The Money We Borrow and the Money We Owe (3)

When we got back to our complex, Shady Acres, we bolted upstairs to our room.  It had an open courtyard with a slime green swimming pool and dying flora all around.  We were surprised there wasn’t an eviction notice on our door, considering we hadn’t paid our rent in 3 months.  But, we did manage to shoot used rubbers and old food from our balcony onto the piss-poor recreation of Michaelangelo’s David that adorned the center court of Shady Acres.  We would soon find out why no such notice was necessary.

“Where are we going to go?  Little Orphan Annie’s?” Tommy asked.
“No, I never paid her for that last night we had.  How about Joey Casino’s?” I suggested.
“Are you kidding?  He’s still waiting on those tables he paid me for.  Maybe we just need to get out of state, find a cheap motel?”
“with what cash?” I asked.
“Don’t you still have those old checks from Cynthia?” he asked.
“Our pictures are up in every motel, grocery story, gas station, post office and newspaper stand within 700 miles of where we stand saying “No Checks.”  And if we run into Cynthia, she’ll ginsu my balls off with that checkbook.”

We were stuck.  No options left.  I suggested a ludicrous one, just to exhaust all our choices.

“What about your Mom’s?  She can’t even hear.  She’d never know”
Tommy gave me the shocked look I expected from him.  Then, after he closed his gaping mouth, he opened it again to bitch at me.

“My mother can’t hear, that’s true, except for one sound: My footsteps.  She has this sixth sense that tells her when I’m near.  I’d rather spit right in Big Tony Flub’s face and tell him I boned his wife than deal with my mother.  She’ll never forgive me for taking out that second mortgage on her house and spending all the money in Vegas.  She had to come bail me out of jail.  I’m disowned and there’s no way I’m going back.”

Then, we heard something: a sound.  A sound we knew very well.

Flip-Flop.

Flip-Flop.

Flip-Flop.

Old Mrs. Pananini and her ancient purple night slippers.  They were infamous around Shady Acres.  Mrs. Pananini was the current landlord of our little community and she ruled it with an iron pacemaker.  She had come for her money.  Money we didn’t have.  I put my finger to my mouth and told him to “Shhh!”  There was a knock at the door and we stayed absolutely still.  I motioned for Tommy to move around to the bathroom and I quietly as possible, moved next to the window.  Another knock.  I saw Tommy picking up our suitcases and coming back into the living room.  Then, a hole was blown in our front door.  I mean, a huge fricking hole!   I saw Mrs. Pananini laying on the ground outside our window, with a double barrel shotgun in her hands.

“Grab the bags!” I screamed.

We did and, like action stars, we busted through the remains of the door, and ran as fast as our out of shape bodies would allow us.  We booked down the stairs and out into the courtyard before the next large bang went off.  This time it was the poor man’s David who got blasted, right in the face.  He blew apart in chunks, mossy cold stone flying everywhere and Mrs. Pananini also flying, from the kick back of the gun, back through the original hole she blew in our door.  We managed to leave the premises before she re-emerged, with her weapon reloaded.  We needed our garbage disposal fixed anyways.

 

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