C:\Windows\system32>ping harley
Ping request could not find host harley. Please check the name and try again.

C:\Windows\system32>ipconfig /flushdns
Windows IP Configuration

Successfully flushed the DNS Resolver Cache.

C:\Windows\system32>nslookup harley
Server:  DD-WRT
Address:  192.168.1.1

Name:    harley
Address:  192.168.1.118

C:\Windows\system32>ping harley
Ping request could not find host harley. Please check the name and try again.

THIS IS WHY I ABANDONED YOU WINDOWS.

Everything that everyone says about the J13 Datsun Engine is a dirty fucking lie.

No, the intake and exhaust manifolds don’t interchange with the MG Midget. No, they don’t interchange with the MGB. Do they interchange with the MGA? I don’t fucking know because I’m not throwing any more money down this particular bit of forum-lie.

No, the transmission bellhousing pattern does not match the L-series engines. Nor does it match the bellhousing pattern on the MG engines (the MG engine bit is quite frequently repeated and while I’m no MG expert, I haven’t seen a fucking BIT of truth to it other than it shares the poorly designed single-sided head – but none of the common valvetrain internals – with centerline-of-port-shared-post manifold mounting.) As best I can figure, someone once said “These engines were built by Nissan based on licensing the MG design but with all their own parts and measurements” and then the internet version of “playing telephone” happened and it became “The engine is a clone of the MG engine”.

And lets talk about that manifold some more, while I’m good and angry. First off, it appears to be impossible to take off the carburetor without removing the intake manifold. Secondly, it appears to be impossible to take off the intake manifold without removing the exhaust manifold. Thirdly, it seems to be impossible to replace just the intake manifold without also going to exhaust headers (they aren’t exactly cast in one piece, but it looks like there’s an open “heater plenum” in the central runner that just connects to a pad on the bottom of the intake), and finally, and most disconcertingly, it seems to be impossible to take off the exhaust manifold period. There are bolts which could only be successfully removed if you had a scimitar-length ratcheting box end wrench. Half of the manifold bolts are bolts, the other half are studs. They all use oddball 5mm thick concave washers. The first bolt back from the front of the engine appears to thread into an OIL PASSAGE. Note I said bolt, not stud, so it’s not like I can put any yamabond on there and make it oiltight. Every single thing I’ve read about the J13 is either about how it’s impossible to find parts for it, or it’s a thread asking what the best engine to simply fucking replace it with is. It’s like all of the fun of working on a british car but without the enthusiastic support group.

Another interesting bit is I found out that while the 520 and 521 look very similar and are only separated by one year (again, this fact is possibly based on internet lies, the earliest 521’s HAD J13 engines), and they share suspension design, components, interiors, and many other things, the 521 has FIVE EXTRA INCHES of radiator-support-to-firewall space. This, of course, means that all of the common engine swaps are more difficult and almost all involve cutting the firewall.

This isn’t really a big problem, since I’m not really looking to do a super-common swap into it (L20B? I mean, I’m going to have to fab up new mounts for the engine and tranny anyways, I’m not gonna do all that and only get 15hp out of it), but it does mean that I’m gonna be abandoning the J13 sooner than I had hoped and doing more work to get any engine installed. That’s not necessarily a bad thing from a fangle and fun standpoint but it means more money and time.

I have a couple other interesting ideas going right now too. For example… did you know that the Datsun 280zx has almost exactly the same track width as the truck (it’s actually about an inch wider but that just means more clearance on the frame rail)? And it’s got a fancy IRS with lots of available lockers and geegaws. I mean, a triangulated four link and a Ford Motorsport 9″ is pretty trick, but IRS… I think it’s pretty doable. Plus it’d keep the pinion angle exactly and I wouldn’t have to worry about nasty resonance in a solid driveshaft (the stock shaft is a two-piece unit with a cradle just ahead of the bed). I could just find a 280zx donor, whack out the rear subframe, then do some cut and paste on the rear frame rails… Fancy diff, better handling, coilovers? Kind of a good proposition. Especially since rust-eaten 280zx’s are not exactly rare. (I briefly considered the second gen 300zx just because then I could justify the whole vg30de thing, but the track is like ten inches too wide and the R200 diff is bigger, heavier, and less common).

I’m still pretty excited about the Duratec/q4r/T5 combo for the powertrain. I keep finding VG30DEs (and less commonly, VG30Es, which would actually be easier to fit) for dirt cheap and they make 220hp stock, but that would involve all manner of crazy shit. I’d have to install a u-jointed steering column, the firewall would have to be cut and moved back maybe six inches (not easy with a standard cab, which is just barely big enough for me to drive anyways). Not to mention that getting the exhaust to go around the torsion bars would be a trick (still looking into solutions for the front end suspension – there’s a Ratsun guy who makes a weld-in kit to convert to QA1 coilovers but why would I go to that trouble and keep the kingpin front suspension?). There’s a dude who welded in a whole Miata k-member, which is an interesting idea. I’m not sure what else out there has the right track width (other than the aforementioned 280zx, which is still on the table). There’s also the “just cut off front frame rails, weld in a toyota front clip and reinforce” minitrucker route which is kind of a cop out I think.

Other than all the trouble I’ve had trying to get this stupid J13 into driveable shape, the truck is still very fun for me. I go out and wrench on it for half an hour and come back in with a head full of ideas and a smile on my face. Hell, even the problems are fun.

@graphikwork: 44 miles from B’ham. 3064 miles from Alaska.

What ever happened? Is this like the fucking Donner Party or some shit? I mean… this was six months ago. You shoulda made it by now. Unless you were part of a cattle drive or something. But even then, six months? Somewhere in there you coulda texted. I imagine this person in their shitty, twelve year old Ford Escort. Tweeting about their (pretty hair-brained) transcontinental journey. They’ve stopped for a quick taco in that place they know. And just as they pull out of the parking lot, WHAM double-loaded semi smears them across the pavement.

@p1×3lated: I want google wave. Plz halpz!!

This person, quite clearly, got their Wave account and is now there, completely happy with the way Wave helps her connect with society. They are the ONLY person who feels this way about Google Wave.

@epicexperiences: Just got done climbing a route on beacon rock, it was pretty choice. The views were phenomenal.

Obviously the climbing went fine but I guess maybe the descending didn’t.

@EvilNeen: If @unanything’s head gets any bigger, we’ll have to cut him out of the apartment.

Oh, it got bigger all right. @EvilNeen’s home planet was destroyed with @ouranything’s head went gas giant and simply blocked out the sun.

@shejohns: showing emily how to use twitter

Ext: A high school library.
It is dark, the only direct light comes from THE WINDOW. Two girls are standing over a table piled with papers, composition books, complicated looking schedules. They are looking down at what we find to be a
INT: High School Library.
small glowing screen. We zoom in to find a laptop with Tweetdeck loaded full screen.
A message has just finished sending.

pull back on two high school aged girls in school uniforms. They are side by side.
@shejohns: “And that’s basically all you do. You just put in your message and hit enter or the little send button. Any… any questions?”
Emily: “Well, I’m not really clear on the searches yet and is there a way to autofollow…”
@shejohns: “Noooo, no autofollow, that’s not really a good idea. And the searches there’s a great readme on my site that one of the forum admins wrote.”
Emily: “And you gave me the email list for the forum admins right?”
@shejohns: “YUP, You’re now officially the VP of this Fan Club!”

@shejohns hugs Emily excitedly, but Emily is strangely unresponsive, staring at the computer screen.
When @shejohns turns back to the screen to finish up some business, we bring up the music and zoom to Emily’s face, her face suddenly stony and inhuman.
From screen left, her right arm lashes out, holding a wooden-based lamp, bludgeoning @shejohns as she falls to the floor, obviously dead.
We close up on Emily’s face, splattered with blood, as she begins to wrap the body in plastic bags and anxiously daub blood from the books on the table, scanning along and stuffing documents into her backpack, she hits a plastic binder with a picture onthe front and she’s suddenly wet-eyed.

Emily: “For you, Raul. Always for you.”

