The Incessant Knock (a home invasion story in its entirety)
With my ass buried in the couch, in a near full state of bliss, I removed a probing digit from the depths of my ear. I studied the mass I’d plucked free from its prison.
An abrupt knock upon the front door yanked me from the furious debate which raged inside the confines of my skull; did the greasy mass on my fingertip look more like Panama or Luxembourg? Honestly, I was about to give up anyway; the size and shape of each region was puzzling, dimensions lost much like everything else fed to me during my high school years. Heaven forbid I turn towards Google to refresh my schooling.
Another knock.
“Yea. I’ll be right there”.
I hadn’t moved. I wasn’t expecting a second knock. A solitary rap usually resulted in a package finding new parents and a question, “Honey, why did you order this? We have three now”. And invariably the reply; ” It’s (insert color here). We don’t have it in (again) insert the color”.
Who knocked twice? I’d had no prior notification as to someone who might be visiting.
And yet another.
My In-laws weren’t in town. And my current girlfriend knew better than to surprise me like this.
Another. But this time more like a soft tap, as if to say I’m still out here. However, I’m not the authorities so don’t be alarmed, I’d hate for you to trip over yourself in haste (I’ve not yet gotten to the point of pounding, I’m strangely persistent, though still remain rather civil).
Another (though more like a scrape this time)
I.
Am.
Still.
Out.
Here.
…Waiting.
“Be there in a few. I’m putting the goat away and cleaning up the mess…” I couldn’t resist. A boisterous smirk threatened rapid conquest of my face. If this was my mother, Sister, a distant relative or worse yet the librarian, from the College I attended over twenty-five years ago, I’d shit. “Sorry Mam, I thought I returned The World’s Worst Sports Injuries” (all graphically depicted in glorious technicolor). But I hadn’t! This was a recurring dream I’d only recently gotten over. A visit from a rather pissed librarian, not the photos which showcased unfortunate, though often- hilarious, injuries.
Amazingly enough I’d managed to somehow shuffle my form within reach of the door (from behind which I imagined a form waiting, strumming their fingers. With a look of “Fuck me! That took you long enough” emblazoned across their creased visage).
Multi-tasking wasn’t my strong suit. I’m often regarded as a semi-intelligent lifeform who encounters extreme difficulty in chewing gum whilst walking.
“Good evening…” It was in fact evening. Had I been staring at my extrapolated bodily waste for the better part of the day? Had I seriously called in sick in order to enjoy quality time in such a manner?
My hand grasped the handle. I twisted. The door swung back on its hinges.
“…and how may I help y-! I stopped short.
A chaotic landscape of leaflets caught my attention first. Spread in all manner of direction the front porch was covered. I honestly might not have minded so much if an attempt was being made to clean up the colorful printed predicament. But there was no movement, only a lopsided mountainous landscape of a bearded-fellow-emblazoned paraphernalia staring at me as if to say Do you believe in God? No? Then perhaps neat piles of literature aimed at driving people towards a higher power will change your mind?
I looked up whilst still considering the most successful mode of tidying up that which would most likely result in my recycling bin reaching its maximum capacity.
The glorious tableau which engulfed my retinas wasn’t wholly unexpected. However, it was the state of the visitor that took me a moment to fully process. A matronly figure in conservative attire, a drab wool ensemble entirely too cumbersome for the sweltering heat the day exhibited. But, the hands. The fingers. They twitched as if tinkering the ivory stationed upon an electric fence. And the face. Features sagging, lifeless. The ‘spark’ absent. Although there was a string of drool sliding upon a loose button catching a stray spark of sunlight which strangely attested that there was still ‘something’ present.
The mouth trembled and the eyes flickered upon. I was quick. Shouldering the door, I managed to get it partway closed all but for the intrusion of a five fingered appendage (how did she move that fast?) Pastel grey in motif with veins threatening to burst free of their gossamer-thin casing it was much like an everyday elderly persons hand, the type I would most certainly never close a door upon. A sense of guilt felt on me like a stone falling from the heavens but for the briefest part of an instant.
“Fuck me-!” Yes, I said it aloud.
I turned on a dime. I couldn’t close the door; this wasn’t like a movie whereupon the appendage would merely fall, sheared off (most likely then to scamper into a shadowy corner in preparation for later mischief) with the only the slightest of pressure placed upon it. It was there to stay and I wasn’t about to stick around to find out the reason why it chose not to follow cinematic trends.
As I hightailed it into the hallway the door flew upon and rapid highlights from many a possession themed feature flashed across my senses. I half expected neon lights and a thunderous soundtrack to accompany my fleeing, perhaps the word ‘cut’ to bring this abrupt strangeness to a sudden conclusion. Instead, I spied a snippet of the tableau behind my very much unwelcome companion. My frustrations resulting from the literature burden scattered across my entryway has dissipated, only slightly. Admittedly I was much more horrified by a figure, if you can call him/her/it that, whose ‘being’ and entirety was spread across a wide radius. Now, for some reason, I was pondering upon which Merlot I should purchase to accompany a dinner I had planned for tonight (would the cheapest one possibly go with cheese on beans on toast?).
The deliberation didn’t last long. And neither did my footing. A child’s toy leered at me for a split second before my face became intimately introduced to its dimensions. Lego had officially replaced Play dough as the most despised toddler distraction within the house. Thankfully, my offspring were safely tucked away in the confines of a nearby learning institution, far from all the distractions a homicidal watchtower distributor likely had in store for me.
Dammit I knew I should have jumped in the car for some tacos earlier when the craving hit.
I scrambled to my feet as the door closed shut with a loud crack! Luckily, it caught the staggering form off-balance. Somehow, I managed to enjoy all the pleasures a smirk brings to the senses as I watched her swing though and surprisingly not topple. Apparently, the drunken marionette pulling at her (I’ll just settle on that term, until I’m told otherwise) strings had awoken.
With crimson (the child’s brick detritus would require attention later) shrouding my vision I lurched into the kitchen. I wiped at my forehead with a hand (it was quite the gusher), with the other I swatted at the light switch. I was multi-tasking. Those who knew me well would be proud.
Although the area should already be lit, the curtains were drawn. I was alone, I preferred darkness to eyeball-searing light. At this instant, however, I had little qualm. Besides which I’m sure my companion would much prefer to see what it was she was about to munch upon.
Stop that!
Perhaps she was still merely trying to do the Lord’s work? Perchance she wasn’t hungry, would a sudden invitation to sit down and discuss the many wonders of Genesis, or even Gomorra suit the situation? Nope, I didn’t think there was even the slightest chance. And there she was. Moving with the grace of a panther, albeit one of the recently drugged varieties. Though she had purpose I’d give her that! Did I mention she had a swatch of cloth dangling from her jaw (alongside a Guinness worthy dangling spittle entourage). No? Perhaps I should also illustrate that it seemed to be of the same fabric attached to the unfortunate scattered across the front yard (the assorted crew who mowed my yard were going to have a ‘shit fit’. “Sorry Sir, the agreed upon duties do not include clean-up of whatever that is!”)
So, let’s recap.
I was having quite an eventful day.
Boring in fact. Scratch that. Downright wasteful are words I would definitely employ to describe the majority of it. However, any mundane qualities had abruptly vanished to be replaced by the absurd. Admittedly, I’m usually a fan of such; let’s say a giant finger found its way from the heavens in order to administer a tickling the likes of which I’d never suffered before. I would find the humor in that. Shit, I could even mention several people who ‘d make a living from constructing such a scenario, within a vignette comedic celluloid setting.
I digress.
My current scenario wasn’t in the slightest fodder for a Monty Python skit, my face wasn’t brandishing a mouth with an absurdly oversized crescent shape, nor were my appendages contorted to attempt any manner of “funny walk”. And I most certainly wasn’t in the mood to quote from “The Life of Brian” or “The Holy Grail”, though I was most definitely “running away” (from something).
I had a visitor.
