Today’s mailbag is bursting at the seams with lengthy-but-interesting submissions, so I thought I’d whet your appetite with this doozy of a story about mystery white trash neighbor blackout rape. I’ll do my best to interject as little as possible.
Football: Playoffs are go, but my man Gore’s out and my other RBs are a jumbled mess. Forte (NE), Lynch (@SF), Goodson (ATL), and Starks (@DET): pick two.
My take…Forte’s a given I guess, though that gives me heartburn. I’m leaning Starks with the other one. But I’m guessing that’s because I snatched Starks up the day before his debut and implausible visions of Jerome Harrison are dancing in my head. But Lynch can’t be the right call (right? he’s awful against all non-Panther teams), and Goodson tweaked his shoulder again. And all three are likely splitting snaps, and the waiver wire’s barren. Straighten me out. By Saturday if possible.
Starks is a chic pick this week, but I’m not as high on him as everyone else is — despite his 18 carries last week, I just don’t think the run game is that much of a priority for the Packers. However, since Goodson and Lynch are both facing top-10 run defenses (Atlanta’s 8th, Niners are 10th), I’d have to recommend Starks on the strength of the matchup (Lions are 25th in run D).
Sex: OK this is fucked up. So, fair warning. I’ll be concise as I can but it’s complicated. (Post note: yep, it turned out long, even after I cut out some stuff. But hey – even if you can’t post it due to length, I swear it’s entertaining. Strippers. ‘Roids. Roofies. An unsolved mystery. Read on if you have time.)
I’m a grad student and rent a house with a few college buddies. Behind the house is a small cottage, and recently the landlord rented that out to a young couple. They’re friendly enough but ah, shall we say, “damaged goods”. They’re constantly arguing, day and night. He’s a weightlifting MMA freak, beefy enough that ‘roids are a strong likelihood, and while she goes to community college you wouldn’t know she’s any older than 12 by looking at her (or listening to her). I’ve never gotten the impression that he hits her, but boy, do they scream.
“Damaged goods” is awfully kind. I’m going to dig into my bag of Marine Corps parlance and label them “Whiskey Tango.”
And then there’s the drugs. A female friend of the house ventured into the backyard for a cigarette late one evening and got roped into their cottage; I was summoned to rescue her via text. The kids in the cottage were on some mix of alcohol, weed, cocaine, and ecstasy, and also happened to be entertaining a couple of skanky-looking strippers. The strippers started making out, everyone was egging my friend to join in some massage action, and…though that MIGHT sound sexy…trust me, it wasn’t. It was two druggy skanks, a meathead, and a trailer trash version of Dakota Fanning, all with a backdrop of crappy house music.
Just call it “house music.” No need to be redundant.
Did I mention that my friend is also a recovering drug addict? So I got her out of there, breathed a sigh of relief, and thought that’d be the end of it.
Not quite. A few days later the dude starts knocking on my back door, REALLY loud. When I answer, he starts asking some really pointed questions about what my housemates and I were doing the night before. While I’m stammering out an answer I see the tiny girl behind him – and she’s sobbing hysterically, an absolute mess.
After answering his questions I finally get the story. The night before, they went out drinking and got utterly shitfaced with some of his work buddies. At 1 AM or so, they headed home. And when they woke up in the morning, the girl had scratches all over her legs and dirt under her fingernails. And, she felt “sore down there”. And, her jeans were missing.
Told you this is fucked up.
It gets more bizarre. Not an hour later, he’s beating on the back door again. This time he’s with another big beefy dude who’s got a pair of teeny tiny pants in one hand. The new dude – one of the work buddies, it turns out – says he found them sitting next to our front porch.
By now, the boyfriend is getting twitchy with rage. He wants to come in and check out the house, so I let him.
“Sure, come into my home, angry white trash MMA fighter.”
And one of his pillows is sitting on the couch in our living room.
And then the girl comes in and gasps – she remembers seeing our dry-erase board. She’d never been in the house before, to anyone’s knowledge.
Now, let’s get one thing clear. Neither I nor any of my housemates raped this girl. The house was empty and locked most of the night. Two of us came home together right at 2 AM, left the front door unlocked, and retired straight to our rooms. Neither of us saw or heard anything unusual after that. Neither of us would’ve touched that girl with a ten-foot pole anyways. The other two housemates came in about 2:30, and one of them brought a couple of friends from out-of-town, who blew up an air mattress and slept on our living room floor. That couple? They remember seeing the pillow on the couch that night. So we’re talking a half-hour window here.
Well, rapists are notorious for not indulging in extended foreplay.
One more complication. The work buddy who found the pants? Apparently that dude has developed a reputation for plying strippers with rohypnol. The boyfriend and girlfriend totally blacked out that night and remember nothing. They both say that’s unusual. And the first time anyone saw the missing pants, it was in the hands of the work buddy. The couple first suspected one of us…but since they heard about the roofies, they’re suspecting the work buddy. But mostly they’re just confused as hell. Me too.
So the girl sees a doctor, who identifies the scratches as coming from something like a bush or tree branches. Not fingernails. A rape kit was not done because she had sex with her boyfriend earlier that night. Police have been notified.
And that’s where things currently stand.
Good news is, I’m moving out in a month. No more neighbors from hell. But I’m concerned anyways. On the one hand, I guess she might’ve got up, stumbled onto our porch in a blacked out haze, took off her pants, ran through the bushes, clawed the dirt, wandered into our house, left a telltale pillow, and went back to the cottage, all in thirty minutes. Or she might’ve been roofied, kidnapped from her own bed, and raped in our yard by the work buddy, but the logistics on that are equally insane because it somehow results in a pillow on our couch. Regardless, something really improbable happened, it involves both RAPE and MY HOUSE, and I don’t really have a solid alibi or a clue what happened.
I’m not worried about lawyering up…at least, not yet. We’re talking about dirt-poor druggie meatheads here, the type of people the police are accustomed to arresting and otherwise ignoring. And there’s no hard evidence of anything, regardless. I’m much more concerned about being unwillingly sucked further into these people’s lives over the next few weeks, being wrongly fingered as the culprit by a panicky young girl and getting the pulp beat out of me by one or two ragey musclemen. Or waylaid by some other crazy unpredictable shit, like a murder in our backyard. These people are such a messy tragedy that our proximity seems like an invitation for collateral damage.
But maybe my instincts are off. Should I contact a lawyer for me and my buddy, just in case? We’re probably too poor for that, but I dunno. Or should I get a taser gun, or pepper spray? Or should I contact the authorities myself? Or simply avoid the backyard, cross my fingers and wait it out?
Fuck this shit,
Looking Forward to Moving Day, For Once
Because I’m a goody-two-shoes, I’d probably call the police and let them know what happened, if only to open some files on these people. I’m sure some Jezebel readers will be quick to point out the staggering percentage of rapes that go unreported, and if the work buddy has a “reputation” for using rohypnol, then maybe getting the law knocking on his door will make other victims come forward. No matter what the fate of these people may be — and let’s face it, their future isn’t bright — it would be wrong of you to turn your back on what was likely a sexual assault against a helpless woman.