Burning down houses
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.