The horrifying tenant in the ninety’s movie Pacific Heights would not vacate the premises. His reign of terror devalued the property and forced the owners into foreclosure as he stood by ready to pick it up for a song.
Sounds like another real estate developer doesn’t it, except the person I’m referring to occupies the people’s house and there is no question he has devalued the property.
The people have an opportunity to remove this undesirable tenant in November. I imagine an eviction notice will have to be served to remove him, his family, whoever else is hiding in the closet, and his belongings.
Imagine if you will, his belongings tossed to the curb; empty buckets of KFC strewn among ugly red neckties. A tanning bed and golf clubs perched next to half-used containers of orange makeup from Switzerland. Dozens of worn-out shiny frock coats dumped helter-skelter cover vast expanses of the rose garden. Among the discards, in sharp contrast to the oversized garments, lies a tiny jacket worn to dinner with the queen.
There is too much negative chi in the White House. A major bug bomb blast of good feng shui energy will have to occur.
Smudging, or other rites involving the burning of sage; a ceremony for spiritual cleansing, might be an option. I hope the sage harvest can meet the challenge.
An aura cleansing of the 45th Presidential portrait might be a good idea too.
But to cover all the bases if I were moving in, I’d demand an exorcism.
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.