This in itself wasn’t all too rare. But who am I kidding? I live like a hermit (or attempt to if it not for the kid’s weekly visits and the occasional adult sleepover) and entertain those who feel it their duty to check up on me from time to time (family. Am I right?) The said guest in this instance however was of a persuasion one hoped to only encounter infrequently. In my experience a solitary glance at my appearance, attire and the sights my homes slightly open front door offered were usually more than enough to send any stranger away in a sweaty panic, hands flailing in frenzied cross motions. You get the idea. Strangely, my current companion wasn’t trying to veer my life path towards the light, even though she most certainly appeared as if she could be a defending champion at converting one towards such. And to be honest I really had no inkling as to what it was, she desired, although I could guess. I certainly had a clue. To mention that she had a “little something” splattered upon her apparel would be akin to a calling a grocery stores candy aisle tempting to a diabetic. I believe I’ve already mentioned that a trail of chunky bits plastered in grue made an impromptu path from my doorway to what which I could only assume was my unwelcome guests last meal? A neighbor in such a state of disarray as to be unidentifiable, or a UPS guy delivering another set of something or other the house really didn’t need? In short, an appetizer without a name. A starter to whet the palate for the main course… Me? Why though, I’m not really all that important or large enough to constitute a decent meal.
So, here I am, prancing around like a seemingly crack-addled ballerina (I’m in my late forties, dance moves of any kind are most definitely not in my repertoire). One might say I’m on the move. And I’d agree without argument. I was. And my mind was racing.
As I swung around the dividing wall, towards the kitchen, I expected to hear a curse, a call to the Gods to banish that which entertains children for hours, lasts for a lifetime, though offers naught but absolute depths of hellish level of pain to the naked unsuspecting feet of parents the world over.
Nothing.
Not a peek.
I felt an irresistible urge to cease my stumbling into the edge of the sink ensemble (Ouch! Too late) to ask for tips on parenting/navigating the minefield of forgotten, within the carpet’s fibers, bits of carefully constructed, mass produced, colorful plastic. Alas. It was too late. And now I most likely had a ruptured spleen as well as a gushing forehead which refused to coagulate
Cradling my side, I backed around that which delighted in causing me so much pain (it had happened on numerous occasions before now, although then I had the could-care less consumption of alcohol to blame, alas not now) and the rhythmless cacophony triggered by the avalanche of the weeks untouched dishes. Did I fail to mention, and add, kitchen duties to the list of things I likely needed a life coach to master?
My companion strode leisurely into the concert hall. Ha! I jest, it’s fantastic to know in times such as these that I still brandished a wicked sense of humor. But seriously, I needed something, anything over and above my wit, to ward off the sudden advance of the ravenous type which marred the usually delightful view of my neighbors irregularly shaped, and dare I say it, quite expertly placed, excuse for a shed.
As the dishes concluded their rendition of an abruptly soothing Second Wave Black Metal assault (whoops did I just alienate a portion of my audience?), I caught the glint of what might mean salvation. Bending to pluck it from the recently formed heap of porcelain detritus, I stopped. The figure across from me stood stock still. Her (yes, I’m still using that term) eyes alighted upon the ground as her fingers smeared nastiness across a recently painted wall (dammit, I’d have to scrub at that with a rag and check the garage for a matching color amidst the cobweb tainted chaos). I allowed myself a moment to breathe, I peered towards that which yanked her attention so.
The next split second plucked me from “what the hell’s happening?” to an “I might indeed be fucked” arena. The grace with which she moved was atrocious, it truly was as if her torso suddenly had decided to give up only then regain control as it caressed the tile floor at an alarming rate of speed. If I was to include this in a future comedy skit (I’m not a comedian so it probably would never come to pass) I would most probably entertain the idea of utilizing a transformation in which a battery had lost its will, only then to be switched out for a more feral, throbbing, archaic replacement (did I mention I wasn’t an entertainer?)
Suffice it to say my visitor suddenly had a new lease on life. I honestly didn’t know if she was breathing, or whether she was breathing when we first met (honest Officer) and I wasn’t in the position to check using a mirror (that’s how they do it, right?). Was she in fact undead, or did I face a Rage, “28 Days Later”, type adversary? I’m not sure how these things worked, or even the genre rule parameters. Either way this was a fantastic way to put off a visit to the gym for about another month.
Upon all fours (I don’t believe this was a position she entertained on a regular basis, based on her appearance, but who am I to jump to conclusions?) she exhibited more a bestial entity. A display only added to by the fact that her upturned face was now covered in gore, had I forgotten to clean up all of the lasagna from last night’s festivities? The corner of her mouth lazily lifted as if to tease me Hi, food. I’ll refrain from introducing myself. I’m don’t usually get in the habit of eating friends.
