a hole in the floor and some nutty christians

spicy chik'n sandwiches & (garlic) fries, water

First part is lost.

We're around the neighborhood, around the house. I think I'm on the roof. A regular joe with a bag full of tools comes up and says that he knew "Brian," the guy who sold us the house. Mind you, the house isn't actually 411, it's more like the white house at Sil and P'ton, but that's where we live. I can't recall the name of the man who sold it to us; "Brian" sounds maybe right, but I have misgivings. But this guy says he helped Brian re-do the floors, and just needs to check up on them. I let him come on the roof-- or do we go inide? It's not clear. But he takes out his tools and deftly removes a section of floor (roof? we ARE inside, though...) about 3x2 feet. It sawtooths together with the rest of the wood floor, and I see that they laid it so that instead of planks butting against each other, they're cut back at a long angle, so that about a foot of the one plant overlays a foot of the other, which makes for a much thicker and sturdier floor. Beneath the wood is a mass of newspaper, some crunched and bunched up, other left in piles. Insulation. I think of what a fire trap it is. I step down into the paper and the surface beneath it rolls like the deck of a ship. The guy leaves, and I still have misgivings-- did I just give away part of our floor to a con man?

I go out on the porch, looking down the street. When I turn back around, a group of mother/daughter missionary pairs has gaggled up at the door. The moms seem to be in simple blouses and mom jeans, the daughters-- all a little husky-- are all in these long flowered dresses, Warren Jeffs style. Josh has written "PREACH OFF" in block letters with a sharpie on a yellow sticky note, posted it on the storm door, and is pulling it shut in their faces. They are undaunted. I squirm my way past them, letting it be known that we want no part in their process. They refuse to give up. One or two of the daughters keep trying to worm past me into the house, getting on hands and knees and crawling under my legs, trying to force the door and step past. I am not amused. I start screaming obscenities at them and forcing them physically away from my door. One of the daughters looks absolutely devastated. I start screaming at them, "Now YOU know what it's like being persecuted in this country! How do you think it is being a fucking MUSLIM in this country?" I drag up my right sleeve, intending to flash my ghazi star, but it's different, and I can't get my sleeve easily past it. But it looks like a cog graphic with an Olde English "A" in the middle.