The Cabinetmaker
Photo owned by back_garage (cc)
Him upstairs is drilling again. He’s been drilling for five years. FIVE BLOODY YEARS! Chris thinks it may be body disposal, but that bastard Struthers has put it in my mind it’s some gimp suited horror and his perverted sex drills. I was ok when I thought he was carving up bodies like meat on a butcher’s slab, but now, now my sleep will be disturbed.
What’s he drilling up there? Who’s he drilling up there? How many shelves does one man need?
Perhaps he’s some kind of a cabinet pervert. He builds cabinets and crawls inside them, giggling all the while in the sweaty darkness and fumbling at his flies. Anything would be better than the pervert drilling machines. Afterwards, when they are filthy and useless to anyone, the evidence of his own depravity horrifies even him and must be destroyed. Out comes the drill again, creator and destroyer both.
It’s the only answer.
I’ll confront him on the stairs the next time I see him.
“Off to IKEA again Simon?”
“Oh yes, just have to…have to get some more cabinets.”
“Can’t keep you away from that place. How many trips is it this month?”
“Twelve.”
“Simon.”
“Yes?”
“Do you…um.”
“Yes?”
“That is, the cabinets, do you um…you know.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, oh right, well fair enough then. It’s just someone on the internet thought that maybe you, you know.”
“What?”
“Were having sex with drills.”
“I’m reporting you to the residents committee Murphy, you are a fucking sick fuck and no mistake!”
“Right ho, toodle pip.”
February 2nd, 2009 at 4:56 pm
What you want to do is mix up a perfume out of wood glue and mahogany varnish and splash it liberally around the old pits before you talk to this man. He will be compelled to do anything you say.
Keep a bag of brass screws in your pocket and jangle them if the perfume isn’t enough. By that stage he should be a jibbering pile of man-shaped jelly but if not, what you want to do is reveal some walnut from your jacket, and start stroking the grain whilst talking to him. Talk about the grain.
Talk about how the grain makes you feel.
February 2nd, 2009 at 5:23 pm
“Dear Diary,” writes the Cabinetmaker. “The man downstairs…I think he’s the Promised One. He smells like the back of my grandfather’s whiskey cupboard.”
February 2nd, 2009 at 11:39 pm
Stop it Struthers, stop your perverted jabberings!
I have a weakness for paranoia, and this talk only drives me to the whiskey cupboard. Oh God, my precious whiskey cabinet!
February 3rd, 2009 at 6:26 pm
The man upstairs might make you another, if you’re good….