And we follow the picture as she puts it into her purse, and as it dips into the dark pouch, we catch a glimpse of the cool wall eyed stare of Raul Julia, in a black and white head shot.

————–
*So I decided I was gonna clear all twitter followers who I don’t know personally who haven’t tweeted in a month. Sorry folks, that’s just how I do. If you come back later and decide you want me to follow you again you will simply have to re-apply. So I go to FriendorFollow, use the otherwise-basically-worthless “Friends” tab, and sort by “date of last tweet”. And now I have a giant pile with the bottom rows representing “private” accounts which FriendorFollows search whatzis does not errorhandle, and then, mixed in, the abandoned accounts of the now-ex-Twitterers. It felt good to get rid of some dead wood and organize some of my shit in lists. Are you paying attention Twitter? Those two things are great. That new RT? That sucks balls. This concludes the technical portion of the show.

Face it folks, this is just a motherfucking Unicycle with a steerable training wheel. It’s a clown bike. Stop reporting on it like it’s the next big step in cycling.

You may be interested to know that it is now the year of our Lord 2009 and asking for a hand-written reference for a college position without any electronically editable forms is about as archaic and backwards as having a contact form which simply directs you to a generic email address. I would suggest, if you are trying to impress the applicability and timeliness of your educational offerings to people, that you update your downloadable forms to something less hokey.

Adobe Acrobat Professional is available with an academic discount and will allow anyone with twenty spare minutes and four barely-warm braincells to create a form which isn’t hilariously out of date.

Yours in Christ,
Aaron Walker

But, there’s a small, insanely talented, and incredibly passionate group of amateur tinkerers dedicated to these little trucks, and while most of them are interested in making them drag frame, there’s plenty of stop-good and go-fast knowledge out there. I’ve gathered parts for the first few upgrades, a 70a alternator (out of a Nissan Pathfinder), a remote reservoir, 7/8 plunger dual master cylinder out of a Mitsubishi Max (this thing is trick as shit, it’s gonna help with all kinds of intake possibilities), and a pretty nice looking electric fan plus shroud out of a Mercury Mystique (or something else domestic, boring, and saddled with a transverse V6 which wants for serious cooling power). Combined with some brackets that let you put Isuzu Rodeo vented rotors on all four wheels, I should have plenty to keep me busy during the winter months making sure that it can stop _really_ well. (For all values of “really” that include no power brake booster).

There’s a short term plan that I like to call “Get it safely drivable”, which… I dunno. It’s “Safe” now. But it’s too slow to really get out of it’s own way and the little stamped-tin Nikki carb that is on there has backfired on me a few times and drivability is waaay down. And I want to get the electrics all relay-ed and modernized. Also, the carb has gotta go, and while converting to fuel injection just isn’t going to happen on this engine, it IS, as it turns out, just a japanese clone of an MG BMC A-Series engine. So there are hop-up parts available (including headers and aftermarket intakes). Of course, in the face of a wall of aftermarket parts, what have I chosen? To buy some Keihin 35mm carbs from a motorcycle and try to make my own intake and throttle linkage. Because I’m an idiot. But I do have an ebay bid in on an MG heater-line heated intake manifold which will be the basis of my MC carb intake. (Hee hee hee.) Anyways… I also want to get the interior up from “swamp buggy” to something more like “daily driver”. Plus I want to get the stoppers and suspension ready for the inevitable engine swap.

Which brings us to the long term plan. The inevitable engine swap.

I’m still entirely open on this. Of course the Ratsun community is largely dedicated to putting more modern Nissan motors into these trucks (mostly the KA24DE which is cheap and plentiful, but also the SR20DET and the occasional enthusiastically-started-but-as-yet-incomplete VG30E swap (this engine is coming out on Craigslist as all the mid 80’s 300ZX’s stop being economically viable – It’s just too long AND too wide to fit in the 520 engine bay without some serious tunnel/firewall/radiator relocation shit). However, I’m Datsun agnostic. Though I have a Nissan car (a 2007 Nissan Versa), and think that the engine in it, the 1.8 liter MR18DE, is ultra satisfactory, quite fun and would whip the half-the-weight-of-the-Versa 520 around like a little fucking go cart, it’s a FWD only block and nobody has whittled up an adapter to mate it to a Nissan 5 speed. I really don’t care much for that kind of undertaking, so I’m going to go with something someone has already adapted.

