The Wrath of the Alarm

Some people are unaware of the fact that I am a published writer. While J.J. goes to work all day and I stay home with the kids doing the cooking and the cleaning, I find a few spare moments here and there to write a short story or two. Well, that said, here's a sample of my latest work. Sit back with an ice cold Shasta and enjoy.

The sun was slowly creeping across the morning sky. I was in bed, attempting to ignore the harsh glare coming through the window, but when you’re too lazy to move, the sun eventually wins. The earth keeps spinning, outer space keeps functioning, and at some point you’re forced to see the light, unless you get up and close the drapes.
The stubborn beam of light crept slowly along the bed spread, lurking in the folds of the covers like a lion waiting to tear into a gazelle. The problem was, the dumbass gazelle, or me, should have known it was coming. I always watch those shows on the Discovery Channel and shout at the screen in hopes of being heard before it’s too late, but when you think about it, how can the gazelle NOT know? It’s seen like 18 of its family members get mauled to death by the same herd of lions that live just down the river, yet it still wanders to the same spot to get a drink. If 18 of your family members had been torn to shreds in the same bar, would you still decide that was the best place to wet your whistle? No, probably not. Not unless you were a moron, just like the rest of your family. You would sit at the bar, unaware of the impending doom of teeth ripping into flesh, your Mai Tai flying across the room while a camera crew hid in the corner and filmed the whole thing.
Come to think of it, every time a gazelle sees a camera crew, it should run like hell. If it knows anything about primetime cable ratings, it will know that viewers aren’t interested in a peaceful encounter between two animals. They want dismemberment and death.
Where was I? Oh right, in bed and trying to block out the daylight.
Well, I would have stayed in bed, (I swear I would have…the sun can go screw itself…or unscrew itself actually) but the same car alarm that had gone off the past three mornings in a row decided to give it one more go. The risk of eternal blindness couldn’t get me out of bed, but the guy two houses down who owned the Geo Metro with rims, a spoiler, and an alarm so temperamental that a good sneeze could set it off needed to be stopped.
I stumbled down the stairs and into the garage, grabbing the crow bar I’d purchased at Sears for this very occasion. It had been an exciting conversation with the Crowbar Salesman, a bulging, butch guy with a buzz cut and a mullet and a set of man boobs the likes of which I had never seen:

Me: I’m looking to get revenge on someone who made a very bad vehicular enhancement decision.
Crowbar Salesman: What did he do?
Me: He put a spoiler on a Geo Metro.
Crowbar Salesman: Let me show you our selection of machine guns.
Me: No no, that might be sending the wrong message. I just want the car to die. I think destroying the spinning rims on his tires will be ample punishment.
Crowbar Salesman: What about a rocket launcher?
Me: You sell rocket launchers at Sears?
Crowbar Salesman: We want to be your one stop shopping choice.
Me: You don’t sell food though. Wal Mart sells food.
Crowbar Salesman: Wal Mart grinds babies into meat patties and flash freezes them.
Me: No wonder my stomach was crying at Jim’s barbeque last weekend.
Crowbar Salesman: You’re funny! Have you ever done stand up?
Me: (Pointing to my legs) I’m standing up right now!
Crowbar Salesman: (Crying from laughter) I’m SO texting Bob Vila about this when I get home!
Me: You-you actually know Bob Vila?
Crowbar Salesman: We dated for awhile.
Me: Bob Vila is gay?
Crowbar Saleswoman: No.
Me: So I’m gonna go.
Crowbar Saleswoman: Call me?
Me: I have terminal Herpes.
Crowbar Saleswoman: …Call me?

