Things were going poorly. Very poorly. Damn old man brain! Old man hands! Why was this taking so long?
Agent Edgar Plome (ret.) was busy with fishing line, making it so the shotgun fired when somebody came in through the front door. He did the same thing to the back door except it was a 1955 German Luger. Anyone comes in they get shot in the gut. Serves them right too, damn hypocrite fascist communists. Damn baby killers and presidential girlfriend hiders. Guess who died of natural causes? Not Senator Charley Goodridge in 1965, I can tell you that! And I’ll tell everyone that. Everyone who’ll listen! My grandchildren, everyone!
Plome slapped himself in the side of the head. What was he thinking? First of all he didn’t even have grandchildren so how was he supposed to tell them about Senator Goodridge? What wording would he use so as not to scare them? Second of all, the “shotgun” he thought he was setting up at the door was actually nothing more then the handle of a wooden push broom. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. He couldn’t think straight because he didn’t get his jog in yet. Usually when he got seven or eight miles in he started to think nice and fresh. In fact it was on a nice long jog when he realized that all the mental weirdnesses he’d been experiencing lately pretty much meant the Exterminators would be coming for him soon.
But every time he got back to his quaint little house and cooled down and took an orange soap-on-a-rope shower things started getting a little confusing again. Not bad at first. If he did a bunch of pushups and pullups and took his 25 pound free weights and shadowboxed with them for a couple minutes, he was fine. But here’s the thing: he couldn’t do all of those things and set “Home Alone” death traps all around his house at the same time. There was only one of him. He’d get like three traps in and he’d start thinking brooms were shotguns and shotguns were brooms. This was his third day of preparation, and he had no Earthly idea how many of the dozen or so booby traps presently set up in his home were real and how many were “senile.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw a rubber rain boot inexplicably hanging from the waterstained living room ceiling via string and duct tape.
He snapped his boney fingers. I’ll go on another quick jog! That’ll fix me good. But too late! He couldn’t. Because through the window on his unmowed spare-tirey front yard he could see the Exterminators coming with their brooms. The brooms had silencers on them. An odd choice of weapon, he thought, but a fitting one. Because how they want to sweep me under the rug and all.
Quickly, he finished setting up his front-door shotgun death trap and then he crab crawled deeper into the house, giggling maniacally.
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