I sometimes muse with the idea that the mini-fridge was built with the intention of failing somewhere down the road. Of course, these were all casual musings that would often times weave in and out of the conversations at the local tavern. No matter how hard we tried to circumvent the unthinkable, we were just avoiding the fact that that we all lived in fear of the day when our private stashes of barley and unfiltered wheat would come to a defiant end and we were left with nothing but messy upholstery and a lot of questions to answer.
I was just watching the most recent foreign conflict from the comfort of my couch staring at the tube lined enfilade with the cabinets the pictures and the cutouts of all my favorite romantic poets when I heard an all too familiar scratching. Now I am your run of the mill pampered US citizen but even I can tell you by the tired look of the people on the TV that they are making my grave error. It wasn't long before I knew that I had brought the conflict home and innocent appliances were to suffer.
Just then a loud shriek bellowed from the upstairs bedroom. I had to act fast or more would fall to this imminent threat. I reach under my couch for my reserve pistol but it has gone missing leaving nothing but a chalk mark and unwanted anticipation. I run upstairs and there it is. My bedroom is speechless.
I see it. It is now:
Staring at me.
Staring into me.
I've found what I fear the worst. I gave a hard a look into the soul of my desperate mini-fridge who has hit the end of his rope and is now taking matters into its own hands.
"You don't want to do this, everything will be alright, just come back with me into the TV room" I never wanted to lie but I have to keep the public’s safety in mind here.
"You've had it hard, but things will look up. You're angry, and I can understand that. You think there's nowhere to turn and I can understand that too."
Pistol still pointed at me, it still says nothing. The room trembles. It is at this point that I realize that that the fridge had no intention of leaving. The Fridge turns the gun on itself. And in what seemed like an hour was only the split second it took for the bullet to plummet through the thin aluminum walls, the glass bottles, and into the side of my bed. My family runs into the room just time to see the stained carpet and reply with silent screams. I tell them to go downstairs. There’s nothing to see here. The next day the local constable told me that killjoys and ruffians who pick on small fridges had no place in this town. But I know what I saw.
I was just watching the most recent foreign conflict from the comfort of my couch staring at the tube lined enfilade with the cabinets the pictures and the cutouts of all my favorite romantic poets when I heard an all too familiar scratching. Now I am your run of the mill pampered US citizen but even I can tell you by the tired look of the people on the TV that they are making my grave error. It wasn't long before I knew that I had brought the conflict home and innocent appliances were to suffer.
Just then a loud shriek bellowed from the upstairs bedroom. I had to act fast or more would fall to this imminent threat. I reach under my couch for my reserve pistol but it has gone missing leaving nothing but a chalk mark and unwanted anticipation. I run upstairs and there it is. My bedroom is speechless.
I see it. It is now:
Staring at me.
Staring into me.
I've found what I fear the worst. I gave a hard a look into the soul of my desperate mini-fridge who has hit the end of his rope and is now taking matters into its own hands.
"You don't want to do this, everything will be alright, just come back with me into the TV room" I never wanted to lie but I have to keep the public’s safety in mind here.
"You've had it hard, but things will look up. You're angry, and I can understand that. You think there's nowhere to turn and I can understand that too."
Pistol still pointed at me, it still says nothing. The room trembles. It is at this point that I realize that that the fridge had no intention of leaving. The Fridge turns the gun on itself. And in what seemed like an hour was only the split second it took for the bullet to plummet through the thin aluminum walls, the glass bottles, and into the side of my bed. My family runs into the room just time to see the stained carpet and reply with silent screams. I tell them to go downstairs. There’s nothing to see here. The next day the local constable told me that killjoys and ruffians who pick on small fridges had no place in this town. But I know what I saw.
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