That leaves the RWD Nissan motors. The KA24(E/DE, the E designating mEh and the DE designating Double mEh), the SR20DE(T/TT/TTTTT or how ever many turbos they ever made these things with – Fun fact, you take the number of T’s at the end and multiply by $2000, add $1500 to the total and that’s the price of these engines), the L16/18/20B (boooorrriiiinnnnggggggg gg ggg), the VG/VQ six cylinders (which would exhaust my patience for sheet metal work in about three weeks and take possibly YEARS to sort out but a VQ35 would be fucking hilariously fun, I have to admit), or… something less Nissan-y.

I went to the junkyard to measure some engines, just to see what kind of RWD pickings there were to be had. In a word: slim. The BMW baby sixes are too big by juuuust a skosh, and combined with the fact that there’s no such thing as a cheap BMW engine fix, and I think it’d force me to adapt a jointed steering columnt – they’re kinda out. Though if I could source one of the little ETA sixes from a late 80’s 3 Series I’d… I dunno. If it were cheap enough it could make it worth it just on the “you put a what into where” novelty. The Volvo red-block motors would fit, but… you know. Why. Nobody is gonna go “OH SHIT YOU GOT THE FOUR CYLINDER OUT OF A MID 80’S 700 WAGON, SNIP SNAP”. Plus they all put out about one-hundred-and-Zzzzzz horse power and don’t really get great mileage at all. And the transmission options all suck.

I could be the 8932nd person to make an electric Datsun. Eating up the entire bed with batteries which I’ll just have to replace in four years anyways. That’d be cool. Cough. Anyhow…

@conoat did suggest the VW TDI motor, which is really shit hot, and there is an adapter to RWD (toyota transmission pattern), but diesel? Do I want to go to all that trouble just to pay 45c more per gallon for fuel on a good day? Do I want to have to adapt a urea-injection device to get the particulate emissions down? No I do not. I’m gonna stick with what I know for right now and stick with gasoline engines.

Enter Quad4Rods.com and their little oddball adaptor business. Now, fuck a dickload of putting some mid-80’s GM-conceived-and-built Quad4 motor into my truck. I want it to run and NOT leak oil. I’m not interested in shoddy wiring or impossible to source bullshit belts. Plus if your engine is known for running rough, rough enough that you had to put a fucking balance shaft in? Sigh. I could go on about the Tempest Indy4 and how GM should have learned from that shit two decades before the Quad4 (like possibly when engineering the notoriously lumpy Tech4/Iron Duke) was ever built but I won’t. I’m no fucking engineer but just go ahead and fully counterweight your cranks people. But what I _am_ interested in is the Mazda MZR0based, Cosworth-racing derived Duratec motor that Ford has been putting in Rangers and… the fucking Ford Focus. They’re cheap as shit (I can probably pick up a 2.0 L Focus motor for $250, complete from wires up tippy top to oil sludge down in the pan, today, in any state of the union), they’re peppy (newer models are making 136HP/136lbft in stock trim) and easily upgradable (from more-modern intake manifolds to “how fast is your credit card feeling” bolt-on turbo kits), and thanks to Quad4Rods, adaptable to the ubiquitous, capable, and easily located T5 transmission. I’m going to have to get a custom drive shaft made anyways and Driveline Specialties don’t give a fuck if I’m having them balance a shaft with a Nissan end on the front or a Ford one. Plus the Ford Ranger came with the 2.3 liter, and there’s even a 2.5 liter four out in the wild today (probably won’t find one as cheap as a 2.0 right now but still). That’s a 171hp/171lbft naturally aspirated four. With proper inhalation-assistance that could be a half-size half-weight 302 slayer, and I won’t have to do anything more than hammer-dolly the transmission tunnel.

