Squatty, Balding Ginger

Groggily, I began to come to. Yellow-hued light and the dull murmur of two voices from my apartment bathroom poured in through the pulled to bedroom door. The early morning disturbance had thrashed my REM sleep, and I was dropped into a handicap consciousness - perfectly aware of my surroundings yet completely incapable of reacting.

Panic. Fear. Who were these people? Why were they in my apartment? What did they want?

The two intruders, one man and one woman, were early to mid twenties, fashion forward in threads, and clearly about to get intimate in my bathroom. The couple had begun to disrobe and throw their designer clothes on the dirty linoleum floor.

I moved to get up, to yell, and to chase the trespassers out. Only instead, in my sleep inebriated state, it was all I could do to roll over on my stomach, hang on the side of my bed, and muster an eerie moan.

It was enough.

My woozy attempt at speech startled the young lovers. They could make out my angry, befuddled face through the crack in the doorway lit up by the dim bathroom light. Quickly, they collected their clothing and began a half naked dash to the apartment entrance.

By that time I was capable of moving. I wasn't fast, but I could stand. With enough strength as a geriatric man, I gave pursuit. Stumbling and weak-kneed, I fell at my apartment's door. The two had fortunately left it cracked allowing me to swing it open.

I had expected they would be half way out the building by the time I even made it out of my apartment door, but instead, when I swung the door open, there were six confused faces staring back. The two lovers were there, accompanied by a squatty, balding ginger in glasses, a woman who resembled Elaine Benes from Seinfeld, and two hefty men, twins, by the look of them.

My tongue returned to allow words, but only in the form of slow, short, and slurry sentences, "What the hell?!...What the hell...were you doing...in my room?"

The two love birds looked at one another and began to giggle. Certainly their laughter was designed to infuriate me, and it worked. The anger helped clear my fuzzy head and words formed more freely.

"What the FUCK were you doing in my apartment?! How the hell did you get in?" I demanded.

There was a short pause as everyone attempted to make sense of the scene. The group of six looked just as confused as me. It was at about this time I noticed the four newcomers were all carrying boxes. Moving boxes.

"Who's moving?" I asked.

"I am," said the squatty ginger, pushing his glasses with his index finger to the top of his nose, "I'm moving into room 706."

His answer confused me. This is 306, not 706. There's only four stories in this building.

Head ache. I tried to tell him he had the wrong room...the wrong building, but when I did, my head spun and words froze. I blacked out.

BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP

The rude alarm clock gave me a jump from my bed. The whole thing a dream.

Moral of the story: I hate plot lines like this one. They're trite. So over used. Worn out. Fooling the audience with the most amateurish and pedestrian trickery. Really terrible, miserable, boring writing.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf