surprised to see it still fit properly as I had given up exercise since the Playstation 5 was released. All the memories came flooding back as I saw myself in the mirror. All the wailing screams and horrified crying that was my ritual before each mission. My codename was Pussy Boy. I swore I’d never put that uniform on again after the Pringles Incident but this was a righteous cause. I had to get my dog to shut up. I was losing sleep.
The street was dark and quiet, the only light coming from custom light-up Spongebob sneakers, the sneaker of choice for any tactical agent worth their salt. Mission was a go. I dove into a prone position to crawl across unseen severely injuring my shoulder in the process but a few fractured joints was worth the sacrifice trying to stop the fracturing of my peaceful sleeps. Whatever evil these people were up to, I would put a stop to it so my dog would bark no more. Their house was mere yards away from mine but the journey across the street was long and arduous. This is what D-Day must have felt like if their were no weapons being fired at all. After seconds that felt like minutes which felt like days I had made it to their home, ready to infiltrate and uncover the treachoury within. Unfortunately the door was locked so I went home.
I’ll never know exactly what they’re up to but based on all the evidence it can’t be good. My dog still barks whenever they go outside and when she does I pause to think about the people who lived in that house before. They also kept to themselves but my dog didn’t bark at them and I just wish I hadn’t taken them for granted. I miss you whatever your names were. To the people there now, welcome to the neighborhood, my little white bug-eyed shih tzu mix fucking hates you.