Stolen Wallpaper

Bastids. Yella bastids.

He was driving and dreaming again, a pair of activities not usually recommended to run concurrently. See saw, mother in law. Toledo 83 miles. Buckeye Budget Motor Lodge. Kar's Party Trail Mix. Droop droop drooooooop SNAP. Slight small swerve back into the correct lane, the caffeine losing its effect as he adapts, Borg-like.

They were breaking in at night and stealing the wallpaper off his walls, bit by bit, probably chuckling evilly while wielding the steamer. Each morning he woke up to find another section gone off the wall; at this rate it would all be gone in a week. Bare walls, empty nail holes, mysterious stains, all that remained. He would avenge his naked walls. Oh, they were all gonna pay.

Here come old Flat Top. Rip It Citrus X. Cabela's Sporting Goods. Denny's. RRRRRumble strips, mid-course correction.

I bet the cats ate all their damn food again. Well, Floyd, anyway. Myrtle can rarely be caught in the act of doing anything so gauche as eating. Or purring. Or coming when called. They're like little furry siblings, they hate you, they loathe you, you disgust them, they want to be as close to you as possible.

They're burning the space heater, taking the batteries out of the clocks, eating all the cheese, and taking the wallpaper out section by section, thinking I don't notice. Oh, I see. I see all. I know all. I'll get the bastids.

He lived in a trailer. 1972 Champion, the name brand right out on the front of the house. Cost less than his car. And the interior? Dark wood paneling, painted off-white when he moved in. There was no wallpaper, and there never had been. The dreams were the beginning of the end of the beginning of it all going kerfluey.