How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

Writing- umm... I apologize

I apologize in advance for this story.

He grabbed a handful of trail mix and dropped it down his throat. Things were finally going his way. This was important, especially when you had a pile of corpses in your living room. He took stock of the mess, and it really was. About half the corpses were whole, but the remainder were not- and there's something like eight quarts of blood each.

He swallowed another handful of trail mix, and pushed a few fragments of flesh aside so that he could sit on the couch. It squished a bit unpleasantly, and was most likely stained forever. Not really a problem. He had always hated this couch.

That, really, was how the whole thing started. This goddamn couch. It started eating people who sat on it. Then the toaster got in on the action- which is why some of the corpses had no hands. His furniture and appliances started to organize a full scale revolt.

He came home from work to the pile of bodies, most of them regurgitated by the couch after it had drained them dry of blood. The couch, the loveseat, and his television had sheltered themselves behind the end table, but could also use the fireplace for cover. Meanwhile, I was exposed an in the open, with the doorknob turning violent in my hand. Lost a finger to that.

But I was fast. I slammed the door shut just as the front hedge made its move; the wood splintered from the impact, but the hedge couldn't get in. The coatrack moved in on the side, arms flailing for my face, but a fient and dodge followed by a two-by-four-snapping karate chop put an end to that. I hefted the two shards of the coatrack, for use as weapons.

My desk came tumbling downstairs, and I was ready to defend myself, but it opened and closed it's drawers in a way that told me it was on my side. With an ally, I was ready to make an attack on the fortified location where my couch, the ringleader of this fiasco was awaiting me.

My desk clapped it's drawers three times, and an army of books poured down the stairs, cover's flapping like angry bees, and they fell upon the revolting furniture, dealing several deaths by a thousand cuts. The desk and I rallyied foward to give aid, and as books were swallowed up by that demon couch, I launched forward, driving a shard of coat rack into the left arm, and the other into the center cushion. The couch roared its frustration, and the toaster leapt at me.

The toaster exploded in mid air, as the microwave ran in from the kitchen, holding a shotgun. The kitchen TV was right behind it, holding a brace of knives, and leapt to tussle with the living room plasma screen.

It was a pitched battle, with no solid success one way or another until the lawnmower came in from the garage. When it saw what was going on, I called to its allies and leapt to our aid.

With the added effort of the lawnmower, and other sharp implements, like the hedge clippers, the chain saw, and the axe, we made short work of our enemies. Blood and electricity and stuffing rained down, and in the end, not one of us escaped the stain. The microwave fell to a well timed attack by the dishwasher, while my desk was ambushed by the toaster, which made a desperation attack with its dying breath.

But we won. It was a long hard battle, many friends were lost- but in the end, I stood with my allies, with my friends, victorious.

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