This is so not cool (why, yes, I do mean that both ways).
I can barely breathe in my own house.
No theory is panning out.
Can’t escape the rot and heat.
I need help.
This is a special kind of nightmare come true.
A week and a half later, I still can’t use the air conditioning, and the rotten stench is getting steadily worse. I paid an HVAC guy just to come out, look around, and shrug. A plumber-and-everything-else friend of mine came over to investigate, but couldn’t find anything going on with the plumbing, or any methane leaks anywhere.
The smell started only a couple weeks after I stopped using the basement shower, so I though maybe there was some dried-up trap down there letting sewer gasses through, but I ran the water down there again to no avail. My friend even found a dead mouse on top of the ducting in the furnace room that looked like it’d died a little over a week prior. Perfect timing and location – surely that must be it. No. Got rid of that and aired out the furnace room, but the smell is still coming, stronger than ever.
Maybe there are other dead mice in the ducts themselves that conveniently died at the same time as the other. Maybe I’ve been infested by a mouse suicide cult on a mission to make everyone have a bad time. Maybe it’s still something completely different and there are simply a number of wild coincidences strewn about to throw me off.
I’m at my wits’ end. Getting desperate. This is not O.K.
I have a frowny face today.
I’m not sure why I have such horrendous luck with central air conditioning. Maybe it’s because I have a low heat tolerance, so naturally, it’s a great avenue for cosmic spite. Seems as good a reason as any for it to have broken down five times over a seven year period in the last three places I lived before this one.
When I got this house, it had a nearly-brand-new, massive, high-efficiency unit that has worked pretty fantastically, keeping the pretty well-insulated place (well, the ground floor) at 68° in 110° weather without a hiccup, so I figured I had finally escaped this recurring theme.
You know, because I’m a stupidface idiot.
Since it’d be a little too ridiculous for this heavy-duty unit to break down already, the fates contrived a new, far more heinous way to deprive me of this modern comfort this time around: sewage leaking into the air ducts somewhere.
Or maybe something found its way in there and had the bad manners to die. I don’t know; I haven’t actually tracked down what it is, yet. Likely whatever will be the most expensive to fix.
So I could have cool air, if I wanted to choke on that air and vomit.
I don’t want to do that.
Here’s another one of these, I guess, why not.
“No, that simply will not do,” muttered Dincton Flatt, dismissing yet another chair as he wandered down the expansive aisles of the Sitting King Emporium.
“You can’t be too picky, sir,” offered his robot coyote, trotting alongside him. “Surely there must be something here you fancy. It is, after all, the premiere shop in Danesbury for all your sitting needs.”
“My needs are precise, Featherby. I must be comfortable as a mouse who is – well, you must know, extremely comfortable. And it must make me look important – but not as though I’m trying to look important. It’s a delicate balance, you realize.”
“If you say so, sir.” Featherby trotted up and sniffed at another seat – a wide, over-padded avocado-green affair. “What of this one, then? I’d say it would do your bum a service.”
“Heavens, Featherby.” Flatt put a hand to his chest, eyes rolling over the thing in mortification. “It is a punishment to behold.”
“Certainly unpretentious, yes? Yet only someone of obvious importance would dare let himself be seen perched on such a seat. And it looks quite comfortable, you must admit.”
“I shall admit to nothing. Surely it must be as far from delivering a pleasant sitting experience as one might imagine would be a pair of large and unforgiving needles protruding haphazardly and expectantly from the earth.”
“That is startling imagery, sir. Nevertheless, you will not know unless you give it a try.” Featherby hopped up onto it and bounced up and down a little.
Flatt narrowed his gaze, then turned and continued walking. “Remind me to have your reasoning algorithms refined.”
The coyote sighed and jumped back down to follow.
“Can I help you find something?” a friendly but businesslike voice reached Flatt’s ear. A sharply dressed middle-aged woman approached him from a couple aisles away, navigating awkwardly between the tightly packed rows of chairs to get to him. She was carrying a clipboard. It was always clipboards.
“You’re likely to be of more help than him, I suppose.” Flatt nodded toward Featherby.
The attendant let out a small gasp on noticing the coyote. “What? Er, sir, I don’t think you’re allowed–”
“Hold the cream,” Flatt interrupted, eyes landing on a tall, ruddy-brown wingback the next row over, elegantly stitched and expertly beaded. He squeezed through a pair of plush recliners to reach it, nearly tripping over them and falling on his face, but no, gravity would not best him on this day.
“Sir?” the attendant called after him.
“This one.” He stroked the perfect chair in admiration. “Yes. This is the one. Have it prepared for me, will you?”
The attendant scanned her clipboard, offering a sympathetic smile. “I do apologize, but that item has already been claimed.”
Flatt grew pale in horror. “What? No, you must be–by whom?” He searched the chair in a desperate fit, hands landing upon a small blue tag. Across it was written one word – a word which Flatt whispered in despondency: “Cheverly.” He slumped miserably down into it, becoming only more distraught as it greeted his posterior with immaculate support.
Featherby hopped up onto his master’s lap and nosed his face. “Take heart, sir. There is still the green one.”
Flatt leaned his head back, frown threatening to unravel his features. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”