Hector and Peter received their guests in the great room they had created by demolishing the walls that previously divided a living room, family room, and kitchen. Gifts piled up on the soapstone counter of the kitchen island, which was large enough to be its own continent within the sea of old world charm and new world luxury that the couple had painstakingly curated over the past year. Soft jazz played on an unseen Alexa. The centerpiece of the entire space, a massive spanish-tiled fireplace was prepped with logs, but unlit beneath the reclaimed driftwood mantel despite the dreary weather.

Guests mingled and made small talk in between trips to the antique dining table for appetizers. Its drop leaves fully upright for the occasion, it held platters of shrimp cocktail, aged cheeses, exotic fruit, and fresh, organic veggies. The aroma of fair trade Bolivian coffee that percolated on the bar top made its way to every nose in the house. Clad in black tuxedos with green ties and cummerbunds, waiters circulated amongst the revelers with flutes of champagne, as well as sparkling cider for the non-drinkers.

Fifteen minutes after the arrival of the last guest, Hector cut through the conversations around him by clinking a fork against his glass. Only when the most boisterous conversationalists finally took notice did he begin to speak.

“Distinguished guests,” he greeted with as much force as his thin voice would allow, “Thank you all for coming today. Even you, Dorothy.”

Polite chuckles and several catcalls arose from the crowd as a skeletal woman with severe eye makeup and a shock of silver running through her spiked, jet-black hair affected a deep curtsy in response.

“As you all know, Peter has been hard at work honing this diamond in the rough into the jewel you now see today,” he continued, gesturing at his sheepish husband who was attempting to disappear behind him. The size disparity between the couple making the spectacle absurdly hilarious, another wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

“It was a team effort,” the towering architect demurred.

His voice was a deep, throaty bass that didn’t match his demeanor. The vertical stripes on his grey suit may have been slimming, but they also made him loom even larger than his six foot six frame normally did despite his cowering.

“Shush,” Hector chided him. “Peter did everything. Drew the plans. Selected the finishes. Met with all the contractors. I just paid the AMEX bill and yelled at people on the phone.”

Another chuckle from the crowd.

“Accept your flowers, honey,” he insisted, raising his glass. “To Peter!”

“To Peter,” the crowd echoed back.

Peter took a reluctant half bow as everyone took a sip of champagne or cider.

“But this isn’t just a housewarming party,” Hector continued when the voices died down. “We fibbed a little bit on the invitations. Peter and I invited all of you here today to make an announcement.”

The crowd tittered.

“Oh my God, you’re adopting,” one guest gushed.

“Where from,” another demanded. “Russia? Africa?”

“No, no, nothing on that front yet,” Hector corrected them. “We are still buried on all the waiting lists. Things have gotten more complicated in the last couple of years, but we remain hopeful. China is looking promising.”

He held up crossed fingers before lowering his hand and taking Peter’s.

“This is a gender reveal party,” Peter boomed, finding his voice.

The crowd stared back at the smiling couple with blank stares.

“Gender reveal,” a slight man in a top hat and overcoat asked. “You just said there was no baby?”

“No, we just said the adoption hasn’t been approved yet,” Hector clarified. “This is our baby!”

He made sweeping gestures in all directions, The guests followed his hands, confused.

“What, the house,” one asked with a derisive scoff. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not, Chad,” Hector replied, offended. “Didn’t you name your car Christine?”

“Well, yes, but-“

“But what,” Hector pressed. “You assigned it a name.”

“It’s not the same,” the man squeaked. “I just named her for fun.”

“Ah, but why did you presume your car is a her,” Hector followed, well-practiced at the art of cross-examination.

“Come on, Hector. It’s a teal blue Tesla with cream leather interior, not a jacked up Ford.”

“That’s sexist and you know it,” he sang to the tune of the ubiquitous Right Said Fred tune.

“It’s a model Y, Chad,” he said with the air of a closing statement.

