I only spoke to him briefly. Thank god for that. I was trying to balance three Old Fashioneds and a plate of club sandwiches when I encountered a nebbish little fellow that I assumed to be the butler.

“You there,” I said to him. “Hold my food so I can suck down these drinks. And be quick about it.”

He fixed me with a bemused look, but refused to budge. “The name’s [Bartleby?]. Welcome to my party.”

“Oh,” I said, not the least bit embarrassed. “Oswald Carver, your neighbor. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He sighed wistfully, and looked across the swimming pool at a rather attractive piece of ass who was talking to a small group of people. I set my sandwiches down on a nearby deck chair so as to attend to my Old Fashioneds.

“No,” he said. “But I sure hope she is.”

“Her?” I said, gulping down the first one. “Why?”

“Why?” he echoed, before pausing dramatically: “Because I love her!”

“Oh, for the love of — don’t tell me you’re hung up on some woman. There are, after all, two top-rate whore houses in this town. And their girls are clean, trust me. No need for such theatrics.”

But my neighbor simply shook his head sadly. “You have no idea. All of this?” he said, gesturing at the surroundings. “All for her. All in hopes that she… that she… that she might love me again!“

“Sweet Jesus,” I said, downing the second cocktail. “What are you, 15?”

My host smiled thinly. “I had her once, you know. When I was a younger man. Before I was rich! I had her love before I had wealth. And everything — everything! — in my life since then has been prelude to the day when I shall hold her in my arms again!”

“Good god, man, calm down.”

“I am calm,” he hissed.

“Whatever. Look, not that it’s any of my business, but it sounds to me like you’ve traded up. What will a woman’s love get you, save a bed devoid of variety and days filled with nagging? It certainly won’t afford you the finer things in life. The good stuff costs money.”

“Money?” he said, frantically. “Her voice is full of money! Full of money, I say! Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!“

My neighbor then collapsed to the ground, so I finished the last Old Fashioned and turned my attention to the club sandwiches. Needless to say, I’ll be going out of my way to avoid what’s-his-name in the future. Sad sacks like him always come to a bad end, and I don’t want to be there when he inevitably winds up floating face-down in his own swimming pool, borne back ceaselessly into the pump.

Don’t get me wrong; I hate the middle class. Absolutely despise them. They’re dirty, uneducated, have horrible taste, and invariably smell bad. But they are good for two things: being easily duped on election day, and a willingness to work their entire lives for men like me, only to wind up with nothing while I retire on the lap of luxury.

I’ll tell you one thing, though — those middle class kids are the spitting image of Yule, mustache and all. No wonder he gave them his house. Yule always was a big softie

“What the hell is going on here?” I barked at them, causing a few to instantly scatter.

“We’re playing hopscotch Mister Carver,” one of the remaining brats explained. I think it was Bendemix’s daughter, but to be honest all children look alike to me. Just a bunch of hairless chimpanzees in midget clothes, crawling with disease and snot.

“Hopscotch? I don’t see any goddamn scotch. I see a lot of goddamn kids trespassing on my goddamn property! Now beat it, you little shits! Get the hell out of here before I eat you all for dinner!”

Beat it they did, leaving me to some well-deserved peace and quiet. Sure, there’ll be the usual round of angry phone calls later tonight. So what. As you may have noticed, I rather enjoy confrontations.

“Who the hell mows their lawn this early?” asked Trixie, the whore who was in bed with me at the time.

“A very sorry individual, if I have anything to say about it,” I said. I threw on a robe and stormed out into the cruel light of day. My new neighbor, Greg Bendemix, was tearing it up like nobody’s business on the back of a high-powered riding lawnmower.

“Bendemix! Bendemix!!” I shouted, getting his attention. He shut down the mower and walked towards me.

“Morning Oz,” he said with an easy grin. “What’s cooking?”

“Cut the shit, Bendemix. What’s the big idea, mowing your lawn at 8:30 in the morning?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry about that. Wanted to get it done before me and Marsha take the kids to church. You know, so I can watch the rest of the draft later.”

“Church?! Listen shithead, next time you inconvenience me so you can go bow to some pagan god, I’m dousing gasoline all over this lawn of yours, got it? Then I’m driving down to your stupid little church, taking a nice, fat dump on the altar, and using the run-off to sign your name to the deed. Do we have an understanding?!?“

I guess my message got through, ’cause Bendemix went white as a ghost and nodded. One of his kids had come outside to watch the exchange, and was now bawling in the doorway. I smiled.

“Besides, what kind of welfare recipient doesn’t have a lawn service in this day and age? Stop being so tightfisted and put some deserving Mexicans to work, you cheap bastard.”

With that, I went back inside and enjoyed a rigorous session with Trixie. Then, while Bendemix and his family were off at church, I severed the cable line leading to their house. Where’s his Jesus now, hmm? Where is his Jesus now?

Anyway, I decided to take a peek at my neighbor’s bathroom, and was lucky enough to catch Bob Laudermilk’s wife, Ivette, as she was coming out of the shower. Talk about a goldmine. And by goldmine, I mean two very succulent hooters. I wouldn’t mind burying my face in those beauties for an hour or so, that’s for sure.

Better still, Bob works for me. Which means finagling some “quality time” with Ivette shouldn’t be a problem. At least it better not, not if Bob still wants that promotion. And weasely little men like him always want a promotion.

That’s three nights in a row I’ve crapped in my neighbor’s lawn.