Dr. Naesley.

Weird, right?

My friend Ronny Grunted as we peered through the blinds of his bedroom.

It was June of 1999, the start of summer vacation, and we just got back from seeing the matrix

and theaters.

But the scene unfolding in the yard across the street was stranger than fiction.

Ronny's neighbor was mowing his lawn after midnight, dressed in a full suit and tie.

With his wing-tip shoes and slipped back hair, he looked like he'd walked straight out

of the 1950s.

The man whistled as he went, executing a graceful turn at the end of each perfectly

trimmed row.

Welcox is going to rip him a new asshole over this, and muttered in awe.

Amy Welcox ruled the local homeowner's association with an iron fist, and late-night

noise was her biggest pet peeve.

Once later, the woman herself was stomping down the sidewalk in her fluffy bathrobe and

hair curlers, looking like a soldier on her way to an execution.

I almost felt bad for Ronny's neighbor, even though we'd never met.

In fact, the only thing anyone knew about the family was the last name emblazoned on their

mailbox, Lucerne.

They hadn't answered their door once since they'd moved into the neighborhood, and according

to Ronny, they never went outside during the day.

The most feared woman in the neighborhood stood squarely in front of the strange man,

...