“But not an XY,” Chad sniffed, taking a step back in defeat.

“Anyone else have thoughts about this,” Hector quizzed his guests. “How about you, Daniel? I saw that look. Need I remind you that you refer to your hairless cat as ‘Them’?”

“Yeah, because They have nine lives,” A small disembodied voice answered. “Get it?”

“Look,” Hector announced. “It’s twenty twenty four, and the world has gotten scary enough. Half the country wants to cosplay the 1950s as it is. I didn’t expect our own friends and families to judge our choice to respect the right of our home to self-identify.”

“You’re right,” Chad said, reemerging from the crowd. “Hector, Peter, I am sorry for my closed-mindedness. I respect your choice and did not mean to offend you.”

“Thank you, Chad. No offense taken.”

Murmured approval went through the crowd.

“A house may not have an identity,” one surmised. “But a home is different. You pour your love and energy into a home. A home is a living thing. Of course it has feminine and/or masculine energy. Why wouldn’t it have a gender?”

Everyone looked at the mousy speaker, stunned, but nodding. Those standing near him pat him on the back and narrow shoulders.

“Percy,” Hector exclaimed, grabbing the wincing man in a fierce embrace. “You spoke!”

“Well, should we get this show on the road,” Peter asked, raising his voice above the din.

Replies to the affirmative rang out.

Peter withdrew a long lighter from his jacket pocket. He approached the fireplace and bent the long way down to the hearth. He turned to the throng of guests with a raised eyebrow, and touched the lighter to the firestarter brick beneath the waiting logs as cheers erupted.

“To the back yard,” Peter bellowed, leading the way as everyone hurried out of the house through the french doors, past the koi pond and herb garden to the lawn. There they craned their necks to watch the roofline.

“Pink smoke for a girl,” Peter announced. “Blue smoke for a boy!”

The anxious crowd waited.

“Definitely a girl,” one voice assured those around him. “Did you see those curtains?”

“Definitely a boy,” another challenged. “I haven’t seen that much red oak since the 1987 Boy Scout jamboree.”

Peter was about to return inside to make sure the fire was actually lit when the first few faint wisps of smoke appeared. Guests shushed each other as all attention turned to the chimney.

Cheers and I told yous went up as a light stream of pink trickled out of the roof. Only to be followed by opposing voices cheering as a trickle of blue chased it.

Peter cast a squinty-eyed look at Hector as a full rainbow of color billowed out of the chimney.

“What the fuck, Hector,” he whisper-scolded his partner. “What happened to green?”

They had settled on the home being gender neutral, at least until their tenth anniversary of home ownership, when the home’s identity would reveal itself organically rather than having one forced upon it. They had not even discussed its orientation.

“Oh lighten up, silly,” Hector responded with a glint in his dark eyes. “If Bob and Tina can fly that flag upside down and blast AM radio sermons every weekend, we can have a big gay house.”

He let the party-goers enjoy the spectacle for another minute before heading back inside to extinguish the fire. It was a no-burn day after all.

The event he had in mind was gonna be legendary, if he could ever get management approval to reserve it. It had occurred to him that he might have been blackballed, but he tried not to dwell on his intrusive thoughts. His therapist always preached the importance of challenging the negative voice inside his head whenever it sought to drag him back into the muck.

“Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Botkins,” an attractive blonde in a red blazer and miniskirt said, gesturing to a throng of empty chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stand,” Howard declined. “Sitting for extended periods of time makes my sciatica flare up.”

“Of course,” the blonde replied, sitting down next to a dour looking man in a rumpled suit and very bad toupee. He smelled like strawberry milk.

The slight frown that appeared on April’s face was quickly replaced by a thousand watt smile. She wasn’t accustomed to being told no.

“I’m sure you know why we asked you here today,” she resumed, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt, drawing attention to her bright red nails. “As the numerous letters and citations we have mailed and posted on your door can attest, you have been quite the topic of discussion amongst your neighbors and the staff here at Briarpatch.”

