The radio in the basement was supposed to be off, but would come on of its own volition each time he passed by the closed door to the basement steps. He would hear the white noise tune itself to an all-Spanish station and then fade to pops and buzzes only to go quiet as soon as he would open the door.
The window unit air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom played country music in faint bursts as he walked by the landing.
It had been weeks since he had heard from his cousin, who had, months before, been abducted and transplanted into the television. He always told him what to do to keep the appliances in order, but now, he was increasingly lost. So he did what any sane person would do: he sat in his cat-eating recliner and stared at the blank screen to wait for the next episode of his cousin.
He called for a glass of sweet tea, and it came (though he should have requested "iced" sweet tea, as what he got was lukewarm).
After his tea, it was time to hunt. The rats, at times, rolled across the floor like giant dust bunnies. If he could manage to stand in the right spot, then the corner chair, which always tried to kill him, would slide across the floor and run over the little buggers.
Just as the chair was zeroing in on him, the TV rang. That had never happened before, so he was a little put off. He kicked the television, which made it slide across the floor, crushing the corner chair, and ending his hunting trip.
"in a moment" the television shouted "will be the end".
He looked at the television. No picture. The floor began to tremble.
"there's a hole in the bottom of the sea" a passing rat sang.
The floor gave way, folded, and swallowed. All stop.
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Darrin Naill. 70s born, father of 3, husband of 1. Eater of meats and cheeses. Hunter and Fisher; general killer. College degreed, yet employed at a bargain. Acquainted severally, friended fewly. Bourbon.
Copyright Darrin Naill
Artwork Juan Gris
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