Goodwill?

I woke up to the sound of a loud bang. Staring up at the low ceiling of the cramped studio apartment, I realized it was just my neighbor again, slamming into the side of the thin wall that separated our places. I sighed, knowing the mundane routine ahead. It was definitely Tuesday, typically the day he caught his foot in the ceiling fan.

Sitting up in bed, I listened intently, wondering whether I would need to call the ambulance again. Once I heard his quiet groans and the shuffling sound of his feet moving towards his bathroom, I grinned and hopped out of bed. Maybe today would be one of those rare lucky days which would pass without incident. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Standing in the kitchen and mechanically spooning cereal into my mouth, I hear rolling, reverberating echo, followed by short yell and a loud thump. I sighed again, head and shoulders dropping in resignation. It sounded like the bathtub again, and like it hurt this time. Maybe he should always keep the tub full just to make a softer landing. Without looking, I reached for the phone on the kitchen counter and my thumb dialed o\n autopilot. I had called so often for him that the 9 and the 1 keys were worn smooth and featureless. The operators recognized my number and knew exactly why I was calling

“Good morning hon” said the voice on the other end of the line

“Morning, Cynthia”

“Clumsy Larry again?”

“Yup, who else?” I answered.

“Let’s see, it’s Tuesday, so I guess that means the celing fan.”

“The fan and I think the bathtub too.”

“Ouch. Well, the crew is on it’s way”

“Sounds good. Thanks Cynthia”
“No problem hon. Talk to you later.

I continued eating my Cheerios, then fill the bowl again. I hear tires screech to a halt outside, and shortly afterwards feet pounding down the hallway. Larry’s groans became quieter, and I heard as they wheeled him away. I finished my second bowl of Cheerios and dumped the bowl in the sink. I glanced out the tiny window in my kitchen and saw a black truck that said “Goodwill Thrift Stores” on the side, and two men were wheeling Larry towards it. I gasped, not believing my eyes. I always thought it was an urban legend. Stories had circulated for years that Goodwill Stores would listen to the emergency frequencies on a scanner and race ambulances for an accident victim, disposing of the poor unfortunate, but not before torturing him to find out his address. They were then free to rob the unlucky bastard’s place and stock their shelves with his earthly possessions. Clumsy Larry could be a pain in the ass, but no one deserved such a terrible fate. I ran outside my apartment and down the hall, trying to get outside before they could load him up into the van. Turning the corner on the stairwell, I tripped over a bag of clothes the Goodwill thugs had undoubtedly left as a trap, and I fell in slow motion, surrounded by stinky tye dyed t-shirts. Landing with a terrible thump, I was covered in smelly hippy clothes. I groaned, realizing what Larry felt like most mornings. With a terrible slow grace, like the last leaf in autumn, a Grateful Dead shirt spun and landed on my face. The smell of years of pot smoke and who knows what else filled my nostrils, and the world grew dim. Damn dirty hippies. . . .

I shook my head and grabbed at my face with both hands. Securing the mask on my face, I stepped into the main room of the old abandoned warehouse. I needed the mask, as Larry would be sure to recognize me. He was just waking up and noticed the buzz saw just inches from his crotch. My two henchmen snorted with laughter at the expression on his face. I could almost read his thoughts: Not cool man. Not cool. He begins to struggle and try and free himself. I give the signal to start the buzz saw, then decide to pull of my mask. No need to hide my identity now. He’s done for. I drop the mask on his face, and the henchmen on my left is dropped by a spinning back kick by Inga, the buxom nuclear physicist in halter top and short shorts who has crept with silent, ninja-like skill into the warehouse. A jab to the solar plexus causes the second henchman to bend over and brings him in range of Inga’s knee, which finishes the job by slamming into his chin. I take a swing at Inga, who leaps straight over me and lands on my back. She applies a vicious choke hold, and I stumble around as she tightens her grip. The world begins to grow black. . .

I woke up to the sound of a loud bang. Staring up at the low ceiling of the cramped studio apartment, I realized it was just my neighbor again, slamming into the side of the thin wall that separated our places. I sighed, knowing the mundane routine ahead. It was definitely Tuesday, typically the day he caught his foot in the ceiling fan.