“Quite,” the mothball sitting next to her added.

Howard turned to face him.

‘I’m sorry, but you have me at a loss,” he said. “I remember April here from my initial tour and lease signing, but who are you exactly?”

“Bartleby Jacobs, attorney at law,” the man croaked.

“Mr. Jacobs is the in-house counsel for Briarpatch,” April clarified.

“Is this about the music,” Howard asked. “Because I keep telling Stan downstairs that I only play classical to keep Steven company when I’m at work. I am always conscious of the volume. I never set it above three.”

“It’s not about the music, Mr. Botkins, it’s about the … wait,” April started. “You are supposed to be the only resident in your unit.”

“I am,” he confirmed.

“Then who is Steven.” she demanded.

“An emotional support tiger.”

The room fell silent. April’s frozen smile seemed to hold too many teeth. Any moment now, Howard was sure that her jaw would unhinge and reveal row upon row of pearly whites waiting in reserve should any in the front line fall.

“What,” he asked the apartment representatives with evident confusion. “I provided a doctor’s note when I moved in.”

“D-did, you say t-t-tiger,” the attorney stuttered. He had mastered his childhood speech impediment long ago, but it still showed up from time to time in moments of extreme distress. His left eye began to twitch.

“Oh relax, Steven wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Howard assured them, chuckling. “Do you really think they would let just any old tiger become an ESA? Anyway, sorry about the music. He gets antsy when I’m away. Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead helps him relax.”

“You can’t have a fucking tiger in an apartment, you psycho,” April exploded. Her chair shot into the wall behind her as she jumped to her feet.

“Woah, woah, woah, now,” Howard shouted back, hands up to ward off her words. “What did you just call me? A person in my condition? Do you have any idea how offensive that is? My attorney is waiting outside. One call and I could own this place, but I will settle for an apology.”

“Apologize, are you out of your fucking mind,” April screamed. The lawyer grabbed her by the wrist and shook his head once, silencing her.

She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths.

“I’m sorry I called you a psycho,” she said at last through clenched teeth. “We here at Briarpatch Luxury Apartments are an equal opportunity housing community committed to empathy, compassion, and inclusiveness for all.”

The lawyer relaxed his palsied grip on her arm.

“Apology accepted,” Howard sniffed.

“Mr. Botkin,” April resumed. “With all due respect, we have a strict ‘no pet’ policy here at Briarpatch-“

“Steven isn’t a pet,” Howard interrupted. “He’s an emotional support animal, which by law, you must accommodate.”

“Not if it violates both state and federal law, and puts our other tenants at risk,” April corrected. “The documents you provided with your lease indicated that you had an angel fish.”

“Oh, Ariel.” Howarded lamented. “Yeah, she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” April said under the watchful eye of the attorney.

“It’s okay,” Howard assured her. “We didn’t really click anyway. She was kind of judgy. I just didn’t think I needed to get permission to swap out a dead support animal for a new one. It wasn’t really top of mind while I was grieving the relationship I wanted, but never had with poor Ariel.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if you got another fish, Mr. Botkins. Maybe even a bunny. But a tiger?”

“Oh, I didn’t replace the fish with the tiger,” Howard chuckled. “Heavens, no. I’m a fish and reptile kinda guy. I only got Steven to help Pisces with his anxiety.”

“Who is Pisces,” April inquired, regretting the question even as she asked it.

“Pisces is my emotional support python,”

April was again rendered speechless. Her nostrils flared in horror beneath her arctic blue eyes.

“W-w-w-w-what k-k-k-ind of p-ython,” the lawyer stammered. “R-rosy? P-p-p-pigmy?”

“Burmese,” Howard boasted. “He really is the sweetest lug. It gets expensive feeding him, but rest assured, the goats and pigs don’t stick around the apartment long. And the thumping that Stan loves to complain about is over well before he starts banging on his ceiling with that broom handle of his. Is this a bad time to file a formal harassment complaint?”