Bugger!
I lifted my fingers carefully from the miniature shard factory I had haphazardly created mere moments before. I was saved.
I held in my grasp…
a spoon. And a small one at that
Double Bugger!
The creature (for that was what she now appeared to be) twitched, her limbs trembled as if readying for the kill, her predatory gaze locked upon me the entire time.
Then, she leapt. I would likely describe her sudden change of gears as somewhat miraculous, if it not for my own. Amazingly my instincts had taken over. My hand was around a handle, my fingers sported white knuckles as I swung the cabinet door swung open. The familiar screech of its desperately-needing-oil hinges voiced its displeasure being utilized in such a way.
Bam! (Cue the vintage Batman cartoon, and bubblegum, bubbles).
The contact with the thin plywood, for I wasn’t in a financial position to afford real wood, stopped the beast dead in its (her) tracks, and like a tuning fork my arm vibrated with the impact.
The shattered construct swung back into place. I now had little choice; I would have to invest in this kitchen, or in the near future become suddenly rather inventive with duct tape.
Now I would’ve expected a collision such as this to raise frustration levels, bring about a look of anger or leave at least an impression. None of the above happened. Merely a tilting of the head, which might have resulted from the abrupt kitchen storage unit’s introduction, as if to say Stop playing around. You’re destined to end up navigating my digestinal tract in bite sized chunks. Please, accept your fate.
I stumbled back a number of steps, several handles (proven to be useless weapons in the current conflict) cried out for my fumbling grasp; let us help be your savior in your quest o’ knight of the kitchen. Alas, I had other ideas.
Much like many entranced by all the wonderful things commercials offered, my ex-wife (we’ve been divorced for about a decade now but I’d somehow managed to inherit most of her crap) had amassed quite the collection of quite useless kitchen paraphernalia. One might think I would have thrown all of these fantastic contraptions away, perhaps I was merely waiting for a day in which I could slice, dice or slap chop my way to notoriety? Or perhaps I somehow, someway, someday, knew I would be placed in a situation much like this, whereupon my organizational skills and absolute stunning level of laziness would reward me handsomely?
A cheeky crack alighted upon my claret-soaked visage. Scanning the array of cabinets surrounding me in between locks of hair fashioned by rapidly congealing blood, I stole a glance toward my combatant. Her blouse had somehow torn open to reveal a window of ivory flesh beneath. And here’s hoping she didn’t perceive my sudden excitement as that resulting from such a sight. Intimate relations were, at this moment, the furthest thing from my mind.
‘She’ continued to advance. I reached for that which I’d never (seen) utilized in any way other than an object to take up space. Naturally, that could mean any number of objects within this room; I wasn’t known to cook, or concoct anything from ingredients other than to add ketchup to anything cheap, convenient and bursting with carbs.
Aha! I nearly yelled aloud my excitement. I’m sure I squealed like an adolescent.
After numerous fumbling movements I grasped one of the only battery-operated gizmos to not end up forgotten within an unused bedroom drawer (keep those thoughts from the gutter please). Heralded as the new age in carving celebratory meats (whatever that might mean) this boasted a vibrating, sharpened – I should probably mention that, edge constructed from the finest metal and a price tag to set any frugal-minded spouse alight in rage “you spent how much… on what-?” It was the “Carvo-matic 3000” (why does everything sound infinitely more impressive with a four-digit number after it?)
I felt alive, the most non-artificially- induced since the moment my pen left the divorce decree page many years ago. I hoisted the device aloft and made ready to proudly utter a catchphrase which most certainly didn’t fit the situation, or the object in my hand. But I couldn’t help myself – “And this…is my Boomstick!”
Ash would be proud.
Likely not.
For an instant… perhaps?
