Ronald the Repairman
And the House of Doom
ey there. It's Frank-er-Ronald again. (I gotta get that fixed.) You're probably wondering
what happened after that incident with Mrs. Periwinkle, aren't you. Well? Aren't you? AREN'T
YOU!? I thought so.
It turned out Mrs. Periwinkle was pretty spry for someone her age. She managed to chase me clear across the country swinging a frying pan. Then, one day, I looked back, and she was gone. Just, gone. Whew!
I looked around and saw a bunch of weirdos staring me in the face as they rolled, hopped, slithered, or dripped around (Quit laughing, wise guy. People dripping down the street is not a pretty sight). Suddenly, it hit me. I must be in Hollywood! Awesome! This was my big break, my chance to be a st�
"Do excuse me," somebody called, breaking my demented fantasy.
"Make it good, punk," I said. "I was just getting to the part about Michelle Pfeiffer."
"Uh-huh, whatever," the guy said. "Anyway, my name is Mr. Blackwell, clothing critic, and I can tell by your incredibly bad taste in fashion, that you're a handyman."
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "You're right! That's amazing! I do have incredibly bad taste in fashion! Can I be on your Worst Dressed List?"
"Don't blow a gasket," said Mr. Blackwell. "I only want you to repair my house. I had a party in it, and featured Aerosmith as live entertainment."
"Pfft," I sneered, "That was dumb."
"Yes, yes," Blackwell continued, "Would you like to do it, or not?"
"Uh, whatever," I said.
Well, from the outside, Blackwell's house didn't look too bad. I mean, his pallid bust of Pallas was a little corroded, and was covered by what looked like bird droppings. But other than that, the house was okay.
I straightened my cap, picked up my toolbox (no, I don't know where it came from, but if you're gonna be picky. . .), and started into the house. A shout from Mr. Blackwell stopped me cold.
"Wait, you poorly-clad miscreant!" Poorly clad what? "What's that thing?"
I held up my impeller for him to see. At the sight of it, he almost lost consciousness.
"That object does give me a chill," Blackwell said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, it reminds me of something I once saw in my proctologist's office." Why do I always have to get the loonies?
Remember how I said that the outside of the house looked okay? Of course you do, unless you haven't been paying attention or something. And I know you've been paying attention. Mwa ha ha ha haaaaa!
Anyway, long story short, the inside of Blackwell's house was a mess. Columns had broken and toppled over, and there was a punch bowl on the floor with the bottom corroded out of it. Mr. Blackwell came up behind me, wringing his hands.
"Yes, when Aerosmith spikes the punch, they really spike the punch!" he said.
I went straight to work on this place. The first thing I did was try to force a really wide dowel between what was left of the column and the ceiling. Once again, Blackwell decided I should hear the sound of his annoying voice.
"Are you quite sure you know what you're doing with that?" he demanded. Sick of hearing from him, I stuck my hand in a jar of epoxy and smacked my gracious host across the face, epoxying his mouth shut.
"Of course I know (grunt!) what I'm (ugh!) doing, Mr. (uh!) Blackwell." I said, wedging the dowel into position. "I'm an exper� Oops."
The column started shaking and creaking, then fell over on Blackwell and me. It bounced on our heads a couple of times, pounding us into the floor like tent stakes. "Hey, Mr. Blackwell," I said from ten feet under the floor, "You're gonna pay my hospital expenses, aren't you?"
A few hours later, Mr. Blackwell had managed to get most of the epoxy off his face. As I was trying to make a mortise in a piece of wood (heaven knows why; it just seems all handyman projects involve boring holes in wood), he started yelling at me. "Ronald! What is the meaning of this? I have half a mind. . ."
"Yeah, well," I mumbled absently, "I have a whole one, so quit flattering yourself."
"Of all the outrageous, incompetent. . ." I finally looked up at Mr. Blackwell, only to find his face beet red and smoke coming out of his ears. I figured a little ride would to him good, and I knew just how to provide it. All of Mr. Blackwell's chairs were on casters, so I grabbed a seat and started chasing him around the room with it. Eventually, I caught up with him, and he fell into the chair.
"Now now, you crabby old geezer," I said, "We're just going for a little ride." I ran with the chair as fast as I could with Blackwell in it, then let go as I pushed it toward the front door. Chair and critic rolled across the foyer, then stopped at the threshold. It upended, sending Mr. Blackwell flying headlong out the door.
But I wasn't done yet. I was still feeling extremely cruel, so I grabbed my auger and went to work on one of the few remaining stone columns. I carved, "Mr. Blackwell is a doo-doo head!" on the side! Wow was I mean!
I disassembled the chair that was blocking the way through the front door (Don't ask me why I didn't just move it), and trotted out on the street. It was time I went home. Maybe, though, as an afterthought, NAH! I couldn't! Yes I could!
I hope Mr. Blackwell's going to be okay. It's just that I want someone to find him lying there, with that sign I put around his neck. It says, "I'm sorry. I seem to have soiled my clothes."
