I live in a neighbourhood where an anguished woman’s wail (and the subsequent clattering of a freshly used knife dropping to the pavement) interrupt my tortured, acrobatic sleep once a month. Within five days of moving in, bored teens stole my semi-functional car before ditching it, flat tires and bumperless, outside of a Native Reserve by Okotoks. I’m approached regularly for drugs and have been offered the sexual services of tubby woman in a belly shirt in exchange. The moment a semi-attractive woman offers me such a deal, I’ll find a pound biker crank quicker than Nicky Barnes. Every time my girlfriend leaves my house after sunset, I have to cover her from a sniper nest on my roof as she gets in her car. And I’m ok with all of this. I have no problems living around drugs, inflation-resistant prostitutes and the lingering threat of drunken cowboys braining me with a beer bottle on my way home from Safeway. What I do have a problem with is that on the inevitable day I’m held up at knifepoint by a biker strung out on meth, the police won’t waste their time trying to catch him unless he does an illegal U-turn post-robbery or brags about his haul on his fucking cell phone while merging onto 17th. Continue reading
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