It's April 5, 1975, in a not-so-old and not-so-well-known suburb of Rock Springs, Wyoming. But 22 year old Joe Dean Zurkofsky couldn't tell really tell you what day it was. It wouldn't matter to him anyway. He basically moved out of here to get away from his rich parents, or they moved him out so he'd be away from them, depending on who you ask. It's fair to say even Joe himself might not remember anymore. With no job and no need for a job, but not enough of his parents' money to show off either, he's pretty much just living the easy life but maybe even the good life (or maybe NOT). You be the judge.
Joe is sprawled out on the couch. Did he go to bed last night? Did he get up already? How late was he out partying? No matter. The record player across the room is stuck repeating a section of his favorite song. The curtains are closed, the room is dark. No need to make things worse on his aching head. The smell of marijuana smoke is thick in the room. He manages to sit up but steps on a slightly beer bottle. Ouch! He kicks that thing across the room. He flicks on the black-and-white television. He could probably afford a color screen next time his parents send him a check -- but spending it on more weed and maybe throwing a party would be more fun. Ah, good the horror movies are on! He can just chill here and relax and get rested up from ... well, some would say he doesn't actually do any work to get tired, but he certainly doesn't want to start now. He laughs at a guy getting chased by a werewolf monster. It was actually supposed to be scary, but either the special effects are cheesy or his buzz just makes everything funny. Good thing he didn't have anything to do today...
All at once, the front door was kicked open, sending beer cans and soda bottles flying! He thought he was getting raided! But they were men and women in ... black cloaks? What were they monks or some shit?
"Hey what's the big idea can't you see I'm watchin' TV?"
"Silence, fool!"
Two of the men grabbed his arms but he broke free and punched one in the face. One of the women clutched her pendant and waved her finger around, and a lightning bolt of pain tore through him and distracted him enough to be restrained again. After the pain wore off he was surprised to find he suddenly had less of a high.
"Hey if you guys are cops I can explain!"
"Explain the grass in your yard growing up to 5 inches when the rules of this neighborhood clearly state two and a half? Explain the junk all over your front porch and the broken, unpainted picket fence? And more importantly, explain the large amount of alcohol and marijuana we see everywhere, which we do not approve of in this community? The explanation is simple, Mr. Zurkofsky. You're lazy, dirty, and we keep getting complaints from the neighbors about your home and your constant partying."
Little did Joe know that his little house near Rock Springs was technically in the region claimed by Blairtown. What he should have known was that in this neighborhood people who caused disturbances or had a controversial lifestyle often disappeared with little warning. He just assumed some of his drinking buddies and booty calls had been carted off by the police on one charge or another. Some of them had been, of course. But the ones who lived in this particular suburb had occasionally met more supernatural fates.
One of these strange cloaked cultists picked up an almost empty beer bottle and sniffed it. Another turned off the record player and the TV. Another looked in disgust at one of the marijuana plants he was growing, pointed her hands at it, and caused it to burst into flame. Why couldn't he see her lighter?!
"Hey don't mess with the grass, bitch! All of you mind your own business, you freaks!"
The one who seemed to be leading the group laughed and said, "You really want your grass, do you? Well there's going to be a lot of grass where you're going. We're tired of you flaunting the rules and lounging in filth on our pristine land. You're going to be contributing to our local farm from now on. Don't worry, you won't have to start cleaning up after yourself at least. But you can have pretty much all the grass you want..."