My name is Peterson. I live here. Always have. Since I was a young boy I have inhabited these walls. First with my parents. Then my wife. Now myself. 67 years I have been here. 67 years. Seems inconceivable. Seems wrong. I never thought that age would be like this. Everyone knows me here. The Wilmington's across the street. Even the new renters at Serafinfi's scum lofts. And look there's old lady Welsh yelling at her oak tree again. Dressed in nothing but a house coat and slippers. She does it every day at ten sharp. Crazy bitch. And they avoid my place. Ha!

I can hear them whisper and see them point. I am old yes but not yet feeble. They all look twice and stare when I walk by. Shuffle their shopping carts past at the market. Go to the other side of the sidewalk. I am a joke to them. A twisted old man who rants and raves at everything. They think that it is junk in the yard. They do not know what it is. I have collected it for years. All the hoodlums in my neighborhood throw eggs at my house every Halloween. No gifts of sweets at Christmas. I am their object of ridicule. All because I know. I've told people but their eyes glaze when I speak and they don't pay any attention. I am their martyr of knowledge. See I am privy to the secrets of a certain one of us. A man above reproach. Someone who is a pillar of our "community".

You know who you are. Jenson! How many times you have wronged me. We grew up only a few houses apart. We ran through the same fire hydrants together. Fought off the same invaders during the war. We felt up the same girls and saw the same movies at the same drive ins. But I know. Yes. I know. And how I loathe you. Ha ha. You don't think that I know what you've done do you? All of the indecent things. All of the diseases that you've spread around the neighborhood. All of the children have caught them. Mrs. Choy's son was so sick he had to go to the hospital. And the Johnson twins were unable to hold down solids for a week. I saw your face when you heard. That was not a look of grief. It was well hidden joy. I know about the rumors you've started. The families that you've broken. I heard about Mary Cohen's husband. I know who started that. Not a word of truth. He is a good man. Far above the grotesque level that you have set him upon.

You're the Ice Cream Man here. Bastard. You drive up and down the street at all times of the day, playing old nursery songs. Laughing. Ringing the bell on the top of the cab. And every other block or two you stops and lure the children with your promises of sweetness. Look at them come. Eyes blank and dull.

I think that you would have made enough money by now to buy a new truck. Yours is old and worn. The muffler rattles the Presidential collectors plates on my walls. Mr. Giggles, my cat, hides under my bed and won't come out until you pass. It's come to be that if I even hum "Pop Goes the Weasel" he hisses and sprints down the hall.

Oh, Jenson! Your soul is black. Your brow furrowed. May you rot like my garbage that the Town does not pick up. I do not trust them here. They can tell how you live through what you throw away. I wonder what they found in yours?

I call and complain but nothing is done. What do you do? Pay off commissioners and inspectors. No one in their right mind would allow you to do this. You are a Pied Piper of sugar and deception. You promise Good Humor and provide only slow defeat. WELL NO MORE!! Something has to be done about this. I see you for what you are. What incantations did you use when you sold your soul to Beelzebub? What did he promise you? Immortality? Wealth? The sound of your jingle makes me sick. And if no one else will awake from your spell and stop you then by Jesus I shall.

I awoke this morning and put on fresh clothes. My old black suit and hat that I haven't worn since my wife's funeral still fit. In my hands my rosary and my pistol. Funny how things work like this. I spent the morning reading passages from the Bible. The Old Testament is practically a handbook for revenge. A step by step guide to putting the Devil in his place. You.

Yes I know that you came by at 8:30. And I swear I heard you come again around eleven. Feel safe don't you? Just another routine Thursday on Poplar isn't it? Good. Just don't worry. Drive along wrapped around your evil. Sell death to the children riding their bikes to find you. Smile at the inane jokes that they make. Feel safe. I know you. I see you.

I glance at the clock. 6:15 pm. I can hear you, blasting your happy music all down the street. Look at all the people rushing out to great you. Fools! And you. Waving like you're some sort of royalty. Make them laugh. This is the last time I swear. The last time I allow you to make a mockery of my intelligence. The last time I let you get away with your million travesties. With your dark secrets. The rosary is biting into my hand. The pistol itching. I don't remember coming out onto my porch but I'm glad that I'm here. This is the end. You're starting back up and coming down the street. Forgive me if I don't wave. My hands are busy.

grokkings

Beefcake just told me that Marcus is puking after having four beers and some Fritos. Sissy.

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