I’ve been a little broke, sure. I’ve been a little tired. I’ve been a little spacey. I’ve been late to work. But I’ve been… happy. In a way that I’ve never been in my adult life.

I’d offer the same empty promises, that I’ll be here more often, that I’ll write every day, but… I don’t know if I will. Right now I want to experience this fully. I want to feel it all the way to the bottoms of my feet. And I hope she does too.

I want you in that dress, and in that sweater.

I want the wash of your dark hair falling across your eyes, hazy and unfocused, lost in thought. I come home and catch you sneaking a cigarette out the kitchen window. I watch in silence, the exhaled smoke catching the evening light, as a narrow bar of luminous dust dancing above the table. I clear my throat, and you start.

You look back, throwing the cigarette out the window. You’ve just had a hard day, you explain. You try to palm the pack. You’re scrabbling for excuses when my hand grabs your neck and pulls your face close to mine. Your fear makes me hesitate, just for a moment. You look surprised, in the short moment before my lips are on yours.

Teeth part, tension replaced by anticipation, and I can feel the heat as blood rushes into your cheeks. My tongue snakes between your teeth and meets yours, still smoky, tender. As our lips part, you look into my eyes with understanding. I stare back, the only sound our ragged breath, grinding my desire into you.

I unzip your dress, and then I step back: you look down, breaking eye contact, as the dress pools around your feet. You unfasten your bra, and let it slide down to join the skirt. You look at me asking if that is enough. It’s not enough, dear. It’s never enough. And you push your panties down, one bit at a time, until they hit your knees and slide to the floor. And now in the still, warm air of the kitchen, you are exposed. Vulnerable.

And when I pull you toward me again, there is no hesitation.

Now… mind you. All of us remember 2002. Mike’s delicious candy flavored liquor bottles hit the scene like blue-dot heroin or that guy Darryl’s super skunk home grown hydroponic he grew in his shower that one time. Young people of both genders were drawn to it’s seemingly limitless soda pop flavored, endless good times. Our bodies young enough to process all that sugar into hours of playful public near fornication in the form of night clubs, house parties, or all night karaoke binges, but we must face facts. Lo though long was the life and good were the spoils of the reign of King Hard Lemon – We are looking at the end of our decade folks: Women have simply started learning to keep track of how many Mike’s they drink and the world of combative debauchery is poorer for it. The last few years we have been fading, as understanding of the amount of calories in Mike’s Hard Lemonade leads this battle’s party seekers instead to simple watery lagers and American Spirit cigarettes.

Leave it to the old masters themselves to reinvent the game so completely.

With it’s 8% ABV, Mike’s Harder Lemonade is nearly twice as potent as the original Mike’s, with yet more horrifying chemical additives to cover up the booze flavor, meaning that the liver gives up EARLIER, leading to longer lasting grind sessions before friends come bail them out or accidental phone number reveals which you can turn into ill advised booty call after booty call.

But that’s not all. No, that is not enough for Mike. The Mike. The Mike understands that it’s not just about pumping up the volume, it’s also deception, because Mike’s Harder Lemonade comes in a four pack… of sixteen ounce cans. Who can do the math on that? That’s right, if your questionably-competent-to-agree-ass-to-tap of the evening chooses to drink all four cans of your magic pixie drink? She has consumed SIXTY FOUR OUNCES of malt liquor. Half a gallon. Nearly twenty FIVE percent more volume than she would have consumed had you opted for the twelve ounce bottles. And need I remind you that this is 8% abv? Whereas all SIX of the original recipe Mike’s Hard Lemonade translates to roughly 4 shots of Bacardi 151, drinking four of the Harder is equal to nearly seven.

I don’t need to tell this crowd the tactical difference that three shots of Barcardi 151 can make on whether or not you get to touch the butthole, and this lets us get there without EVER having to touch the top shelf at the club. Hell you don’t have to touch any shelf, except the shitty beer shelf in the “bad decisions start here” section at your local Chevron.

The King is dead, people….

Long live the King.