The damned thing had no batteries. Naturally, I flipped the on/off switch several times, in rapid succession, as if my (ages-old and suddenly unlocked) wizard like attributes and knowledge would prompt activity in an instrument which contained not a single inkling of a powercell. I’m guessing an electric knife (with an accompanying cord) made too much sense, this thing had to be upwardly mobile as if it could be utilized in a stunning variety of different situations. Admittedly, much like I was attempting, at present. But at least I wasn’t being made to look silly brandishing both a power tool and a (some might say utterly punchable) triumphant look as I advanced to suddenly have the cord rip away from the wall socket. I looked ridiculous and felt defeated, nevertheless
I found myself with few options left. A laundry list of (mostly still boxed) kitchen gadgets ran through my mind, but at least at this point it wasn’t my companion’s teeth. Many seemed prudent to being testing out to their fullest potential at this exact juncture, if it not for the fact that most were in storage or covered in cobwebs and likely heralded as totems by numerous insect civilizations in the attic. My mind touched fell upon other utensils which might be of use. However, in my current position I was blocked. The knife drawer sneered at me over my adversary’s position, she was still on all fours and suddenly (though perhaps I was wrong, I certainly hoped it wasn’t the case) in no apparent hurry to feast. Had her previous meal abruptly registered, was her stomach sending red flags, urgent messages, to save me for later consumption?
Then it hit me. Thankfully, it wasn’t her shoulder. I was conveniently close to the “baking” cupboard. Fleeting cartoon imagery assaulted my senses. A stick figure (I’m talking basic animation here folks) wielding a muffin pan in one hand and a Pyrex (where’s my sponsorship deal?) dish in the other, holding back the rampaging hordes of darkness with a dizzying array of moves plucked from the most amusing of yesteryear Shaw Brother feature. Far be it for me to compliment my moves, I could whip up a wicked cupcake and occasionally a Yorkshire Pudding to make Granma proud (most came with simple to follow instructions an idiot such as myself could follow), but I wasn’t in the slightest martial arts or even self-defense trained. But it would have to make do. Could I concoct a delectable assortment of bakery treats in record time (perhaps enlist my biblical literature peddling friend as a helper) as a distraction or would I have to opt for swinging ungreased pans in hope that I hit something with enough force to buy myself enough time that I might scarper away unscathed?
But what then?
Knowing my luck all too well I could imagine another legion of assorted nasties lying in wait to usurp my exultant escape, a unit armed to the teeth with unfathomable Lovecraftian abilities, appendages sharper than the most expensive mail order Japanese knife sets and mind controlling attributes to turn even the strongest willed to unresponsive putty. I seriously needed to cease this train of thought immediately, overriding negativity wasn’t about to add any experience points to my already overladen psyche or make me that much more a formidable adversary. I needed something positive. Something to look forward to. Well, there was a half dozen donuts (need I mention white frosted and maple?) awaiting the caress of my jaw someplace in the immediate vicinity. The temptation would have to suffice. Then an obscure silliness smothered the confines of my skull (likely born of a lifetimes unhealthy consumption of oddball comedies and cult cinema basted in the unholiest of dark humor) … would it be rude not to share?
I blindly (as I dare not take my eyes away from the vision of sheer delight in front of me) slid my hand within the cupboards confines and extracted something (thankfully) heavy. In all honesty I had my fingers mentally crossed that my grasp didn’t alight upon the silicon cupcake tray which produced baked delights in the shape of whimsical fairy tale creatures. I don’t believe my companion would find any humor in being assaulted with a variety of flexible unicorn shaped pans, I’d likely laugh and most probably then get eaten, slowly. Needless to mention this wasn’t on my immediate agenda.
The form, who I shall refer to now as merely the “voracious huntress” (ha), before me, shuddered slightly. Opening her mouth, ever so slightly, she bared fangs (which I don’t believe were standard Mormon issue) and made as if to leap, I’ve owned a cat before I know what to look for, although the form before me didn’t wiggle her derriere in the way many felines practiced, she flashed a glance as if to say Yeah, I’m done with toying around with my food.
But I was quicker.
