Bill was beginning to lose his patience; the stress of his yard's sudden growth spurt wasn't enough, no, the whole block had to apprise him of the situation.
"Mrs. Ecczemia, I assure you, this grass was not here yesterday."
"Of course it wasn't," the old hag sputtered.
Surprised, Bill did a double-take, "You believe me?" Bill had figured he would get the least amount of understanding from the old crone, so her reaction was rather unexpected.
"Your grass has grown exactly 127 inches in 23 hours. That is fairly uncommon around these parts, but not unheard of."
Bill wasn't sure what made his skin crawl more: the implication that this had happened before, or that Mrs. Ecczemia knew such intimate details about his lawn. Both were pretty weird.
"How did this happen to my lawn, and not anyone else's?"
"Ask Neil Durkowicz."
"The guy who mops the floor at the train station?"
"That's him," Mrs. Ecczemia nodded.
"How will he help? Is he versed in high-end fertilizer, or the strange weather phenomena that could account for the sudden boisterousness of my yard?"
"Naw," she shook her head and laughed, "he's a Pagan!"
"How is someone who doesn't believe in God going to help me?"
"That's not what a Pagan is, dear. A Pagan finds religion in the Earth. They believe that God is in the trees, the flowers, and most-importantly in your case, the grass."
"Am I in danger?"
The old woman laughed, "Only if you are looking to sell your house; this is definitely going to have an adverse effect on your property value."
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