Bob was not having a very good day.
Things started off well enough. He woke up and dressed for work. He fixed breakfast for himself; toast and eggs, as usual. He lived alone and he quite enjoyed his routine every morning.
It was when he went to brush his teeth that he noticed the hole in the wall of his bathroom. Not a large hole, but not one that was there when he woke up. Bob worried that he may have done something to create the hole. He was only renting, after all. But no cause came to mind.
Well, he would have to think on it later. He was going to be late for work if he didn't hurry. He quickly finished his business in the bathroom and left.
Bob enjoyed his work. He worked in middle management, which was really a fancy way of saying that he told the people below him what the people above him told him to say. So he didn't have to think, or deal with the rather difficult problems that may crop up. His company distributed the stoppers used for the backs of pins. Bob didn't care for pins, but he only had to deal with the backs of them, so that was alright.
During lunch Bob decided he would buy a bit of plaster and fix the hole in his bathroom wall. He resolved to do this immediately after work, nodding to himself over his tuna fish sandwich and iced tea, his usual meal.
Work went well enough after lunch. He only had to send out a memo about the new shade of pink they would use for the pin order - Mountbatten pink - and then send another memo out correcting his spelling of mountbatten.
Bob congratulated himself on a job well done and left work for the hardware store, picking out just the right shade of beige for his plaster. He went home and then straight to the bathroom with his purchase.
The hole was bigger. That was odd.
It was also bleeding. That was very odd.
It took Bob a minute to acclimate his mind around the fact that, yes, his wall happened to be bleeding. Bob's shock was quickly eclipsed by anger. How dare the wall ruin itself in such a disgusting manner?
He decided to continue with his original plan of plastering it. At least the blood was not too far down the wall. He wiped it up with a rag and sealed the hole with plaster.
There. He tossed the rag out in the trash, satisfied. That'll show the wall.
Bob, pleased with himself, ate his dinner and went to bed.
The next morning the hole was back.
He surprised himself by cursing aloud. This was not supposed to happen. Now the hole was not only bleeding, cracks were beginning to spread from it.
Bob was not going to let this ruin his morning. He would just ignore it and go on about his day. He stuffed another rag into the hole to stop up the bleeding and took a shower. He refused to pay attention to even the frantic whispering the wall started to emit as he walked past to the kitchen and fixed breakfast.
Bob relaxed considerably when he arrived at work. He settled into his normal morning routine while plotting ways to rid himself of the hole. Perhaps he should plaster and then paint over the wall. Beige again, of course. That would do the trick.
His calm broke when he received a memo from one of his bosses about meeting him in their office. That was not normal. He could only recall it happening once before, in the pin crisis of '03, when he was informed that all of his new memos had to be preceded with a glaring red 'URGENT' stamp at the top. Bob shuddered at the memory.
His boss sat him down and immediately began the familiar drone about what the company stood for and how the employees helped to achieve it. Bob began to resign himself to seeing horrendous red lettering everywhere, when he overheard his boss mention downsizing.
He began to panic as his boss pushed a plain white envelope with Bob's name on it over. Not fired. Anything but that. He loved his job. It was safe. Secure. Easy. Bob could not be fired. He refused to let himself be. Absolutely not possible. It had to be a mistake.
Bob was definitely fired.
He left work with his things, knowing exactly what was to blame for this. Not his boss. Not the company. Certainly not him. No, it was quite obvious it was the hole.
The hole was out to get him. It was that simple.
It would have to be destroyed.
Blood wiped off; plaster filling in, four coats of paint, and one rather plain painting of a grey seashell hung over the spot did the job quite nicely. Bob had beaten the hole. He passed out in bed, still splattered with beige paint, satisfied.
The next morning, Bob got up, determined to return to his job and demand it back. The hole's curse was gone, and he was sure to be welcomed with open arms and a handsome check. He almost hummed to himself as he went to brush his teeth.
The hole had eaten the painting.
To be more accurate, when Bob stepped into the bathroom, it was in the process of eating the painting. This was not much better.
Bob yelped and grabbed for the vanishing edge of the frame. It slipped out of his fingers and into the gaping maw that was now the hole.
Bob glared at the hole.
The hole dribbled blood mixed with bits of canvas.
Bob had enough.
This was war.
Another trip to the hardware stop netted Bob a plethora of all the tools he would ever need to do battle with the malevolent hole. He returned home and armed himself with the most high tech – and expensive – home maintenance gadgets money could buy. Bob pulled on his heavy duty work boots and coveralls, and then switched on his new miniature concrete mixer.
It was time.
Bob crept into the bathroom to see the status of his enemy.
The hole had expanded rapidly in his absence. Now it was large enough for a grown man to crawl inside. A foul smelling fog drifted from its depths, making it difficult to see how deep it went. Cracks had spread to cover nearly the entire bathroom, including the adjacent walls. It had even broken his mirror. Bob ground his teeth with rage.
With a war cry that would be the envy of any small mammal, Bob leapt into his bathroom, brandishing twin air fresheners. He sprayed with abandon until they were empty, then quickly reloaded and repeated until he could breathe nothing but pungent lilac.
Phase one was complete.
His second attack had him slapping plaster into the smaller cracks radiating out from the hole, ducking out every few minutes to gasp for breath. Maybe he overdid it on the spray. Now was not the time for questioning his tactics, however.
Bob stringently avoided looking directly at the hole as he worked. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, no matter how many agonized screams it decided to hurl his way
.
Hours after the initial attack, Bob decided to step back and admire his work. He had cleaned up the broken mirror and repaired the majority of the cracks. A paint job would finish them off. Now, for the hole itself.
Bob looked at the hole and frowned. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps the problems with the hole had to be taken care of at the source; that is, wherever the hole had opened from.
Well, it was large enough.
Maybe just a peek, so he could get an idea of the true nature of his enemy.
Bob stuck his head into the hole, and looked.
The next morning Bob woke up, skipping his usual shower. He dressed, left his apartment, and walked to a nearby diner, where he ordered a hearty breakfast of ham, steak, and pancakes. He washed it all down with a large mug of coffee and tipped the waitress generously.
He left the diner and headed to his former workplace, whistling as he walked. It was a lovely day, and Bob had decided he was going to tell his boss exactly how he felt about being fired.
Bob put his hands in his pockets and smiled, feeling the weight of the knives in them.
Yes, today would be a great day. He could feel it.
Change was good.
