Pretty Boy Floyd.

So when I heard a pounding on my door at 10 pm this evening, I assumed that it must be one of my little buddies.

I said, "Who is it?"

A man answered.

Now I wanted to quote the conversation verbatim, but he was too out-of-control for me to be able to accurately describe precisely what he was saying. To sum it up, he identified himself as Pretty boy Floyd with the Baby Blue Eyes, and repeated this and other things at a speed which was intelligible yet terrifying.

The other things were things that almost rhymed and had the effect of bolstering his claims of being THE Pretty boy Floyd. At this point, I still thought this was a joke from one of my retarded friends. But then I looked through the peephole and saw grey hair.

Yes, I like older men. But not like this. None of my friends look like this. And that's when I got scared. There was a freak in some sort of methamphetamine-induced psychosis pounding on my doors and windows trying to get into my apartment. I said, "Who are you looking for?" The woman who moved out of this apartment a few months ago was 93. I don't think this was one of her friends. He said, "THE CREAM. THE CREAM, MAN, THE CREAM."

Pretty boy Floyd was at my door in search of the cream.

At this point, I shat myself and then yelled to Floyd "I am calling the police!" I said it again. "Police!" I actually picked up the phone. I was watching him through the window he was trying to hurl himself through. Suddenly, he said "Oh shit!" and started running down the street. After about 30 feet he turned around and started running up the street. And then, like a woodland sprite, he was gone.

And no, this is not a figment of my (granted, active) imagination.