“Trust me, I tried everything else,” Howard continued when he was met with silence. “Miniature donkey, baby hippopotamus, a very short giraffe … Pisces ate every last emotional support animal I brought home for him. I would have tried a salt water croc if I had a bigger tub. Steven was a last resort.”

“Your emotional support animal can’t have an emotional support animal.” April managed. She felt as if she were breathing through a straw.

Is Ashton Kutcher still punking people, she wondered. Is that still a thing?

If that’s what was happening here, Bravo. Mr. Kutcher.

“Well, my attorney says otherwise,” Howard retorted.

Just then the double doors to the room burst open. A tall, dark figure in a three piece suit strode confidently towards them, his highly polished shoes echoing on the porcelain tile floor with each satisfying tap. He held a patent leather briefcase in one hand and a business card in the other.

“Johnie Cockatoo, tenant’s rights advocate at your service,” he boomed in a deep baritone as he handed the card to April. She gave it a quick glance.

The tagline read: If the snake don’t hiss, you must dismiss!

She flipped it over.

And if it don’t constrict, you can’t evict!

“Cute,” she deadpanned as she passed the card to the slouched and twitching corporate attorney to her left.

The new entrant placed his briefcase on an empty chair and opened it with two loud snaps. He withdrew a single page and handed it to April.

“A letter from my client’s vet for his ESA’s anxiety.”

“It is this herpetologist’s professional opinion that Pisces would benefit from an emotional support animal to help combat anxiety inherent in a 6 meter python bivittatus confined to an 800 square foot apartment,” April read aloud.

“Sure,” She added. “Why not?”

“You can’t exactly prescribe a snake Xanax now, can you,” Cockatoo answered.

“Your client never even told us what his actual disability is,” April objected, casting a sharp look at Howard.

“Careful,” Cockatoo warned. “You don’t want me to give you the other document in my case, do you?”

He withdrew a much more substantial stack of papers and waved it in her face.

“You think Matlock here is up for a fair housing lawsuit,” he asked, jerking the thumb on his free hand in the direction of his counterpart. “Ask him what the penalties are for discrimination against a protected class on a per violation basis. That doesn’t even begin to address damages for the pain and suffering this harrassment has caused my client. It doesn’t stop there. I’ll subpoena your records from the last decade and go through them like a goddamned spelunker on methamphetamines. If I can’t find a hundred other disgruntled former tenants like my client here to join in a class action suit, well, my name isn’t Johnnie Cockatoo.”

He winked, returned the document to the briefcase, turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The clacking of his shoes on the tile seemed somehow even louder. The doors slammed shut behind him with a punctuating boom.

April and Howard locked eyes in the ensuing silence.

“Relax, Steven is agoraphobic,” Howard said at last. “He’s never going to get further than the balcony. I do want to talk to you about what accommodations can be made for his fear of heights, however.”

“So who was that really,” April demanded. “Friend? Co-worker?”

Howard let out a big sigh, realizing the jig was up.

“Character actor I found on Craigslist,” he admitted. “Had you going though, right?”

Her bright red lips peeled back in a predatory smile.

“We’ll be out by the end of the month,” Howard relented. “It’s for the best anyway. I found a two bedroom for the same price across town at Shady Cove. Gives me a lot more space for the exposure therapy my shrink wants to try for my arachnophobia.”

The apartment lawyer fell out of his chair and started flopping on the floor like a fish. Howard shuffled out of the room, grabbing at his hamstring.

Damn, sciatica.

It had to be him.

The couple approached with polite smiles and outstretched hands.

“You must be Markus,” Dave hazarded. “I’m Dave DeFonso, and this is my wife, Becky.”

The man did not answer. Nor did he flinch. He just sat there still as a statue. A fly landed on his nose, stayed a few seconds, and then buzzed off with no reaction from its host.

