The Crackhouse

A few nights ago, my apartment building was raided by the police.

Why? Because one of my neighbors was running a METH AND CRACK LAB out of his apartment.

The police cordoned off the building with police tape, and biohazard trucks showed up to remove the chemicals. The dealer had all his windows blacked out, just like in the movies! And apparently, the tipster was the crazy old lady who lives on the third floor, who suspected the dealer of stealing her newspaper and kept him under constant surveillance. (Because meth dealers can't afford to buy their own newspapers, I guess.)

I should have known. Dude spent all hours of the day in the garage, painting his car different colors, one coat after another (and you know that's how meth types roll), and there were all sorts of people showing up in the building at odd hours. (I just assumed he had a lot of indie friends.)

Anyway, no matter how much cred you think you have regarding illicit drugs, I win. FOREVER.

After all, I live IN A CRACKHOUSE.