The summer has picked up momentum, and while I am loathe to admit it, I find myself thinking more often of the Sublime song “Summertime”. And this time not because of the timeless tale of infidelity and frustration, but because of the attitude. The easy paced song, the sense of knowing that life is becoming incredibly complicated, but something about the sun and the heat and the long, long evenings has allowed you to get past it. The other shoe is waiting to drop but, right now – the texture of life is incredibly pleasant.

When it is warm, I crave activity. Summertime in Arizona is overwhelmingly hot. Each trip to the store is an ordeal. Exercise is torture. And in this week of heat, I have been indulging. Overindulging, really, in activity. And thing things I have learned, the goodness that comes with the sweat, the realigning crunch-and-crackle of joints long ignored, the soreness in your meat; the lessons that these things teach are… almost overwhelming. Once the physical body is tired, the heat having dehydrated you, energy reserves drained, endorphins exhausted – you reach for new understanding. And maybe sometimes, you find yourself in your back yard, shirtless, dazzled by the sunshine, soaked with sweat, and suddenly: It’s all so clear. It’s math all the way down. You can track the flow of events to a common cause, you begin to contemplate the very nature of reality. And then it strikes, the physical ache and the fuzzy head and the blurred vision all clear at once. And you see the light for the first time. You see your life. Life is the space between birth and death, time is as subjective as beauty or justice, math is the language of nature, and physical exertion, even physical punishment, is as critical to mental development as reading, writing, and arithmetic.

Your body is a cage for your soul and sometimes you must glory at what it can do.

Gaze into his craggy face. Listen to his muddled voice. Realize that he does not actually understand all of the words he is saying. This is not a bad movie, it’s not a farce, it’s a documentary. A deep dive into the ocean of confusion that an unfrozen caveman might feel plunged into daily life in modern San Francisco.

Watch the film, and think about it. Who else would be so unclear on the uses of a sporting ball that they would put not one but FOUR scenes on a small roof top that are predicated on the idea that someone would just go up there with a football… to simply chill out? And listen to Tommy Wiseau’s voice. It’s not suited for language, it’s a yowl, not unlike that of a wild beast. It would be best served baying at the moon. The apparent randomness of the movie’s every day world, where children wander in and out of your home dozens of times a day, attempting to interrupt your coital aggressions, where strangers show up and drink bottled water with you, then hang around for 40 minutes of exposition.

I believe we may have found him. We may have found a true Man From Earth. But… he doesn’t bring us the teachings of Buddha or the love of Christ. His journey has brought him no peace. It has only brought him confusion, and pain.

Alone is good. From time to time. Dan Savage drops this perfectly formed ball of wisdom in the middle of a “fat girls need love too, and if you can just hold out you’ll get it” speech: “We will all be alone for stretches of our lives, and we have to make sure that the way our single lives are built makes us happy.”

Alone is when I write. Alone is when I masturbate. Alone is when I plumb the depths of my head. It’s when I do my math. It’s when I hatch my plans. Alone is when I’m watching movies. Alone is when I’m reading. There’s a lot of good that comes from alone. I was alone when I first realized I wanted to write. I was alone when the first song ever moved me to tears. Alone is when you get your best drinking done. Nobody else to set the pace, just you and your drink. And you’re not trying to impress anybody either. If someone else is there, you’re gonna have to have that inevitable conversation. Yes, this is a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew, vermouth and cheap brandy. No, it doesn’t taste good. Yes, it’s probably a little early to be drinking like this. No, it seriously doesn’t taste good. Because, god damn it, there’s a fucking Eek the Cat marathon on and I’ll be mother fucked if I’m going to miss out on the Eekpocalypse Now episode just to go to the store and buy proper booze and mixers. You’re not the boss of me and no I did not knock that over when I was drunk, I knocked THAT over when I dropped the vermouth, and you can see it’s gone now, so that was a long time ago, thank you very much. Blah blah blah… You can see how annoying this gets. When you’re alone it’s just “More brandy or less brandy… more brandy or less brandy. ELKLIIIIIGHT EEELLLLKLIIIIIGHT!!!!” then you knock some shit over and lie about it to yourself. But you’re drunk so you believe it, in this horrible way. Then you think about the nature of humanity for a while. Maybe you prove scientific theories by running through logic games with yourself. Maybe sometimes you cry. But for the most part you just finish your cartoons and then suddenly you wake up at 2am feeling oily, rested, slightly nauseous, and vaguely embarrassed, just like every other day, only you have a five hour head start.