“Uh, are you okay,” Dave asked, furrowing his brow. “You are Markus, right? The real estate agent?”

“Affirmative,” came the belated response. “This is Markus Ruhl, real estate agent with EKG Properties.”

The man spoke in an odd, detached monotone. His mouth moved mechanically, emphasizing each syllable. The rest of him remained preternaturally still.

Dave furrowed his brow even deeper. He was one of those affable types whose face seemed to be made of silly putty, every thought conveyed by a telltale dimple or wrinkle. Becky had always teased him about being the Shar Pei she always wanted as a girl.

“Jinx,” Becky whispered, understanding the look and giving him a good-natured jab to the shoulder to show they were on the same page.

“Alrighty then,” Dave said with a raised eyebrow and sideways glance at his wife.

Fuck if I know, her shrugged response implied.

“Greetings,” the man continued. “It is a pleasure to meet you, potential residential real estate clients.”

He raised and extended his gloved hand towards Dave, who took it. The man gave one formal shake, released Dave’s hand, and repeated the ritual with Becky.

“Right, greetings and salutations,” Dave played along, raising a palm in mock salute. “Nanu Nanu!”

Becky shoulder checked him, silently imploring her overgrown manchild of a husband to behave. If the agent took any offense to the joke at his expense, he didn’t show it. His deeply tanned face remained expressionless; his eyes a mystery behind those absurd shades. Even the dog at his side sat motionless but for shallow, rhythmic panting as it cooled itself against the midday heat. The agent couldn’t have chosen a more exposed table.

“We want to buy a house,” Becky blurted, taking the initiative to prevent Dave from embarrassing her further. “We just moved here from Seattle in the fall, and apartment life just isn’t for us. Can you help us?”

“Affirmative,” the agent replied.

“Great,” Becky exclaimed, sweeping her long brown hair off the back of her neck and over a slender shoulder. Dave would have a fit, but she had already made the decision to chop it all off in advance of summer. It didn’t play well with the desert heat.

“Your website mentioned something about a commission rebate that you apply towards all of our closing costs? Is that for real?”

“Affirmative.”

“That’s incredible,” Becky marveled. “Can I ask why you do that?”

“Markus Ruhl is a protoype,” the agent answered, shifting his body ever so slightly to escape the shade of Dave’s notable shadow as the couple sat in the chairs opposite him. “He is still in beta testing. Volunteers receive compensation for utilizing Markus Ruhl’s services and providing real time feedback on his performance via the proprietary app you were prompted to download. It is very important to Markus Ruhl that he provides you with five star service.”

“Prototype,” Dave interjected, the crevasses in his forehead threatening to swallow his face whole. “Prototype of what?”

“Markus Ruhl is the first neurochipped real estate agent in the history of human existence,” the agent responded.

“Okay, now you sound like a Realtor,” Dave chuckled,

“Did you say … neurochipped,” Becky interrupted. “Like there’s a microchip in your brain?”

“Affirmative, Markus Ruhl is the first human recipient of this ground-breaking technology from Zillia Home Corp,” the agent droned. “Patent pending.”

“So that’s why you were so specific about us turning our phones off for this meeting,” Becky concluded. “Like signal interference or something?”

“Affirmative,” Markus Ruhl answered. “Interference … or something.”

“So how does this technology work,” Becky asked.

“Markus Ruhl is currently connected to the MLS,” the agent answered. “Tell him your property needs.”

“No way,” Dave replied. “Okay, we need three bedrooms, two baths, with a two car garage and a pool for under six hundred thousand.”

“There are sixty seven active listings within a five mile radius of this location that fit your property requirements,” the agent immediately answered. “Correction. Sixty six. The home at one four two two East Tucker Way has been updated to ‘Sale Pending’ status as of one point three seconds ago.”

Again, the agent shifted his body to follow the sun.