Three hours and one awkward encounter in the lawnmower section later, I left the store with a gleaming crow bar and an appointment to get tested for STDs the next morning. I had listened to that car alarm one too many times.
What moron pimped out a Geo Metro? Better yet, what moron risked imprisonment for STEALING a pimped out Geo Metro? Was the alarm a necessary feature? Not once in my life had I ever heard a car alarm going off due to someone breaking into the car. Not once in my life had I ever seen someone tearing through a parking lot toward their car for fear that it was THEIR alarm going off. It was the most unnecessary invention since the Slap Bracelet. Do you like pain shooting through your forearm? Do you hate looking fashionable? Have you never been intimate with someone when it didn’t involve providing your credit card number? Then we have the accessory for you! Comes in 13 hideous designs – be the first homosexual on your block to own them all!
I marched down the street in my bathrobe and slippers like a homeless drunk determined to be the first one in line at the soup kitchen. The noise of the alarm grew louder and louder.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t the owner of this horrendous piece of crap call the cops when he saw me destroying the precious gem rotting in his driveway at 8:45 in the morning?
No.
I say this for several reasons. First, this Douche Mobile, as I lovingly referred to it, hadn’t been registered with the DMV in years. A raging alcoholic growing pot plants in his bathtub couldn’t possibly be expected to pay such a hefty bill. Paying the bill would involve money. Money would involve having a job. Having a job would involve leaving the house before 2 PM. Leaving the house before 2 PM would involve sobriety. That said, this guy wasn’t gonna pay.
Second, the pot plants in the bathtub.
While there would initially be no cause for a cop to go into his house when the shattered remains of the Douche Mobile were scattered outside, any human with functioning brain cells could see that the owner of the Douche Mobile would be high as a kite. The moment he stepped foot outside, the officers would take notice of the fact that his eyes were more bloodshot than a schizophrenic albino on suicide watch. The pot would be discovered, the Douche Mobile would be repossessed, the owner would be sent to prison for putting a spoiler on a car with a maximum speed of 40 miles per hour, the case would be closed.
So I wasn’t too concerned about having the cops called on me.
As I approached the car, I paused for a moment. I could see the outline of what had once been a respectable, albeit cheap, little car. It had no bad intentions. It had been taken hostage against its will and forced to endure this humiliation. The headlights and grill stared at me, forming the same sad expression I had given my mother when she forced me to wear a sailor suit to Molly Henderson’s birthday party in third grade.
“Don’t make me do it,” I had pleaded. “Get me out of this stupid thing!”
Needless to say, I had been ignored at the party. Molly had taken one good look at me, laughed, and by the time the cupcakes hit the coffee table, she’d been all over Tommy Morris in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt.
I cautiously approached the car.
“Look, I’m doing this for your own good, okay?”
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!” the car alarm pierced the sky, echoing off the surrounding buildings and filling the alley with noise.
I walked to the back of the car, vowing revenge on my mother for putting me in that sailor suit. I lifted the crow bar high above my head, took a deep breath, and brought it down with all my might.
It hit the spoiler with a resounding crunch. Plastic shattered, shrapnel flying in all directions. It felt good.
Next I went for the tires. Large gleaming rims reflected the sunlight, throwing it back into my eyes. I swung the crow bar at each offending one, feeling the satisfaction as metal met plastic. First the two rear tires, then I went for the front.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
I stepped back and looked at the destruction. Something wasn’t right. The windows, black with tint, were unharmed.
“What fun is destroying a car if you can’t break a little glass?” I asked no one in particular.
The car protested.
“Waaaah waaaaah waaaah!”
I lifted the crowbar high above the windshield, standing on my toes to make sure I would get the most height possible. One glance to be sure no one was watching me, and I brought the bar down.
It met the windshield with a thud.
That’s right, a thud. Not a shatter, not a crash, not an explosion. A thud. Sure, a giant crack now splintered in all directions, forming a spider web as wide as the whole car. But it was still in place. I stared in disapproval at the crowbar, somehow hoping to blame it for this failed attempt.
Had the Crowbar Salestransvestite lied to me? It had told me the crowbar would do the trick with one blow. Had it mislead me as it sat next to me, curled up in my arms on the seat of that John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 in the basement of Sears?
I looked at the car once more. Vowing success, I gave it another go.
The metal hook tore into the windshield like that lion tearing into the gazelle. Glass shattered into millions of pieces.
“Waaaaah waaaaah waaaaah!”
My breathing was heavy now as I stared at my work. A bead of sweat slowly trickled down my forehead before connecting with my eye.
As I rubbed the moisture out of my vision, I looked at the car closer. Something was in the front seat, covered in glass. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t something – it was someONE. And not just any someone. It was the owner of the Douche Mobile himself.
I slowly approached the car, bits of glass crunching beneath my feet as if to provide a warning. I reached through the gaping hole in the front of the car to move away the debris that covered the lifeless stoner in the driver’s seat. That’s when I saw it.
A Black and Decker cordless drill was planted firmly in his chest. A stainless steel 9 3/4” rust proof drill bit had been lodged into his heart. He had literally been screwed to death.
I stood, jaw open, taking the scene in.
“Waaaah waaaah waaaah!”
The sound of the car alarm brought me back to reality. This could be pinned on me. It made perfect sense. I had destroyed the car, my fingerprints were all over the crow bar. There was no way I would be found innocent.
I panicked. I backed away before turning and running up the street. My mind raced as my Scooby Doo slippers made contact with the pavement, my bathrobe flapping in the morning breeze.
I ran into my garage and stopped dead in my tracks. Parked in the middle of the floor was the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000, the very same machine I had seen in my nightmares for a week after the crowbar sex. And to make matters worse, it was being straddled by none other than the Crowbar Salesfreak itself. An evil grin crossed its face.
“What are you doing here?” I managed between breaths.
“Did you like my work?” it said.
I was confused.
“What work?”
It grinned even wider, the green paint of the mower reflected in its face, creating a frightening resemblance to the Grinch.
“I took care of your friend down the street,” it cooed. “He won’t be a problem any more.”
I was in shock.
“You wanted me to handle the situation, right?”
“No!” I cried out. “That’s why I bought the crow bar! I was going to take care of it!” My head was spinning.
“We at Sears want to make sure our customers receive one-hundred percent satisfaction,” it said. “So I was just doing my job.”
“It’s right,” I heard a voice behind me. I turned around, my gaze met with a bright red Ford F-150 now parked in my street. Standing next to it was the owner, holding a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel, rust-proof 9 3/4” drill bit jutting out from the end. Blood and flesh clung to it like eggs congealed on a pan.
“Couldn’t let this beauty go to waste now, could I?” Bob Vila said as he approached me. “This baby retails for $79.95. I wasn’t going to leave it in his chest forever,” he smiled. “Although I could – it’s rust-proof.”
“Mmmm,” the Crowbar Salesthing moaned from atop it’s perch on the mower.
I stood in the middle of the garage, uncomfortably underdressed considering I was in the presence of tool royalty, although all I could keep thinking was, ‘Bob Vila murdered my neighbor with a Black and Decker cordless drill with a stainless steel rust-proof 9 3/4” bit.’
“So,” I managed, “what do we do now?”
The Crowbar Saleswhore stared at Bob Vila; Bob Vila stared at the Crowbar Saleswhore. They shared a smile.
“Well,” Bob Vila grinned, “now you compensate us for our outstanding customer service.” He put his hand on my shoulder. The Crowbar Salesthing closed the garage door. Bob Vila gingerly walked me over to the mower and slowly caressed the steering wheel with his hand.
“Hop on.”
The whine of the car alarm down the street barely covered up the rumble of the John Deere Grass Assassin 9000 mixed with my screams.

The End