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Chapter 1

I live on the most dangerous street in the whole world.  On my block alone, in one night, there is an average of 18 vehicle burglaries, 7 dog-nappings, 12 residential break-ins, and 23 noise ordinance violation complaints filed with the local police precinct. One must keep up with statistics. Statistics provide a velocity to our lives. Still, it's a nice place to live, more or less, and the price is right. It's got to be, as my main income is procured from the two days a week I work for a little 503c non-profit that I started a few months ago. It's called EcoCares. The rest of the week, I work from home for a small publishing company out of Spokane, Washington, editing numerous texts from various authors with a little bit of talent and a lot of time on their hands. I have to wait outside every day for the mail so the manuscripts don't get stolen along with the rest of my flyers and bills and chain letters. Opportunistic mail theifs hijack over seventy-five thousand dollars in personal and cashiers checks every year in everyday neighborhoods just like yours and mine. These are things we must attend to-the raking of leaves, the disposal of refrigerator leftovers, the safeguarding and reception of our mail.

I had mentioned noise ordinance complaints. Most of these originate immediately surrounding the home of my dear neighbor, Bill Bob Johnson.  Although Bill lives next door, it could be argued that he really still lives in the acrid-smelling, claustrophobic-ally dense jungles of South Vietnam.  In 1964, he left his best parts there, including his high school buddy Joseph, a sense of humor, and his right leg just below the knee.

"Colonel BB" as he insists on being called, has a passion for invention. This, in itself, is admirable.  The problem lies with the nature of the inventions themselves.  Every morning at six a.m. sharp, Col. BB emerges from his back screen door which slams with a rusty spring 'wood against wood' pop, and hops out to a dilapidated workshop. The thick thump of one black lace-up jungle boot marks his progress.  The thump stops.  There is the sound of heavy keys jingling.  Then that of a large Master Lock stubbornly releasing.  Two wooden barn doors, barely holding to their hinges, creak open.  What used to serve as a garage has been transformed into a mad scientist's lair of creation.  Twelve hours of pent-up chemicals, body odor, and the pungent stench of one seventeen-year-old Australian Shepherd are released like mustard gas into the neighborhood air. The shepherd, Tikki, is an unwilling partner to this daily ritual of creation and is completely deaf and mostly blind, the result of loyalty and continued close proximity to such a master as the Colonel.

"Let's get to work before the black helicopters know we're here," he mutters in a low, barely-decipherable Southern drawl.  Tikki whimpers and covers her eyes with her paws.  That's the daily drill.  From that point, anything can happen behind those workshop doors.  Explosions, clicks, bangs, the squeals of tormented machinery, and the occasional alarmed bark from Tikki are all as constant as the whine of the screaming interstate 2 blocks away.