Re: Horn-ed Master (Ah God, You Had to Bring That Up)

You see, faithful viewers, it wasn’t the house that Mr. Snodgrass and I worked on in Church Hill, Richmond, Virginia, together, all through the blazing summer of 1998, that did it, it was the gate. Forget that the client shorted us twelve hundred dollars on the final payment, it was the gate and that we were there all summer, together. That we had to let ourselves in each day through the gate off the alley into the back yard. Disregard the alley off the hill with the shit-heap cars down it, the mattresses and gas cans. Imagine The Gate that I had rigged up with a couple of nails to keep it closed, first, we were going to write to Fine Homebuilding about the cleverness of the gate, then to Car and Driver about the gate, then finally, toward august, when hammers had been thrown, and “DID you KILL The DOG?” that the letter to the editor about the gate was to HE, our demon overlord of the abyss. And yes, by then he would have enjoyed it. But who’s to say you’re not reading that very love note right now?