By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulAfter 10 days of sandbagging the rent, you left without warning. But you're finally gone, and good riddance. I have deloused and deodorized your room. I have burned sage.
You repeatedly told me you "buy nothing but Versace," but you look like a Nashville whore, and you reek of cheap cologne. You reeled through our apartment shitfaced night after night, bounced off walls, destroyed furniture, and upset the neighbors well after midnight.
Despite all that, I carried you here for two months because you said your father was ill. You went on endlessly about all the money your enterprise would make for your high-rolling customers. You cackled for months about all the zeroes that would appear on the checks you were about to receive. When you finally cashed your $150,000 check, it turned out the biggest zero on the check was your name.
When I objected to you stiffing me for the rent, you threatened me with your SPAS 12-guage automatic shotgun—thanks for keeping armaments in my apartment without my knowledge. Thanks for leaving cigarette holes in the carpet and an unholy stench in your room. Thanks for the broken furniture.
I believe in karma. Grab your ankles. Here it comes.
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