Asshole Neighbors

It was about the third year living in Japan when Dawn and I moved off base again and in with a roomie. The house was large and in a strange little strip of houses split in to two equal lengths; all connected but totally separate. Each house had a garage and we all shared what can only be described as an extra wide driveway that ran down the middle.
Our little slice of heaven was at the end of a rice field and the road leading up to the "community" we lived in was a dirt road that would be sometimes overtaken by a tractor or old ladies wheeling carts of veggies and rice away.
This story isn't about the cool little neighborhood. Or the fields all around us. No, this story is about the military assholes that lived directly across from us. This husband and wife held each other in the highest honor and respected humanity to its fullest. And by that I mean they played their bullshit music in the extra wide driveway so the whole community got to listen to Nickelback. The asshole husband was also the proud owner of two dirt bikes that he never rode anywhere but he was always working on and revving out in the same extra wide driveway.
Now, all of this sounds very normal for America. Let me tell you this though, after you've lived in the quiet sanctity of Japan noise and assholes are few and far between. It's like taking a Wal-mart from inner city Detroit and placing it next to a school for the deaf. A juxtaposition of mammoth proportions.
Not only was loud music uncommon, martial spats at full volume rare, early morning dirt bike revving as alien to the country as a real visit from Godzilla, but this troupe brought the worst of the Ugly American to this sweet country side. Our home.
At first I was accepting of their behaviors. Dawn and our roomie forced the calm upon me. But after a while even their patience and desire to avoid conflict waned and I was allowed to confront the assholes in their lair.
Several times I banged on their door when yelling and profanity broke the bucolic spell of our summer afternoons. Early in the morning when Sgt. Fucktard got on his motorcycle to give it a real run-up I charged out the door the four feet to his garage to demand silence or an ass kicking. Even a few times I approached them as they sat in lawn chairs drinking Bud Light to the smooth sounds of Limp Bizkit to entreaty them to find a balance between living "any way the fuck (they) want" and being a part of this small community.
I finally gave up being cool. I gave up being mean.
I ignored them completely. As if a black hole had suddenly appeared and sucked in their house, cars, bikes, voices, and stink.
Sgt. VaginaAssBastard must have felt offended by my negligence as his antics turned to 9, than 11. The wonder of living where we did lost some of its luster during this phase and both of the occupants and I were considering a retreat from the abode to somewhere else.
That's when karma came knocking.

It was a sunny afternoon in Winter and I was driving home from work. For some reason everyone else was home, including the asshole neighbors, but me. As I turned off the pavement and on to the first of two dirt roads to get home I saw the black plume of smoke. I hit the gas pedal and began my frantic race to the house. I didn't have a cell phone back then. Japan was leading the world in technology but apparently the telephone companies held the land like a Kraken in it's wired tentacles. As I turned down the last dirt road I passed a fire truck just idling and my heart sank. I imagined my loved ones as black shells laying in positions of agony on the floor like scenes from Pompeii. When I got to the strip of houses I saw mine first and every window and curtain was intact, from the rear, and I felt some ease as I knew the damage was not catastrophic.
I parked in the grass behind my house and ran around to the front. There were trucks, people, and equipment everywhere and the smoke was still billowing in to the extra wide driveway.

That's when I saw it.

The Asshole Neighbor's house was a burnt husk.

Equal measures of guilt and elation filled my chest. I was sorry for their demise and glad my prayers to the dark lord were heard.
I high-stepped through my front door and directly into the Asshole Neighbors. A Japanese policeman, fireman and a military Policeman were talking with both of them in my hallway. Dawn was standing there watching silently.
I introduced myself and answered two questions before grabbing Dawn's hand and moving in to the living room. She began whispering heatedly about what had just transpired.
Sgt. RetardTurdBurglar had put up a giant blue tarp over the garage door opening. Put both his bikes up on stands to prepare them for Winter storage. Had started both bikes after draining the gasoline into giant plastic bowls. Blasted music from a boombox while he revved each bike in unison while smoking a cigarette. While his bikes leaked fuel, fumes filled the cavernous garage and Marlboro smoke intermingled until that fatal moment of ignition. He blew up the garage and burned all of his belongings to ash.

I was so happy at that moment I couldn't stop smiling. I looked right at the group in my hallway and smiled like someone just told me I was the Nobel Prize winner of the Mega Millions.
Dawn leaned in a little closer and whispered "The military policeman just asked the couple if they had anyone they could stay with and looked at me. I said, 'I'm sorry but we've got a roommate and no couch."
I wanted to dance on the graves of this man and woman who spent a year torturing a neighborhood. I wanted to walk out on to the driveway and piss on the last embers of their burnt house. I wanted to push these morons out of my hallway and laugh at their misfortune.

Instead, I just walked back in to the hallway and had a calm discussion with everyone so they would leave.

After the trucks, equipment, and people were gone me, Dawn, and the roommate opened the curtains of the living room and drank wine looking at the black, charred remains of the Asshole Neighbor's house.
A toast to serendipity.