Read The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death for Free Online Page B

anything serious at all; nothing like being convicted of one count of sexual assault, one count of sexual abuse, three counts of kidnapping, one count of unlawful imprisonment, and “other crimes.” It couldn’t be anything in which during the offense, Kenny Ray Swain forced his way into an apartment, beat three guys up so badly they couldn’t help the woman who was also in the apartment, who Kenny Ray Swain then raped.
    Kenny Ray Swain, it was clear, was not just a regular, ordinary, selling-porn-thru-the-mail or stealing-ladies’-undies brand of sex offender, but an Ed Gein variety of sex offender because in that one night of horror, Kenny Ray Swain was a lone wolf. He did all of that by himself, and was ranked at class three, which the asterisk placed along side of his title noted was a “high risk to the community.”
    Well, no shit.
    In addition, the letter read, “Citizen abuse of this information to threaten, intimidate, or harass sex offenders will not be tolerated.”
    I already had my head between my knees and was fumbling for my inhaler when I looked at the letter again and realized that I hadn’t even seen the most important part, which was listed at the bottom. Kenny Ray Swain’s current address was on the same street as my house was. His house number was 1201. Mine was 1218.
    In fact, it was the brick house.
    On the corner.
    Three houses down from me.
    I had to put the letter down. I couldn’t read any more. If I picked up the letter again I was afraid it was going to say, “Turn around slowly. He’s behind you and it’s too bad you don’t have three male friends over, because Kenny Ray is in the mood for a PARTY.”
    I didn’t know what to do first—scream, pack my bags, or beg my doctor for testosterone shots to complete my canvas of dark, Magnum P.I. facial hair. I wasn’t necessarily afraid to be in my house—after the would-be $150 false-alarm phantom burglar, we installed wrought-iron security doors on every entrance, adding to the wrought-iron security bars we had bolted to every window (completing our “It’s a ’Hood Thing” theme) years ago after another burglar broke in while the house was being restored and before we moved in, stealing a radial arm saw, a stereo, and my bathroom sink, then pooping outside on the patio, leaving it alongside the shirt he took off and wiped his ass with. I would trade almost all of the insurance money I got just to see the look on his face when the urge hit him and he realized our bathroom not only didn’t have a toilet but also was missing toilet paper and a floor.
    One thing I knew I wasn’t going to do was call my mother for comfort. “Oh, so there’s a pervert living on your street, huh?” I was sure she’d say. “Well, in your neighborhood, big surprise, now there’s that one plus the four you don’t know about that have been watching you walk around in your bra for ten years. I’m telling you, every house with filthy windows has a pervert inside. Animals. Dirty minds have dirty windows. Everyone knows that. But I wouldn’t worry about the Super Rapist if I were you, especially if he gets a good look at you from behind. I’d say you were probably pretty far down on his list.”
    As I looked at that letter in my hand, my fear rapidly gave way to unbridled anger. I was furious. Didn’t we have enough to deal with on our street without adding a rapist to the soup? Come on, my inner whiner cried, we just got down to eleven remaining feral cats across the street; the family who liked to throw parties every weekend and knew a mariachi band, turning their backyard into a live Sábado Gigante set, finally moved away; and Auggie, our local Gang Activity and Event Coordinator, recently violated his parole and went back to the clink. Things were looking up ! Why do we get the rapist? Can’t another neighborhood take him, just to give us a break? I wonder if we can broker a deal with another neighborhood, I thought. Maybe the people over in