1Touch Heater

This is meant to be stupid and funny.

I was told to fill out this form as completely as possible and with any comments that I liked, and so, before beginning, I must address the poor placement of funding within this institution. I understand the need for the bunker and the great steel girders, and the guns, and the security, and the so on and so forth, but for f**k’s sake you could not afford me an extra slip of paper?

I figure this paper will be read far into the future under the lock and key of some secretive government organization, and that its contents and the near destruction of the world will be kept from the public domain until some twat leaks it for his fifteen minutes. That is all well and good, and so, to you fat bureaucrat of the future or agent being briefed in this Nevada bunker, I hope you enjoy my story, my humor, and my retard fiancé who nearly killed us all.

The world nearly ended on election day but the chaos had been building for weeks as the winter settled itself in the ohio cradle. It was at the changing of the seasons, when the trees breathed fire and the wind blew ice, that the means to the end was born in my mind. We retreated into the apartment with popcorn and Swiss Miss to watch cartoons, and my fiancé, a bundle of joy and nails, began complaining of the cold.

First he pouted on the couch, clutching the blankets like a toddler to his “na-na”. When that did not lift me to turn the thermostat he kicked, first one foot and then the other, and pouted out again. Still I sat and watch the homosexual sponge harass a squid, and when his pouting and kicking did him no else but ill he finally spoke out in a full complaint, “I’m cold.” I pushed the space heater over with my foot, a single tap of the button igniting the electric wonder. How close we were to death I scarce believe even now.

Those days continued through the month of october, each and every tick of the clock drawing us closer to doom. We lived out lives in ignorance of the power we were wielding, day by day coming and going to the gentle hum of that blasted heater. Around that time news of the hurricane hit, pushing unto us further into the winter cold. That was how we lived, for a time, on the edge of life and death, in the suburbs of an affluent community, in a mild changing of the seasons.

It was on the 31st that I brought attention to the heater, sometime during the night in between complaints and pouts. Again we were at the tele, watching blood pour from the fresh neck wound of a starlet. As the blood trickled into the grass, as the wind howled out in the night, my fiancé crawled closer, cold and alone. He looked at me, sad and confused, half hidden by the frail blank blanket, and kicked. I pointed to the heater, directed towards him once again, and still he kicked and pouted. What a fool I was to suggest the bottom button.

“If you don’t stop complaining I’m going to make you sleep on the porch.”

“No, I’ll be cold. I’m not complaining.” He kicked with each o, pulling the blanket ever tighter about himself and letting in the tundrus air. “Take the heater with you.”

“No, I’ll be cold.” Again with the kicking. “Just put it on high global warm your a*s b***h up.”

“It doesn’t go high enough.”
“Push the bottom button and get out.”
“That’s the power.” He drew out his speech in such long syllables the blanket frayed and the windowpanes cracked. I said nothing more of the heater that night and instead stuck my toes before it, a sacrifice of sorts as it became uncomfortable and itchy. The sacrifice was only sufficient for the week and by election day the demon was lusting to be released. As I write this I am envisioning the fiendish imps of hell pouring from 1Touch heater like spiders form their mother’s egg sack. But you, fat bureaucrat, know the true nature of the 1Touch heater.

I returned from class that november 6th to an empty apartment and dark apartment. I unpacked my bag as usual and lit the stove for ramen, cold and tired. The kitchen floor stung from the chill and the boiling water steamed more passionately than it had ever before. I retained my coat, curious to the cold, and fiddled with the thermostat. The hours passed and the cold persisted, long enough to call the landlord on the one day he could not come by.

Fate would have the heating break down in time for the election and my fiancé return at the hour of greatest importance. The nation was perched at the edge of their sofas, leaning into the electric glow of the news stations. All eyes were on the polls and at the hour of doom the entire world was holding its breath for another, lesser, event. My fiancé did not bother grabbing the blanket or heating up the ramen. He just kicked one final kick, and took the heater to the couch.

Shortly there after the agents showed up, in their hazmat suits and helicopters, guns and security, so on and so forth. They pulled me from the wreckage and placed me in a cell, long enough to watch the little tele, long enough to see the chaos, the destruction, the death. They have nor told me if New York or L.A. or any of the cities are still standing, if Washington has survived the tidal waves, or if there is anything left but this bunker and the two pieces of paper I have now. Perhaps I should not have told him about the bottom button, but at least now he will not be kicking any longer. 

Reviews

[Marie]

I did not quite understand this story, but I gather that the "bottom button" of the heater was one to be avoiced at all costs.I wonder what it was amed to do?