I forget what the point was there but being Eek the Cat is still pretty great, so much of it is on Youtube too.

But the next time you are alone. Notice it. Embrace it. Feel out the corners inside your skull. Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself.

Well, I woke up. I got out of bed and I felt pretty good. And I was doing some stretches, and getting ready for my day. When I noticed I could touch my feet. I stopped. Straightened up, and did it again. At that moment, I knew… this was a dream. So in the dream, just before I woke up, I bent down, impossibly far… and put my big toe in my mouth.

The door to the house is neatly crossed corner to corner with yellow police tape, those five words “Police Line – Do Not Cross” explaining in no uncertain terms “this is where civilization failed”. The door is closed and locked, and the puddle of antifreeze out front is the only clue to what happened. Breaking into a crime scene isn’t a new thing for me, but I don’t like it. Besides the fact that if I get caught Ben may actually shoot me next time he sees me, a crime scene at the home of a guy I’m looking for is rarely good news. It means the guy I’m looking for is in jail, on the run from the cops, or in the morgue. All three of these things make it hard for me to get back to drinking beers in the park.

I decide against going in the front door. It’s too open, somebody is bound to see me, and I’m not particularly good at jimmying locks, so it’s gonna take some time. A sliding door around back, maybe. I listen quietly at the fence for the telltale sounds of a dog. Either Ricky wasn’t a canine lover, or there’s a perfectly trained attack dog waiting to jack me as soon as I get into the yard. I give a glance around, make sure nobody is looking, and vault the short fence into the back yard.

Somebody was a little housekeeper out here. The plants look neat as a pin, all the flowers in neat rows, the trees trimmed, the grass is green and thick as carpet. The fence is narrow pickets painted white, immaculate. The fully-made bed that’s under the tree in the corner is even immaculate looking, except for the few leaves that have fallen down onto the comforter.

Why can’t shit ever be normal?

Nobody with a dog has ever had a yard this nice looking. Nobody who was not batshit insane has ever had a bed on the ground under their tree. Thankfully the police tape PROBABLY means I’m not gonna walk in on a methed out drug mule scraping off his skin and trying to find some fingernail scissors to go trim the yard again, but I pull out my little pistol just in case.

I quietly, carefully step toward the door, the pistol held low. I’m staring through the sliding door, trying to figure out how hard it’s going to be to get inside. No bar in the door. I look over to see if there’s an alarm or anything. I don’t see anything. I don’t see any cameras, there’s no bars on the windows. This isn’t like any distribution hub I’ve ever seen, so apparently Ricky really lives here. I turn an eye back toward that crazy ass bed, in the yard, and imagine the black-and-white man in the pictures coming at me with a soldering iron and a beard of foamed spittle. I steel myself against it, and grab the door handle, to see how hard the lock is going to be to break.

As the door unexpectedly slides, effortlessly back, the hairs rise on the back of my neck. We’re there now, this is disturbing a crime scene. Even with Ben doing everything he can, if I get caught here, I’m going away for a while. No more beers in the park. No more breakfast for dinner. Adrenaline dumps and every nerve is on fire. I step forward onto the carpet, and before I can even get my body into the door, three sharp clacks sound off. I drop to the ground, pointing the gun right, left, right, and trying to figure out what I missed. What have I missed?

No noise. No voices. Nothing. The house is still. A warm, fetid smell roils out of the house, and I start to gag on the smell, backing out quickly to the patio, I kick something with my heel.

I sigh, and reach down to retrieve the tin magazine which fell from my pistol, and shove it hard and fast back up into the gun, smacking it with the butt of my hand angrily. I really should buy a good gun someday.

I breathe the now sweet-seeming air of the back yard, and turn back toward the screen door. I set my jaw, brace myself, and walk into the hot wet smell of something which has suffered long in the misery of decomposition.