I swung with all of my, meager untrained, might. And connected. An abrupt sickening crunch (imagine watching a viral video in which an unfortunate skater, following a mind blowing ‘grind’ trick, connects with the ground and twists their ankle at a ninety-degree angle with the sound turned up to full volume) registered a minor victory. Rather than dwell and step up to an imaginary podium awaiting the dropping of a chunk of metal around my neck, I swung again, and again, and again. Then I stopped. This was tiring. The cutting board within my grasp suddenly weighed a ton and I could only imagine it doing so on account of all the chunky bits barely clinging on to the other side, the area which I’d now like to formally christen the ‘business end’. Moving my arm slightly to the side and slowly, admittedly I was swinging blindly (I’ve never been that good at Cricket) I had intentions of spying my handy work if only for an instant, this wasn’t the most ideal of situation in which to gloat, whilst still maintaining a state of readiness in preparation for the slightest of movement, and another frenzied, maniacal, bout of rapidly pounding my adversary with my bloodied wooden instrument (my apologies, for that sounded rather raunchy).
Now I’ve witnessed enough horror films to know that one should never walk away from a fallen antagonist, lest they abruptly rise and snap your neck when you least expect it. And I’ve damn sure seen enough Zombie features to understand that “the head shot is the only true stoppa!” However, with that in mind and the sight before me displayed in such glorious technicolor, I strangely felt a pang of sympathy for her plight. My companion no longer stood confidently on all fours. Her current predicament could be likened to that of an inebriated individual suffering from narcolepsy, one who had been intently studying the kitchen’s linoleum pattern shortly before an incapacitating ‘bout’ hit. The position on display brought to mind a misogynistic statement plucked from my short-term memory and garnered from any number of recent party-themed MTV shows.
Now, I would be truly screwed if, at this instant, the words “Do you believe in our lord and savior Jesus Christ” happened to fall from the misshapen bloodied crevice which was currently employed as the mouth of my visitor. My mind sprinted at probable sentencing. Would there be a leniency based on the victim and my deliberations, my actions as a devout atheist with no current yearnings to be swayed towards the ‘Dark Side’? But, your Honor. She was quite persistent. Yet another gallows humor tainted smirk brushed my sweaty features as I evaluated and reevaluated my next move. I would have to finish the job and quick. All indications pointed toward the fact that the person slumped at my feet was both resilient and determined, need it bear mentioning that she chose to spread the Holy word regardless of the number of expletives tossed in her direction and doors slammed in her face on a daily basis. What a trooper.
I hoisted the hefty, though thoroughly inadequately sized, wood shield aloft, affording myself a window of sight to spy any sudden movements, and again found myself running through a mental catalog of the kitchen’s inventory, much of which I (anyone) admittedly hadn’t utilized in months, going on years. Would this perhaps be the one and only time I would get to use the Soda Stream machine, the Steak Griller Magic or the Slap-chopping thingy? Then, from out of the blue (I’m still not sure if ‘blue’ refers to the sky or the ocean in a context such as this), it came to me. Several years ago, I had been gifted, or most probably ‘regifted’ on account of where the gift originated, a most unusual present. Not unusual in the fact that the gift itself was unique or even rare but more because it just wasn’t “me”. But I couldn’t for the life of me think upon where I stored the Kabuki attire? It sure would go stunningly with the idea of dispatch I had in mind for my little friend. It would, but I barely had the time to search, and I seriously didn’t need to appear as though I was some kind of Troma universe superhero at this juncture.
Many at this instant may have already taken the opportunity to reach across, and over their currently downed opponent, for any manner of sharp instruments presenting themselves upon opening the knife drawer. But not me. One of my many qualities, apart from my excelling at being quite the lazy bastard, is a stunning comprehension of when to utilize common sense (admittedly, in this day and age a super power in itself, although not so much a movie anyone would want to watch). And if I could pat myself on the back for such a decision, I would with gusto as it was at this exact instant that the slightest of movement changed the grotesque vista currently on display.
Comical though she might appear, she still most definitely posed a threat, even with her head tilted at the bizarre angle which it currently employed. A vision, in truth, which would send most seasoned ER tacticians screaming for the hills. But not me. I chose to turn and make a beeline for the garage. Thankfully, the door was only a few feet away, need I mention that this was most definitely not a design choice the ex-wife had applauded, though at present the builders choice (and the minimal nature of the kitchen) certainly worked exceedingly well to my advantage.
