The Fanatic and the Weasel
In the house next door lived an old man who was rather strange even though he looked quite normal. Each morning he would wear his suit and step into his car and drive off.
Maybe he went to office like normal people did, but somehow I didn’t think so. Every evening like clockwork, he would drive up at six in the evening. That convinced me. How many people always come home from office at exactly the same time. You could set your clocks by him, like swiss trains. Who ever does that? My mum keeps phoning from work because she will be late, and my dad often stops off to chat with his friends over a round or two. Not him. Too normal is not normal.
My neighbour also has no friends, no dirt, no garbage and makes no noise. Zilch. His house, his garden and his car are spotless all the time.
I have been spying on him for six months. Every bit of his house is covered by my equipment. I track all his movements and note them in my cloud (use geeky term here).
Because I know that his normal is not normal. It is a cover. No, he is not an alien. Nor is he a spy. He is a weasel trainer.
Yes he is. Truly. That is what he does. I have never seen him smile, so I do not know if he likes it. But that is what he is. A weasel trainer.