Killing Suburbia, a dark novel, takes you into the head of Jimmy Kellick, a statistically-driven insurance salesman plagued by headaches, who moves to a new and better life with his Goth daughter Marie, distanced second wife Amanda, and his Antichrist step-son Randy. You, the reader, are Jimmy, and as you get deeper into your character and start to see yourself in the light of his eyes, cracks begin to appear.

DAY 1
”It’s good to have new neighbors,” John Wilkinson praises. He pours the gin into the four Spieglau Vino Grande Martini glasses standing on the top of a cherrywood home bar. His loud talking voice suggests the heart surgeon has decided to make the most of his off-duty weekend. Contributing to an elevated probability of liver damage, even the five o’clock shade creeping through his pigskin face is craving for a stiff drink.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues, adding the Vermouth-soaked olives. “The Parsons were okay. But all the time they lived here I had the feeling that they never settled down.”

Sandy, John’s significant other, waves off her husband’s comment, chirping in a high-pitched tone. “Oh, don’t you two take him seriously. Mr. Parson secured a good position with a Seattle law firm. That’s why they moved.”

John steps out from behind the residential bar, handing out drinks. Your wife Amanda delivers a mild-mannered thank you.

“But why on Earth would anyone willingly move to Seattle?” he says. “It’s cloudy from October to May.”

“Well, honey. People are different. Let’s grant them that, shall we?” Sandy giggles nervously. The forced gaiety pulls the corners of her mouth close to her ears, revealing a set of teeth whiter than the driven snow. She repositions herself before indulging in a series of quick, sophisticated sips.

Amanda pinches your right arm. Your muscles tense up. She’s giving you the stealthy code which she has used whenever the social event you two have been participating in has become too much to bear. Since the bulk of them have somehow been connected to your profession – the intriguing world of the insurance business – you’ve normally scored on a split decision. This time you agree with her.

Imbibing his fourth dose of alcohol in a manner of an oval sponge, John doesn’t take notice of his wife’s clumsy attempt to provide sarcasm. It’s hard to imagine anything penetrating his rough exterior. The low forehead and the thick, sun-darkened neck, along with the blunt nose and the thick eyebrows, represent him as a mockery of the soap opera surgeons who, in addition to their outstanding healing skills and devotion to the Oath of Hippocrates, preserve features seen only on Calvin Klein commercials. With his harsh looks and bloated waistline John appears to be nothing of the sort. He’s a cruel exception to the rule which has granted Southern California its status as the Mecca of the health conscious – the global home of body builders, personal trainers, fitness gurus, nutrition experts, holistic healers, and certified colon hyrdotherapists.

“What do you say if we give Sandy a moment to snap out of her nagging binge?” John mumbles to you half-drunkenly. “Let’s slip out to the patio. I’ll show you my new grill.”

You hesitate. Amanda begs you to stay, with another concealed nip of your pale appendage. You better not leave me here, her pinch forewarns. Caught alone with Sandy she’ll become her living room therapist. It’s something she doesn’t want to do with strangers, but does anyway. She can’t help being so damn accessible.

The tension mounting, you pick what you judge to be the lesser of two evils. You greet John’s proposition with a smile, prepared to navigate in his footsteps. In all honesty, you couldn’t care less about his grill. You just don’t want to risk the chance of a spousal abuse situation that could lead to some form of blunt force trauma. (As a newly appointed senior sales manager of the life insurance company Life Fund’s West Coast office you know those kinds of trauma deaths are on the rise.)

“We’ll be back in a jiff,” you whisper to Amanda. In her blue light denim Gucci shirt, matching whitewashed pants and high heel web moccasins, she looks like one of those starving creatures attached to the pages of a glossy fashion catalog. Viewing her against the backdrop of Asian scroll hangings and mortared natural stone walls, it’s not impossible to imagine a photo shoot.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” John chuckles. He dives under the bar and pulls out a six-pack, tucking it under his arm. The word apology is shining from your eyes. In response, Amanda whips her chestnut brown hair over her right shoulder. She leans toward the platinum blonde who is inches away from a drunken sob. “So, Sandy,” she says, without the slightest trace of temper in her voice. “What is it that people do for fun around here?”