My frenzied pace catapulted me toward the door with considerable force, leaving inadequate time to effectively manipulate the many complexities of the doors knob. My hand screamed in complaint from the impact, and my body followed suit. Fevered glances behind my pained position informed me, in no short order, that my adversary’s appetite was in no lesser degree diminished by her unfortunate appearance. If I had the time I would surely point, laugh and most likely take a picture for social media exploitative purposes.
Cursing a delightful array of not-so-creative expletives I succeeded in my abrupt turning of the handle quest, though strangely suddenly forgot how to operate my lower extremities.
Yet another element about the houses layout which maddened my previous spouse was the fact that the garage was lower than the remainder of the house. It was down this flight of steps that I tumbled and, within the space of a handful of vintage Napalm Death tracks (and here I am again, alienating the audience), was joined by another. With a dazzling display of mid-life gymnastic prowess, not to mention an unfathomable amount of luck, I somehow found my footing and oddly the inertia to steer clear of the only vehicle parked within the garage’s confines. My partner however was not so lucky. The sound resulting from her connection with the vehicle reverberated across the small rooms expanse; a brutal cacophony hinting at future crippling credit card debt and a lifetime of past experiences lost, replaced with all the mystery a traumatic head injury promise.
It didn’t however last long. My companion was stunned for perhaps a split second, then she was up and moving again, well perhaps not up, perse, rather than attempting to disentangle herself from the underside of the metal partner she had so recently become so romantically entangled with.
I stole the presented opportunity.
A myriad of scenarios much like an orgy of methamphetamine addled hummingbirds alighted the inner workings of my skull. I grabbed the one which made the most sense. Upon the shelving unit to my left, and in no particular order lay the detritus of a lifetime of collecting, the remainder contained several years of half-arsed ‘spring cleanings’. One object in particular spoke to me with a singing cadence ringing with confidence. Grasp me, use me. I am here in your hour of need, to facilitate your ultimate triumph. However, it was this voice which I chose to ignore. I was never that adept at tennis anyway. Besides which I couldn’t seriously see myself holding back an encroaching attack of the undead with backhands, slices, and serves.
With my eyes on both the garages amazing storage setup and my still struggling friend, I found myself instead magically drawn towards an item which I had yet to find a suitable place for. A curious object which I’d always wished to build a set piece around, perhaps on a wall, though had never gotten around to completing. It was at this juncture that a part of my mind started to scream at me; asking, querying, demanding to know why I hadn’t yet chosen to open the garage. An internal battle raged as I side stepped to pluck the ornate blade from atop a smorgasbord of yard crap (to not put so fine a point on it), painting gear and dirtied rags. Sure, some might ask why I have an item such as this so out in the open when I frequently have children wandering around. To which I’d answer Lego, video games, candy and… mind yer own goddamn business. Besides which, I wasn’t the type of parent who allowed their kids to run willy nily without supervision anywhere (unless it’s Walmart, then it’s a hoot, if just to watch the myriad expressions of disgust). But more importantly, inner voices still nagged pesisted; why wasn’t the garage door open yet? It was here that my knowledge of bizarre celluloid interceded with a simple and thunderously loud statement “Because we don’t know for sure what’s waiting for us on the other side!” and in a lesser tone, but with equal importance, and we still don’t know for sure the legal intricacies associated with the random slaughter of a devout peddler of the Lord’s Word.
I guess I was about to find out. Either way, I wasn’t about to be willingly gnawed upon as an alternative to being (possibly) prosecuted and/or placed behind bars to slowly rot. Neither of these prospects looked appealing. Not a single one appeared on my bucket list.
Flaming hot cheeseballs!
She was up and approaching again. This time however she had a friend, a cumbersome attachment of sorts and resulting from such another bill to add to the ever-growing pile. I’d have to replace a fender, if I couldn’t somehow save a few dollars by creatively rigging it in the immediate future.
My day was getting better and better.
Luckily, the chrome addition was thwarting my adversaries’ movements to such a degree that I could relax, ever so slightly. I weighed the weapon within my grasp. It would surely work. Although I doubt, I would be cutting much unless I removed its delicately fashioned ornate covering. It slid off in a single fluid gesture, the angle resulted in my catching a glimpse of myself within the blades untarnished surface. The face which stared back at me boasted three days of untamed facial growth, an attached physique that checked all the boxes corresponding to textbook middle age apathy and the attire that of an individual who seldom socialized or saw sunlight. Not to mention the patch of unruly hair matted across my forehead and dark shadows under my eyes one could hide a collective of Ninjas within (boy what I could do with their help at this very instant). Believe it, or not, I’ve looked worse. But I’ve never felt more alive.
