It is 4:45 a.m. Sunday, October 12, 2014. 15 minutes ago I was awakened by the slamming of the door downstairs by the female roommate who had been on the porch smoking and was approached by a man on foot who came from a car parked in the driveway next door. By the time she was upstairs sounding the alarm one of the other men in the house was on the porch.

I joined him to see that the new model metallic 4-door was still parked in the drive in front of the scrap dumpster. He checked the ground floor windows from the interior while I stayed on the porch. He returned to the porch while I checked the basement—me being the runt I feel honor bound to act as house tunnel rat.

When I returned upstairs he informed me that the car was moving out with two individuals in it. It was now halted on the street in front of the vacant. We walked down to get a license plate number, which he could not read without his glasses and I could not remember, but which the both of us together could record.

The large driver was getting nervous so the smaller passenger opened the door [thus illuminating the interior for us] to claim, “Sorry, he was going to the wrong house. I live in the next house up [a house where a drug dealer lives but where she does not]. Sorry, he’s just dropping me off.”

They then pulled up to the rental two doors down and idled. He was a large light skinned black man about 30 and she a small white woman about 40 who sounded seventy. Once we returned inside my female roommate asked if she should call the police and I said, “No. You do not want to be fingering a drug operation two doors down when they know the call came from you. This guy probably picked up this girl at a black bar—they stay open until four; just stop serving drinks at two and people load up and make arrangements to take things to the next level elsewhere. This was probably sex for drugs behind the dumpster. The guy was nervous and pissed at her—he thinks he’s scoring a white woman before going home to his wife. He’s not a dealer. The dealer in the house is also pissed at her because he does not retail from the house and she is bringing potential heat. Let them be mad at her, not you.”

In such situations I do not recommend showing aggression outside of your property borders. We did go slightly beyond to get the license number but only due to poor eye-sight. Also, there is nothing an ordinary police officer can do about the dealer in the house other than to let him know that you are a threat. The best policy for an urban household is to threaten only two things: defense of the home, and retaliation by or vengeance for members caught alone on the street.

Do not become a threat to their home or business unless your people are attacked, because their reinforcements will be proactive and represent their interests, where the police will be reactive and represent the municipal interests, which do not include protecting individual residences or the ‘right’ of the residents to walk freely down the street, but those of commercial businesses. If you own a business and this happens the police will usually act in your interest.

The household female has decided to arrange for lighting on the side of the house which is the best antidote to the use of the space between our home and the vacant as a ‘tweener space’ by addicts, hookers, criminals, the homeless, werewolves, and vampires, but not stoner zombies such as the ones I ran into the night before last. For details on that see Midnight At The Zombie Apocalypse.