Alice's descent into Wonderland doesn't hold a reefer's smoke ring to encounters with the dogs, bitches, and other denizens of the warped rabbit hole next door. As a courtesy to my readers, this post gets a sysnopsis - or the short, dry version above ground. The longer, juicy version follows down the rabbit hole.
Synopsis
- Lyin' Lynda (L/L) put up surveillance cameras last October.
- This weekend I put up one camera and L/L pops a cork.
- L/L lies to the police to get them to come out, as a form of harrassing me.
- I set the officer straight and make a prediction...
- Within two minutes of the officer's departure, L/L creates her signature yard radio nuisance.
- I call the police and sign a citizen's arrest warrant against L/L.
Longer, Juicy Version
Saturday's Setup
Saturday started off with backup beepers and an extra-loud yard radio, which together are clues that Lying' Lynda was up to something she wanted covered up. Since I had absolutely nothing else to do that day {sarcasm}, I played along with the fun Barefoot Dirty Girls' party game.
The backup beeping was made by a large Budget(c) moving van that some hired muscle barely managed to wedge onto the half-acre lot - somehow - between the catering trucks, travel trailers, trash trucks, other assorted vehicles, marijuana production sheds, and who-knows-what other flotsam already awash on the property. My hopes soared momentarily! But where's the For Sale sign...?
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| Finally! A moving truck! |
[parenthetical rant/on] The thought had been on my mind since last October, when the BDG's blanketed my property with surveillance cameras (see this post, and this post demanding they be removed), that the most important thing in toked-up Yellow's miserable murine* existence is her compulsion to impose herself on others - and I don't mean lightly, either. She is not only ham-handed, mega-whiney and super-needy, but also ultra-greedy in the same vein as a junkie who MUST have her minute-by-minute fix.
This is Lyin' Lynda's life. It is proven by one single fact: Every day for four years, this rat-faced catering truck driver has exported her noise across the fence to me; first with her ancient Scotsman commercial icemaker, the 3:00 a.m. Cork-Screwed Ice Bucket Brigade, and other noises from their illegal business operation; then after that with the yard radio installed expressly for the purpose of playing her annoyance at me for challenging her with a lawsuit; now with her overt surveillance of me and my property to continue the harrassment. [parenthetical rant/off]
One of the first things I noticed was that the moving van was NOT being loaded with furniture. Damn!
For a couple hours, Yellow and Green directed their two lumpers and six dogs as uniformly sized boxes (all labeled French's) and all sorts of yard waste were stuffed into the Grinch's sleigh. [Yard waste, ie.: hoses, compressors, ladders, bags of golf clubs, other indeterminate packrat "treasures" strewn about the yard.] Because a Dumpster(c) drop bin would have been cheaper, the only other conclusion is that Cheap-Ass Allen is keeping the crap, merely relocating her manure heap to another soon-to-be-unfortunate place.
And, yes, after being cited repeatedly, the Head Bitch still has her six doggie children! (see this post) [BTW, there is at least one cat they house and feed, too.]
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Dog#1, Dog#2 (you decide)
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Dog#3, Dog#4, Dog#5
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Dog#5 (again), Dog#6
Cork-Screwed Green drew the assignment to escort the treasure truck to its new
Resectioned Red made a brief appearance. Her sole contribution to the afternoon was to scan the
You would have thought I kicked Lyin' Lynda in her hornets nest. After the Supreme Bitch of the Independent Sovereignty of Sex, Drugs, and Soft Rock at 810 Fishback Street got over her [normal] look of THC stupefication, The She dragged out her handheld camera to document my camera.
I can imagine the evening conversation as Red and Yellow sucked down kill-a-moose quantities of Sierra High(c) quality [marijuana-strikeout] self-medication. Cork-Screwed made her
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Interlude
Recently I read a fictional description in The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins, of something that truly lives next door - "...one of the Capitol's muttations, tracker jackers. These killer wasps [are] larger than regular wasps, have a distinctive solid gold body, and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on contact. Most people can't tolerate more than a few stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness. And there's another thing, these wasps will hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest and attempt to kill them. That's where the tracker part of the name comes from."
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Sunday Morning Gets Even Juicier
Lyin' Lynda, the Queen Tracker Jacker, outdid herself on Sunday morning - she called the Manteca Police department and insisted they come out on her report that I was peeping with a surveillance camera aimed at her bedroom window. (Both Sexy Rexy Osborn and Lyin' Lynda have tried before to smear me with the Peeping Tom label. But, really?! Given those targets? No one is THAT hard up!) Sunday morning's lie to the police is both uproariously funny when viewed as merely another of her mentally and socially deficient juvenile pranks, and disturbingly macabre for the desperately wishful thinking on her part.