A scrape of metal, akin to nails upon a chalkboard, across the floor notified me of my companion’s advance. And I was ready, brandishing a prized possession (nota family heirloom to those curious, merely a trinket of sports purchased for cheap at a local pawn store) within my grasp in an emulation of the way in which I’d seen many a Samurai do. I adjusted my stance. I felt ready. I believe I even adopted a ‘come get me’ expression, if only for a split second. I angled the length of the blade ever so slightly, resulting in the sublime shot (I could imagine) many a director lusted after, it had another use, it allowed me to spy my combatant in all her awkward glory.
Do you believe in our Lor-
She pounced. And I span.
It surely might have been that much more effective If I had merely swung but it wouldn’t have looked nearly as impressive. And amazingly, I made contact. Like carving ice cream with a heated wire (or I can only imagine). Surprisingly, in my impromptu pirouetting endeavors I even made the adjustment necessary to successfully remove the voracious huntresses head from her neck in one fell swoop.
Fuck me, I was a bona fide superhero.
My companions look of open mouth shock attested to the same. And then it rotated out of view. An abrupt arc of crimson from her inelegantly slumped torso baptized me, both with grue, and a name. A new moniker (if only for my own amusement); I was the Crimson Avenger. Naturally, I would have to keep it under wraps, lest I wade deep into legal entanglements and copyright infringement territories.
What to do now?
Naturally, the merest suggestion of a delicious treat, in this instant an aforementioned donut, passing my lips sidetracked me. The past minute or so had dragged me across a striking landscape of emotions, spiked my blood pressure to admittedly teenage Olympic masturbatory levels and given me a workout the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in many years. As badass as it might sound rushing to the kitchen for a delectable treat, if only to be able to stand in front of a sluggishly opening garage door whilst masticating (the obvious Kurt Russell “Big Trouble in Little China” Bubble gum quote came to mind) was rather silly. In all seriousness my first course of action should be to survey my immediate surroundings. But I couldn’t resist the temptation, or the parody of the iconic stance of a cinematic legend.
Momentarily sated, I returned to the garage and the scene of the crime. I was, in no way, looking forward to diving under the sink to uncover the various cleaning supplies required to make it look as though I hadn’t just decapitated a tenacious religious rhetoric peddler.
It could wait. I needed fresh air.
Following a few minutes of exertion and the crafty utilization of a handy dandy oversized drop cloth (which I highly recommend every garage have) the unsightly remains of my visitor were out of sight. It was time to celebrate with a blast of mid-summer desert heat. With a touch of the garage door button, I welcomed the introduction of the blast furnaces embrace. With a sigh and an audible grunt, of sorts, the door began its slow ascent. And the neighborhood tableau unhurriedly unfolded before my eyes. Juan was busy tending to his bushes. Miss Travuea-Forque (there was a story behind her name, and rumors of an assortment of failed marriages, but I don’t have the time to supply the details) was sweeping her sidewalk. And Caroline, the neighbor directly across from me, to whom I’d said “Hi” perhaps three times since I’ve moved in, was embroiled in a spot of C’mon boys, one at a time… You can’t all feast upon my intestines at once.
I blinked several times, my vision cleared, and my cheery outlook evaporated.
Juan was partially hidden in a smokescreen, waving frantically with what appeared to be a gasoline powered carpentry tool, warding off a crowd of possible suitors, all ravenously vying for his life essence. Meanwhile, my not quite so mysterious widowed Canadian neighbor was busy with a weed whacker, showcasing her skills upon a largely segmented and spastically wriggling adversary, her driveway awash in a motif which screamed I’ll need more than the love of a mere hose to cleanse me. Without a moments deliberation I hoisted my new best friend aloft and sprinted towards what was likely the end of all.
For once in my miserable life, I actually felt useful. I was the Crimson Avenger. Heads were about to roll.
Cult
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