"Your neighbor's dealing drugs," George told me this morning as he looked out my den window while gulping an ice cold Milwaukee's Best Ice beer. "I just know these street kind of things."
"What makes you think so?" I then asked.
"I've counted ten cars that have come by and left this morning," he said. "A'int nobody so fuckin' popular as to have ten friends come by at 7:30 in the morning."
"And look at that Jaguar with the $2000 dollar chrome rims," George then said with a frown. "That's a drug dealers car. And his house sucks. Nigga drug dealers always have crappy houses and nice cars."
"That explains the police detective's car sitting in the driveway for an hour yesterday," I replied back. "It is all so strange."
"Watch your shit," George told me just making me worry. "Crackheads are people of the most un-trustable sort - nasty people. They'll steal yo shit in a heartbeat."
"Great!" I thought as I sat there with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. All this on top of my car getting stolen Christmas day two years ago. It was working wonders for my schizophrenia induced paranoia.