The Gregarian family lives in a nice suburban neighborhood.
This was the Gregarian estate. It was impeccably manicured, with sprinklers galore fueling the landscape into lush green life. It was beautiful, but an alien-wonderland kind of beautiful, and Johnny Redcob didn’t like it. It was like a piece of California had been brought to Texas dangling from a helicopter, and all Johnny could think of was what authentically Texan land had been buried underneath it.
The Gregarians lived in a tony suburb fulla trees looking like they was designed by a sculptor. The garden outside the Gregarian home was proper too, they got a Japanese gardener who keep it proper but subdued, understated and minimalist. The Gregarians was big on blending in. Strange for a strip club-owning family, Thumper thunk.
Over the railing was a long drop to the chipped and rain-stained pillars that rimmed chez Gregarian. The manse was wide and long, and its brick walls dripped wisteria like weeping titans. The grassy lawn done got clipped freshly, but it was a thin layer of verdant green clinging to survival atop a thick layer of swampy muck. Footsteps from the groundskeepers’ toils remained outlined in black mud in shady spots. That meant Beau would sûrement slip when he landed.
From Cajun Macho