The Samoan Virus

Life is about to get a lot more complicated. I have been tortured for 2 years by a zombie, a bi-lingual ghost, and most recently, a witch. How can anyone live comfortably with the knowledge that one of those three things could easily creep into their bedroom as they sleep and rip them apart. Peeling back their skin and making their ribs a xylophone. Do I fear this? Yes, I do. But I shouldn’t. I’ve been protected. I’ve had this invisible force field keeping my safe from all the things that go bump in the night. But what if the protection expires? What if the safety net I took for granted is about to void and be no more? What am I to do when God’s protective force decides to up and move, leaving me to fend for myself against a Hispanic ghost, a dead zombie wife, and a pregnant witch?

I am being selfish. I am going to miss my neighbors. Sure, I’ll be happy to have room in the laundry room for so many activities like aerobics, step class, or playing army men. At least they were never as bad as the Lazy Laundriers. If you don’t know who my neighbors are were, I dubbed them The Boston Pops. I needed a name and this suited them well. When they arrived, the zombie encounters, the ghost sitings, and the witching hours were dwindling. I was safe. For the first time in a year, I was feeling like I could live my life and not have to worry if a ghost was going to scare me screaming,

 ”¡Ándele! ¡Ándele! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Epa! ¡Epa! ¡Epa! Yeehaw!”

then busting a pinata in the middle of my living room. No zombie was going to eat my face and no witch was going to place a curse on me with the saliva she wiped off of the cigarette butts she voodooed off the Cryptkeeper.

Nothing last forever. All good things come to an end. I am mainly talking about the protection I had against the evil forces that surround me. The Boston Pops are fleeing. They are giving me the [mfs] and going off to live a life away from the burden of witches, zombies, ghosts, and the newest evilness that took my neighborhood by storm. What could this evilness be? What is about to poison my world and spread like a virus among the other tenants that live here? We all moved in here to feel safe. We (mainly me) were not aware of the past history that soaks the walls inside my abode. If I had known that a man buried his wife alive in a wall to join some evil organization determined to rule the world, I swear, I would have never moved in here.

This virus that is slowly taking building by building is spreading fast. I’ve watched it grow. I’ve watched it spread like wildfire and move about with not a care in the world. This virus has a name. It isn’t something you can fix with a good nights sleep. It isn’t something you can fix with an aspirin or a swig from the cough syrup bottle. There is no cure. It will overpower you and engulf you. With no escape, you have but two options. You can either suck it up and deal with the strange, habitual grill outs or you can pack your bags and leave. But leaving will only give them another place to infest. You don’t want that. I don’t want that. I cannot let them win. They’ve already overpowered many other places and I fear that with the departure of the Boston Pops, the virus will stop at nothing to take the empty apartment and slowly but methodically, get me to go insane till I void my lease to give their tribe another place to perform sacrificial rituals to their God or whatever being it is they pray too. Thankfully, there is no volcano nearby. Who knows what crazy islander crap they are in to.

I am talking about a new problem I am now facing. The problem isn’t new really. It’s been here since the beginning days of my inhabitance. I am sure they were here before I moved in. It wasn’t until about a year that I began to notice them and their creeping about. They ran off one friend, infesting her apartment with rodents, insects, and a foul stench of a roasted whole pig migrating inside each of her rooms. These creatures, the Samoans, were exiled from one abode and like Joseph Smith and his merry gang of Mormonites, they treked their way to a new home. You’d think that maybe some died along the way, suffering from typhoid, cholera, or perhaps for dissing Terry. But nothing attacked them. No savages raided their wagon, no one got lost along the way, and all the berries they ate were okay. These Samoans survived and grew in numbers.

With them growing, they need to expand their land. They need to set up camp in every inch of this complex. They now reside in four different areas of this complex. The families that live in each building are large. I can take a wild guess and say that their families are the size of the population of Rhode Island. I’m not talking about all 4 separate buildings. I am talking about each one. There is a limit to the amount of people who can live in one apartment. Follow the rules. I know you know English. You’ve spoken to me before and I fully understood you. Sure, you were wearing a grass skirt and a bone was sticking out of your nose but I caught what you said. I heard you ask me if I wanted to join you and your mammoth tribe for a bountiful feast that was set up to please your God(s) for sacrificing a virgin.  I had to decline. It’s not that I don’t love a good BBQ. I just don’t and didn’t need to see you clean off the bloody, raw piece of meat with the faucet attached to the side of the building. And speaking of that meat, where did you get it from? Did you buy it from the supermarket or did you go hunting yourself? I haven’t seen many stray cows wandering around like I used to. Care to explain?

The islanders are coming. I don’t know if I am going to end up with them as neighbors. I really don’t feel like living next to them. I am sure they are nice people but their yards are a meeting place for them. They have luaus in the front yard and let their kids off the leash for one night and let them run amok, like the feral creatures they are. With the Boston Pops leaving, there is no telling what dangers lie ahead. I could be subjected to anything paranormal. I could be subjected to islander music and their islander customs that a city boy like doesn’t and won’t understand. But I will say there may be hope. I could have already been saved. When I say, ‘saved’, I am talking about more than one way of being saved. My soul could be getting returned to me. I could be saved from getting attacked by the Samoan virus. What could save me from everything?

A little group of saviors called,

The Mormons.

to be continued…

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pitweston

I like food. I like the smell of cinnamon.

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