I haven’t written in a very long time. A VERY long time. So you’ll have to bear with me when it comes to this story; if it seems like I’m a bit rusty, it’s because I absolutely am. But with the epic events of the past few months, I felt the need to dust off the old pen and get to telling these tales. Alright, I’m typing, so I guess I’m dusting off the old keyboard. Even though I’ve been using it for a while. Enough of that. Busted analogy. Like I said, I’ve got a couple of stories for you guys.
Many of you know my roommate, Kevin G. For those of you who don’t, he’s twenty years old, smells like shit, and has an annoying habit of drinking all of the pop in the apartment before anyone else gets any. Currently, he’s got a big (and rather unflattering) picture of his face taped to his window with the caption “DTF” for everyone to see! He doesn’t know about that part; it’s our little surprise for him. But now for serious things.
Near the end of the summer, Kevin was walking home from one of his friends’ houses around midnight. Don’t ask me which friend; he’s got so many I can’t even keep track, and frankly its really none of your business anyway. Anyway, he was walking back to his house after a night full of family-friendly fun (probably board games, Parcheesi most likely) when he spotted a cloud of black smoke in the sky, almost definitely the product of a house fire. Now normally, Kevin would have done his civic duty, called the fire department, and been on his merry way home. But tonight, Kevin had his hero pants on. More specifically, he had his favorite pair of Spider-Man pajamas on. Don’t judge him; it had been a pajama party at his friend’s house. He wanted to stay the night, but he had previously volunteered to take inner-city children on an Icelandic fishing trip the following morning, and he recognized his responsibility to the kids. He’s a Grade-A guy, you guys.
So he called the fire department, described what he was witnessing, and took off. I’ve spoken with a number of witnesses to the scene, and I’ve gotta say that the accounts are pretty astonishing. The operator who Kevin spoke to on the phone recorded the conversation.
Operator: “What’s your emergency?”
Kevin: “Big fucking fire.”
That was it.
One young lady who lived on the street and wished to remain nameless (for obvious reasons) stated that “He was like a younger, more attractive, worse smelling Bruce Willis from the Die Hard series. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t dirty my shorts a little bit.”
Sidebar: For future reference, this guy doesn’t need the dirty details of anything that you guys do to your shorts. That’s between you and your respective bladders.
An elderly man, who when asked his name would only reply “Brown,” told me that “The young man ran past very fast, very spry young chap. Good lookin’ fella. Do you know where he lives?”
Another sidebar: Fear not, readers. I didn’t give the questionably inquisitive old man our hero’s address, or his name. When I left this man’s home (after many chocolate chip cookies and a glass of warm milk which he actually wouldn’t let me leave without consuming), he quoted the popular hip-hop artist Lil’ Wayne at me; “I hate to see you go / but I love to watch you leave.” I have filed a report with the local neighborhood watch and I just want you to know that his house is being monitored.
As Kevin turned the corner, he spotted the house at once. It was indeed in flames, and a family of four was standing outside. The young female child, who I’ve later discovered is 8 years old and named Gertrude (poor girl), was sobbing. Through the wails, Kevin deciphered that the family’s dogs were locked inside the house with no chance at escape. As our hero looked at the house, he realized that there was no way the fire department would arrive in time to save the canines. The lower level was almost wholly engulfed in flames, and Kevin estimated that the house had mere minutes before the structure collapsed. He made his decision.
With Peter Parker emblazoned on his trousers, our adolescent hero burst through the door with the fierce heat of the flames reflected in his eyes. I should be a poet. He could barely see through the haze. The walls were licked with flames, and the smoke was suffocating him to the point that he had to leave the house and recuperate. He drew a gut-wrenching pain for his inner child and tore a leg off his pajamas. Spider Man would understand. Using the garment to shield his lungs from the smoke, he plunged back into the inferno with one thing on his mind: dog. He narrowly avoided a falling beam as it cascaded into the foyer with the agility of a mongoose on the prowl. Mongooses are agile as shit, for those of you who don’t know. Pick up an effing National Geographic, for Christ’s sake. As Kevin rounded the dining room table, he heard a howl from upstairs. He sprinted up the steps with no regard to his own personal safety. The howling was getting louder, and he dove into the guest room to find a crate with two puppies inside. One had its snout under its paws, while the other was clawing at the latch to the cage, desperately trying to free herself. A sorrier sight this writer can’t imagine.
Kevin thought quickly. If he let the dogs out of the cage, they were bound to run straight into the fire (dogs are dumber than humans). However, the bars of the cage were hot to the touch; if he tried to pick up the cage, he would burn his hands and thus harm any chance he had at playing professional sports or being some sort of hand model, both of which he held in high regard. In this moment of distress and impending doom, Kevin’s mind jumped to the one person that could help him: Doyle the Fireman. For those of you who don’t know Doyle the Fireman, that’s a story for another time. Just know that the skills of the magisterial Doyle are unparalleled in the world of volunteer firemen. With the instincts born of a friend of Doyle the Fireman’s, Kevin leapt to the bed, ripped off the comforter, and formed a bindle with it and the bed frame.
Last Sidebar: A bindle (n) is something similar to the pack of a hobo; one of those sticks with a little bag on the end. Look it up if you still don’t get it, fools.
Using otherworldly strength hitherto only thought to be possessed by superhumans and extra terrestrials, Kevin lifted the dogs with his makeshift bindle and proceeded out of the room.
P.S. Sidebar: On the topic of aliens, what’s with ET? Every alien movie ever portrays them as strong and dangerous, capable of destroying the world with a flick of the wrist, but ET needs some juvenile kid to tote him around in a basket crudely attached to a bike? I call foul. Unless ET was some sort of handicapped alien, that movie is bullshit. Alright sorry, back to the story.
Blessed by the thundergod Thor with an extra sense (kind of like Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense, except for this extra sense is actually useful), our hero felt the floor begin to give way. With a mighty shout of “Hazaaaa!” Kevin launched himself from the collapsing upper floor and through a side window.
The spectators now surrounding the house gasped as they saw a mass crash through the second floor window and to the ground. Amid the falling glass and fiery debris, Kevin G. emerged like they do in all the action movies; you know, all dramatic and slow, with one fist in the air, somehow he procured a leather jacket from the wreckage, cuts on his face, one leg missing, screaming “Death to terrorism!” Okay, got a little carried away. Point is, it was fucking awesome. The puppies lived, and Kevin was inducted into the Michigan Firefighter’s Hall of Fame (I didn’t know they had one either). His picture’s right next to Doyle’s. The family whose house it was actually named their next three children after him. That’s right. They were all named “Kevin G.” As far as I know, they’re still working out the legality of it all with the courts, but I think it’s wonderful.
In closing, I have more stories of heroism from my other roommates which will (hopefully) soon be transcribed on this here blog. Tell your friends about this shit. People need to know about my roommates’ bravery.