Her relatives responded by Uhauling all her shit out of the place the next day while I was at work, up to and including my clothes dryer. They left hers. I walked down the street to impart this knowledge and was informed that, oh crap, my dryer was now in storage. I would hold her dryer as collateral, I explained, and use it at my whim. This prompted her father to return it.
Oh and bee tee dubs, "Kenny Loggins" showed up one evening to (according to sources), "get his dick wet," but found her place vacant. His car then stalled in the driveway, at which point I took the opportunity to quickly call her son. "Kenny Loggins is here," I whispered, hovering by the window. They drove up from down the street and blocked his car in. I watched Kenny lean down by their window and have a heartfelt ten minute conversation in which I later learned that it was determined that Kenny did not have her car. Her car had been towed after she parked it in someone's driveway in Oak Park (a not so savory part of town).
Relatives then paid $650 to retrieve it from an impound lot to find it with a flat tire and a backpack filled with ladies underwear in the trunk. Kenny claims it's not his and that he does not have her TV or her iPizzle or her bike. That, he claims, is the work of "some Mexican."
John Oates? Well whatever. It's not my Goddamn problem anymore.