Woeful Bedfellows: My Neighbor Bought a House from the Mob
[by Reverend McGillis | Jan 31st, 2024]
Tragedy has befell my fellow man once more. It is so, young darlings. The Lord in the most high hath frowned, of this I am sure my friends. Even the sacred texts could not have foretold such scandal and disgrace in His kingdom. To what do I speak, you ask dutifully? Yes, my sons: my neighbor hath bought a house from the mob.
When I approached my neighbor Crease Longhorn with both the fear of God and the fear of automatic weaponry, he had nothing more to say on the matter than “If the house sits…” Well, the house doth sit. It sits on a grave site for the Lord’s best wishes. Trampled by woody lumber, crushed by rocky stone, and smashed under glassy glass, this house of eternal horrors stands as tall as the antichrist’s great Lie: He who smelt it… well, you know the rest. I say this, brothers, he who smelt it doth not always dealt it! Many a time in the chapel with Brother Samuel hath he used this line upon me. It is a gross insinuation that I, Reverend McGillis, hath filled the holy chamber with the most unholy of shit-wind!
The slimy and sinful Don Hargo Vingle is in the business of both hard knocks and hard socks, I’m afraid. He sold a beautiful stucco home on Cherrybranch Ct. to my new neighbor Crease for the small price: his eternal rewards. Yes, I am afraid Crease will be unable to enter the kingdom of heaven after compromising his morals for the sinful Don’s sweet material goodies.
The Don asked Crease to harbor many large sacks of socks, that to which he referred “sock-sacks.” Crease then brought the prepared sock-sacks to the local elderly home, of which I could be found scanning the breakfast buffet and soon besitting amongst the congregation to play a humble round of Bingo. But bin-did-not-go that day, for these smelly socks that burst out of the sock-sacks like a toxic waterfall landed on every table, every game card, every elderly man and woman.
It was then that I clutched my chest, for the socks hath given my heart some sort of painful attack! Taken to the infirmary, I was. The doctor told me I would not recover, that I was fated to sit still in the purgatory that is the Lesley Blowee Memorial Hospital until the Lord’s sweet and savory hands plucked my carcass from the folds and plopped me in the kingdom of eternal life.
It was not so, brothers. In fact, I grew three times in size. I am now very large and fat, and I have lived! Cursed, though I was, the socks that hath triggered such a terrible response in my heart were no more. My neighbor Crease went to the police after tragedy struck my arteries. He admitted to his foolish prank that the sinful Don Hargo Vingle had set him up to commit! The evil Don then shot Crease in between the eyes on January 30th, 2024 as he lie still and soundly asleep in the bedroom of his beautiful stucco home on Cherrybranch Ct.
Crease is now dead, but his soul lives on after rightfully admitting his wrongdoing to a man of the law and setting himself on the right path with the Lord. It’s honestly a good thing that he was shot in the head shortly thereafter, as he will not have to live with the regret of upsetting my heart (which, as the doctor told me afterwards, was just a bout of heavy but ultimately harmless indigestion). Don Hargo Vingle, on the other hand, will be plummeting straight into the bowels of hell the second he leaves this mortal coil. He is currently in hiding, his whereabouts unknown.
What is known, however, are the dangers of participating in a life of crime, be it sock-related or otherwise. My dead neighbor will now think twice before buying a house from the mob, as I’m sure you will too. God Bless.