Outside, the blistering sun bombards your face with UVA and UVB rays, the primary producers of early wrinkles and skin cancer. You squat on an amputated Jensen and Jarrah ottoman complimenting four summer chairs, a drinks trolley and a sphere-shaped chat table made of imported teak. There are also three wooden loungers positioned in such a manner that the person occupying any one of them can absorb the maximum amount of the treacherous midday sun.

Near the edge of the patio, where the grey floor tiles end and the manicured show lawn begins, stands the stainless steel monster; John’s pride and joy. Caught in the predicament with a lukewarm beer in one hand and a crumpled brochure in another, you strive to push the opening chords of a potentially strident migraine attack on the back burner.

“What we have here is not a mere cooking appliance with a flame tamer system and electronic multi-spark ignition. This is a natural gas-powered piece of culinary art with eight burners, a warming rack and a designated smoker tray. With more than one-thousand square inches of cooking space this baby takes care of all your barbeque needs.”

John slams his hand on the silver-colored apparatus’ double-walled hood and treats himself to a giant slurp of beer. “What do you say if we heat this bad boy up? I have some pork chops in the fridge that have been marinating in a garlic and lemon sauce.”

A line of sweat makes its way down your spine. You shiver at the thought of charred flesh, which would undoubtedly result in more intemperance.

Still in the process of composing an evasive answer, your ears pick up a modern offertory played by three multi-terrain loaders roaming around about three hundred feet away. They spin like dirt-loving figure skaters on a ploughed lot that, according to your recollection, is where the Blossom Recreational Park is supposed to be.

“It’s a perfect little forest situated practically on your backyard,” is what the real estate agent had told you. “A rural getaway for the entire family.”

John spots your bewilderment and glances in the direction of the wasteland, giving the construction site and its Spanish-speaking work force the old-fashioned wave of the thumb. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it yet? The city sold the land to some developer who decided to broaden the community as far as the Clover Hills. From what I’ve heard he’s going to fill this part of the valley with mid-price housing and name the section Blossom Grove. Can you believe that shit?”

Still too shocked to speak, you keep ogling at the workers who, in their yellow hard hats, hairnets and brown bandanas, look like a battalion of twenty-first century conquistadors. It’s a brigade of second and third generation working class immigrants, a phalanx of Eduardos, Felipes, Rauls and Salbatores who, you fear, will not only deprive you and your family the luxury of pastoral escapades, but could very easily be the future members of the refined suburb you now call home.

“I wonder why they’re not setting up a trailer park while they’re at it.” You can’t believe you said that. You struggle to ease the voice of conscience screaming bloody murder inside your head. You tell it it has misinterpreted the raw sewage escaping through the mouth. You don’t have anything against the sick and the poor and the colored per se. It’s just that in the light of statistics, the average crime rate in mixed race neighborhoods is three times as high as the number of felonies and misdemeanors taking place in all-white communities. And that scenario still excludes some important variables, such as an area’s average household size and median income, which if taken below $43,000 raises the likelihood of robberies, car thefts and burglaries by an extra two percent. With all these things in mind, and the fact you had to ask quite a few favors to get a lead on a house in this prestige area, you rationalize your gin-spiced outburst as non-biased. It’s all mathematics. You only want to make the most of life’s offerings without the fear, or in your case the expectation of a statistical probability, of being carjacked or knifed.

“You better not tempt them,” John whistles through the grinding noise of his teeth. “If I’d seen this coming I would’ve probably gotten myself a house from one of those gated communities. You know the ones with their own quaint shops, old-fashioned hometown events and armed security? That would’ve been quality living.”

Although you remember seeing a report about those places having an ascending trend on spousal abuse and mental health problems, you remain silent. Instead you squint your eyes to determine the average age of the construction crew – another crucial factor to be taken into account when calculating the magnitude of the future crime spree.

“Do you reckon a guy working on that site could earn enough money for a down payment?”

“Cosa segura,” John vouches in broken Spanish.

You wipe off the salty pearls hiding in your eyebrows before leaping over the fence of paranoia.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where a man can get a gun around here, would you?”