More Shooty

Our neighbour, Shooty the Drug Dealer has been away. Having been released from prison a couple of months ago, he became angry and confused by the lack of recreational facilities and employment options available to a gentleman such as himself, and so lashed out. This expression of frustration culminated with him stood on our porch as we were about to go to to bed screaming that we had better not be sayin' shit about his son. Being, up until that point, barely aware of even Shooty's existence, let alone that of his kid, we actually hadn't been sayin' shit about his son. It seemed there had been a misunderstanding.

Next day my wife went to the courthouse with Shooty's long-suffering mother and gave evidence resulting in his being sectioned that very same evening.

It's actually his grandmother's house, but Shooty lives there too. He'd been detained at the President's pleasure - or however the hell it works here in America - for assault of a senior, presumably the aforementioned grandmother, and detained for five years which suggests something stronger than an uncouth slap. By the point at which he felt compelled to explain his bewildering reservations in the strongest possible terms on our porch at an ungodly hour, the grandmother had moved out along with the mother and Shooty's son. They couldn't deal with him. Shooty's mother had actually adopted his son as her own kid, making the child both Shooty's son and foster-brother.

So this was why he couldn't find his son that one time, because the child was in the care of someone who actually gives a shit about his well-being.

Anyway, it apparently only takes a week to cure Shooty because suddenly he's back on our street. He's smashing bottles in the road at 2AM, mostly outside our house for some reason.

Logan who lives across the way spots him at 2AM, stood lurking in the gap between Logan and Tony's house, for no obvious reason. 'You have to stop this,' Logan tells him. 'They're not going to let you see your boy if you keep acting crazy.'

Shooty explains that it's okay because he's clean, completely off the drugs now. In fact the only thing he smokes these days is pot, so that's good news.

Tony's truck is broken into at some point during the next evening. A credit card is taken and someone tries to use it to spend $150 at HEB. The cops are called, but it's a mystery who might have been responsible. Maybe it was the creepy disused fairground owner or perhaps even the mayor all along.

Shooty's grandmother runs down the street midday screaming, 'He's trying to kill me!'

Shooty himself storms down the street early morning yelling, 'I hate that bitch!'

It's not looking great.

So as to save myself the bother of writing it all out again, here's what I posted on facebook.

Shooty the Drug Dealer paid us an afternoon visit. Either the meds aren't working or it's all the really awesome ganja he be smokin' like a chilled out playa that's been making him jumpy, because there he was on our lawn at two in the afternoon shouting the usual incoherent gibberish about how we be disrespectin' his son - a child the existence of which I am barely aware. Noticing our front door was unlocked, I went to flip the latch but before I could get there he kicked it open and hard, still yelling. I got the red mist, slammed it shut, then yanked it open and bellowed, get off my fucking lawn, you fucking cunt, as he scarpered back to his house.

The cops arrived two hours later and once again told us that he was a very troubled man with many issues.

'So we should definitely give you a call if he does it again?' I quipped, having already mentioned all the previous incidents. Shooty seen hanging about in Tony's yard at 2AM was probably a massive coincidence, to be fair.

'Yes,' said the cop, failing to spot my sarcasm. I went inside because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep myself from calling them a pair of useless donut-scoffing wankers. My wife kept talking to them. From what I could hear most of the conversation seemed to be the cops making sure we weren't going to do anything to upset Shooty.

I don't know how much Wendy Davis plans to defund the cops by, but whatever the sum, it isn't enough.

That was Sunday. Shooty himself called the cops at 3AM on Monday morning because his house was under siege by an armed gang which only he could see and hear. It took the cops eight minutes to respond - which is good going compared to the two hours it took them to get around to responding to us when an absolutely real and physical nutcase tried to kick in our front door.

By Monday evening he's back inside. This time his mother didn't require additional testimony or evidence, although again, we have no idea how long it will last or how soon he'll be back on our porch yelling at our house for no fucking reason. There doesn't seem to be much point in hoping for some miracle cure by which he'll suddenly start behaving himself.

We can get a restraining order, although the problem there is that it can't be delivered to him while he's in the loony bin because it might make him feel a bit fed up or something. My wife has nailed a no trespassing sign to every vertical surface on the exterior of our house which faces the street, which makes her feel better, but very much resembles a display of fear to me. We've purchased a box of shotgun cartridges from Walmart, which cost a surprisingly budget-friendly five dollars and probably represents the crossing of some line or other for me, but I'm past caring.

If nothing else, I take comfort from how fast that fucker ran when I bellowed, get off my fucking lawn, you fucking cunt. Never in my life have I had that effect on someone at the other end of a disagreement. It doesn't suggest great reserves of idiot courage on his part, and if he really wants to get at us because of something explained to him by the voices in his head, I don't think he has the intelligence for anything devious or sneaky.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see.