Doors are locked. Checked. Unlocked and locked.
She scans fierce eyes in a straight line from right to left then left to right. Perimeter clear, though the shadow of the neighbor’s night owl kitten beneath the street light seems ominous.
A figure sweeps down the lane not far from her. She thinks to call the police before realizing it is an 8-year-old on a not-so-threatening Spider Man bike.
Inside, the car keys are posed perfectly, red panic button flashing up and ready to blow.
Beside them there is a treasure trove of defense materials.
The jumbo can of Raid shines in the dim light of a beside lamp. It can blast wasps and other enemies from 20 feet away, blinding them with a chemical juice the supermarket equivalent of napalm.
She places the fully charged phone on the back of the toilet nearby before locking the bedroom door. She knows with the first rattle of door’s knob she can roll like a ribbon dancing gymnast out of bed and into the confines of a toilet room equipped with lock and cell service.
The spatula, while playfully polka-dotted in pattern, was added at the last-minute. It seemed sturdy enough to handle panicked slapping.
A water gun in the dark could seem sufficiently threatening. She worried the orange and lime green toy might inadvertently squirt. The dinky trickle of water would surely make the weapon seem fake. She wonders, as she scribbles a fake note from a fake friend to a fake occupant of her real house, if she hadn’t made a monstrous mistake not letting the toddler have nunchucks. The letter is taped to the front door in the off-chance an intruder might approach to ring the bell:
Dear burly, violent-tempered, and incredibly alert friend,
Would you mind not shooting that very large shotgun of yours off the deck? You know, kids and pets and whatnot.
Your childhood bestie and neighbor
(who you’ve attacked on multiple occasions for absolutely no reason at all)
Doors are locked and re-locked, unlocked only to be locked some more… again.
She places a Beware Of Dog sign outside the sleeping boy’s nursery to ward off cats or other enemies. This is extra insurance as she worries his two-year-old brain might forget the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu moves she’d coached during nightly story time.
The real dog is purposefully not fed a normal dose of canine anxiety pills. The bark collar is removed. And for this night the pet’s territorial, unstable dog brain is a valuable tool.
She flinches as she runs a tender finger across her calf. The index finger bleeds. Perfect. Razor-sharp leg stubble, while much like sleeping on a cactus, shields her from imaginary attackers who most certainly…probably… won’t want to sleep with a cactus.
The sleek chrome head-gear, a metal colander still moist with dirty noodle water, covers the brain regions.
She gets up to lock the doors. Unlock and re-lock them. Kick them to test durability. Lock them some more… one more again. She returns to the bedroom to find a husband tidying up her intricate web of protection. “Hey, um. You left a spatula on your side of the bed? It smelled clean so I put it away”. Sabotage. She will have to guard this suburban fortress on her own.
She takes the bug killer and the leg hair to the couch where she will serve and protect through the night.
Where she will write a midnight blog post.
She, the girl who finally watched one scary crime show too many.
Are you easily spooked?
On a totally unrelated (totally related) note, where might one find the creepy Dateline guy’s voice available for download?
Also on the market for a rabid Rottweiler and a stun gun.
My dog is snoring and this Super Soaker isn’t cutting it.