Burn­ing down houses

Midweek Sport - - NEWS -

friend Con­nor lived up in Sun City. He had neigh­bour prob­lems, a scrawny lit­tle white boy tweaker who drove him nuts. I’m not sure how the fight started; prob­a­bly didn’t take much.

“I’m sick of this guy’s bull­shit,” Con­nor said one day. “He keeps it up, I’m go­ing to burn his f***ing house down.”

Con­nor had a le­git­i­mate job. He had a de­cent salary, a com­pany car, full ben­e­fits. A nor­mal nine-to-five guy, ex­cept that he was also a to­tal f***ing psy­cho, with no sense of irony or self­aware­ness, as ev­i­denced by the fact that he was a drug user him­self.

It was Con­nor who gave me my first hand­gun, a .380 to be flashed or used when­ever the sit­u­a­tion called for it. I got into a num­ber of fights with Con­nor at my side; he was my friend, and if he had a trou­ble­some neigh­bour, I’d help him put an end to the trou­ble. “Al­right dude, let’s f***ing do it.” So Con­nor came up with this mad-ass plan to torch the guy’s house when he left for work one morn­ing. I was spend­ing a lot of time at Con­nor’s place in those days so I acted as a look­out.

I watched the guy kiss his girl­friend good­bye in the morn­ing, get in his car, and drive away. Then I waited an­other half hour or so, un­til his chick left. And then I called Con­nor.

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