I'm sure Sappy Soothsayer filled the police officer's ears with, A) how good she keeps up her property, and B) what good service she gave the people of Tracy for twenty-five years, and C) any other unrelated trash talk she could think of (the same immaterial trash she dumped on the city council two years ago.) The only item of any [irrelevant] significance was her statement that she is leaving in two days. (Really? For how long? Can you and I “talk about forever?”) That's probably a lie, too, just like last summer's fabrication about "moving to Oregon." There are still For Sale signs on all the catering trucks she keeps moving around the property, but none out front - for the house. I do not believe she's moving, only telling half-truths to police officers.
[Note: Lyin’ Lynda’s definition of truth is to string together factoidal artifacts, each of which has no timeframe nor context, but a tenuously plausible basis in reality, which can, therefore, be sworn to; but when strung together in true non sequitur fashion, leave the hearer to draw an entirely different understanding than the real story.]
This mouthy, mousy woman stood in her front yard in her frumpy robe and slippers for a half-hour while the officer repaired to his cruiser to get some peace and quiet to begin composing his report. This frustrated her so much that she accosted two women (never men!) walking by and
Practically speaking, however, the officer's visit to my residence shortly before 8:00 a.m. was productive. I took him on a quick tour, showed him my one-camera response to the BDG's phalanx of eyes in the skies. He was taken aback! My angelic {*cough*} neighbor had neglected to mention those. He took pictures of the his-and-hers systems and admitted to being unconvinced that she slept in her covered porch, or on her living room sofa with the big screen TV, or was otherwise indecently exposed. (And you gotta trust me on this – ANY exposure of her is the definition of indecent.) I told him it is my iron-clad policy to believe nothing Lyin' Lynda says.
As he was leaving to finish his report, #11-1357, I mentioned that it was too bad the yard radio wasn't playing for us, but not to worry because my neighbor would turn it on as soon as he pulled away.
One minute - to the second! - after the police cruiser pulled away from the curb, L/L shot out her back door and turned on the radio. She went back inside for three seconds before she had a thought. Can anyone guess what passed for thought in her head at that moment? 'Duh. Gotcha, sucka!' Coming back outside, and smiling her [scary normal] shit-faced grin, the Queen Insanity Jacker again turned the speaker to point toward my house and cranked the radio up louder.
By 9:00, Lyin' Lynda had managed to get some clothes on, Cork-Screwed had scooped up all of that day's six-pack ration of dog shit, and Resectioned Red straggled and stumbled off her pink ribbon death bed and donned her reversible smoking jacket (who cares about one kind of cancer when you can have two?) They gathered into the outbuilding, which is their designated smoking area, for a drug-enhanced celebration of the morning's successful harrassment, while they watched the washing machine and dryer drums go round, and round, and round... (I know where they are by the reeking stench of stoners. After all, they just remodeled their entire house for sale. Gotta keep the market value up by keeping it smoke-free.)
At 9:17, after writing up the first visit, I called the Manteca Police department. The same officer responded. I am sure that with these two visits, an hour apart, he knew he had been well-used – manipulated - by Lyin’ Lynda. He said, "You predicted the radio correctly." He went next door, but it took several minutes of the junkyard dogs howling to rouse Mellow Yellow from her power trip. The stupid, blinky-blanky, stoner stare she gave the fence and my camera was priceless - before she cottoned to the fact that someone was at her front gate, not the fence. (There's a reason it's called "dope.")
By 9:49 a.m. Lyin' Lynda Allen had her arrest warrant in hand, a citizen's arrest for P.C.415(2), Disturbing the Peace, report #11-1362. She turned the radio down but did not turn it off.
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Perp Walk
Sunday evening the BDG’s had a visitor; probably trying to beat the rap. It must not have been a friend because the porch lights were on in order to usher whomever into the front door. You see, friends, workers, and suppliers go in the driveway gate, where they can step in dog shit, smell the marijuana, yuck it up with the locals, and otherwise be made to feel at home. VIP’s go in the front door.
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* murine (adj) 1. Of or relating to a rodent of the family Muridae or subfamily Murinae, including rats and mice. 2. Caused, transmitted, or affected by such a rodent: a murine plague. (n) A murine rodent.
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