Well, I guess it all started when we moved into Stoneridge.
Mary and I were tired of living in the city, dealing with robbers and
break-ins, the lack of ample, safe parking, the lousy tap water; a number
of reasons. So we bought a fairly large, four bedroom home on a
treeless cul-de-sac surrounded by woods and fields. The kids seemed
happy, we were happy. Things were quiet and peaceful for once.
Then Outkast moved in next door.
Now, I was happy at first to see musicians in the neighborhood. "It
adds to the diversity of the area, honey. It'll be good for the kids
to have a mixed environment," I explained to my wife, who seemed quite
nervous as she watched the Allied moving truck unload box after box
of platinum and gold records. "Yes, dear, maybe you're right. But did
you know they think they're aliens? I read about it in Vibe," she replied.
"Vibe, huh?" I felt my head start to throb and my brow became furrowed.
The first encounter was pretty mild. Andre came over with a fruit basket
and imported chocolates. We sat on the back porch and traded lawn care
tips. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He explained that Big Boi was
a quiet man, who spent most of his days "with his folk, slippin them gators
off and watching his baby gull blow bubbles". Andre, on the other hand,
spent much time out and about promoting and producing albums on his record
label. But he still offered his home and his help whenever I needed it,
which I thought was downright neighborly. As he finished his orange and
got up to go back next door, we shook hands and wished the best of luck
on our new friendship.
About seven hours later, while trying to cuddle on the couch with Mary,
Andre phoned. He said something about meeting him at the center of the
earth. I stammered and explained that I had no idea what he was talking
about, to which he replied "Nigga, they made them gats, they got some
shit that'll blow out our backs". He then abruptly hung up. Mary was
quite worried about this, but I assured her that Andre was a nice man,
he was probably drunk or on some potent prescription medication. We went
to bed, startled by this sudden turn of events, yet still wrapped in the
comfort of our lovely suburban house.
The next day, the dog was gone. My son Henry woke me up by shaking me,
crying, "Spot's gone! Spot's gone!". I immediately suspected Andre. Why,
dog-snatching was common back in the city, but out here in Stoneridge?
Foul play had to be the cause. So I went next door to politely ask Andre
if he had seen our beautiful springer spaniel. When I knocked on the door,
I could hear loud humming noises coming from inside. It sounded like ten
or fifteen detuned radios were on at the same time, with the volumes high
on each one. Andre answered the door, but seemed completely out of it.
He acknowledged me with "Greetings, Earthling", to which I asked him if
he had seen Spot. Andre then stepped aside, and I could see our poor dog,
strapped into a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, and wrapped in aluminum foil! Andre
explained that Spot was the sole life form available on Earth to recieve
and decode radio signals from the "Home Planet".
After the police left, Andre just stood there, with his head down,
mumbling. I felt bad, so I offered my hand and and a fresh start. To
this, Andre replied, "It's the return of the gangsta". I figured this
was some sort of urban slang for acceptance or agreement, so I smiled
politely and went home.
Two days later, the house next door was empty and my kids were missing.
