LA in atlanta

As he drove the golf cart slowly towards the second model unit, the couple considered the irony: The location was bland, eerie. The populace looked scary. A montage would look like it had come out of Training Day or Colors. But the apartment they had just seen had a great floor plan. The rooms felt spacious instead of merely being so by virtue of geometry. It was strange, however, to see a walk-in closet attached to the secondary bedroom while the master bedroom was relegated to a carpeted aisle sandwiched between a simple wall closet and a washbasin.

Their attention went back to him as he talked about noting the tag on a car, an Infiniti. The reason: a smashed windshield. Lest we think that he was doing a great job as a sardonic wit, he pulled up next to the said car. The guilty rock lying next to the front wheel added to the texture of the event. The lady who pulled up in her SUV nearby noted that she had seen this when she returned at 2 AM. Nobody seemed shocked or surprised or even alarmed. It was like people talking about the pollen in the Spring.

The perfect coda came when he asked the couple if they could guess who owned this place back in the 70s and the 80s. The answer, quite unguessably, was Larry Flynt.