we don't need no stinking badges

i 'm about to take

a load of laundry

down to the basement

washing machines,

when

there's a knock at my apartment

door. it's

early in the morning,

on a beautiful fall day

in Aurora, Colorado.

i can see snow up on

the mountain peaks

from my sixth-floor apartment

window.

there are six

armed men

wearing masks,

brandishing arms,

which makes me

assume hunting season

has begun.

it's time to pay your rent,

the one

man says,

but i sent it in last week,

i tell

the gentleman

with a Venezuelan

accent.

i made a note of it in

my checkbook.

i can show you.

we are the property managers

now.

you pay us. cash only.

i look out the window

and see the old manager

hobbling down

the street,

with blood coming out 

of his head.

loose ropes dangle

from

his legs.

do you folks have any identification,

any badges

to prove

who you are?

we don't need no stinking badges,

now pay up,

he says,

showing  me the bandolero

around his chest.

by the way,

now that you boys are in charge

of the building,

i have a toilet that keeps

running,

do any of you have a wrench

with you.

if don't mind coming in

after putting your guns

down and

checking out the commode

off the hallway?

i'm so tired of shaking

the handle.

also, i saw a mouse the other

day.

you know how they like to come

in when

winter arrives.

so if you could send up an

exterminator when

you get back to the office,

i'd greatly

appreciate that too.