“We need to be in a good school district,” Becky added, touching the imperceptible bump in her abdomen.

“There are forty six active listings in districts classified with ‘excelling’ schools,” the agent announced.

“With an open floor plan, and no busy streets,” Dave said.

“There are thirty one active listings that indicate a ‘great room’ concept,” the agent updated. “There are eighteen active listings that do not abut major thoroughfares.”

Becky and Dave shared a look, then turned back to Markus Ruhl.

“Big yard,” they said in unison.

“There are six active listings on parcels with a minimum of one half acre,” the agent responded.

“When can we see them,” Becky pleaded, suddenly eager.

“Markus Ruhl has scheduled all showings with the automated service,” the agent replied. “The first appointment begins in precisely fourteen minutes.”

“Hot damn,” Dave exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. “I could get used to this!”

“What are we seeing first,” Becky inquired, standing to join her husband.

“Property one is located at eight one seven five North Oakshore Drive. It is listed for five hundred ninety five thousand dollars, and has been on the market for seventy nine days. The current owners are Donald and Maisel Levin. They have three children: Samantha, Davis, and Aidan. Ages five, eight, and sixteen. Donald is a software engineer with Trixeo Industries. Donald has recently accepted a promotion and transfer to Dallas, and scheduled movers for March nineteenth at eight AM. The Levins purchased the home for four hundred thirty thousand dollars on May third, two thousand nineteen, and currently owe three hundred seventy two thousand dollars and eighteen cents on their mortgage. Markus Ruhl estimates that this property is worth five hundred eighty one thousand dollars and fifty two cents, but there is a ninety two point four percent chance that the Levins will accept an offer of five hundred fifty seven thousand.”

The couple stared at the agent with mouths agape.

“Please, demonstrate your satisfaction with Markus Ruhl by giving him a five star rating at the conclusion of this appointment,” the agent commanded.

“Markus Ruhl requires thirty seven more seconds of charging,” the agent then stated. “Please, do not obstruct the ultraviolet radiation.”

Dave stepped out of the way of the sun.

“That thing in your head runs on solar?”

“Affirmative,” Markus responded.

Half a minute later, a faint series of beeps indicated charging was complete. The agent stood, as did the dog laying next to him.

“He is very well behaved,” Becky noted, gesturing at the golden.

Both the agent and the dog just stared off into the distance in response, the only sound coming from a nearby patron answering her phone.

Was that smoke coming out of his ears?

“Um, should we get going then,” she asked, disconcerted.

Still there was no response.

Finally, both the agent and the dog seemed to jolt awake and turn their attention to Becky.

“Apologies,” the agent said. “A staff member of this establishment was using the microwave.”

“I was just saying your dog seems highly in tune with you,” Becky said. “You’ve got this whole mind-meld thing going on.”

“Markus Ruhl is connected to his companion animal via neurolink,” the agent told her. “Markus Ruhl was the first human test subject for this technology. Perseus was the first canine subject.”

“So they moved on to humans once it was found safe and effective in dogs,” Becky asked.

“Negative,” the agent corrected. “Perseus received his implant once it was determined safe and effective in Markus Ruhl.”

Dave guffawed.

“Sounds about right,” he laughed. “Realtors, first. Then dogs, and then people.”

Becky hit him again, harder this time.

“Markus Ruhl is ready,” the agent informed. “Are Dave and Becky DeFonso?”

“Ready,” Dave agreed, rubbing his shoulder as Becky nodded.

The group began walking towards the parking lot. Becky couldn’t help but notice how the agent went to great lengths to avoid coming close to other pedestrians. He gave a wide berth to every person they passed, as did the golden.

Out of nowhere, a biker crossed in front of them. His cell phone made an ungodly screeching sound as he nearly collided with the agent, sending the biker crashing into a parked car. People came running from every direction to help. As the crowd surrounded them, one cell phone joined in the screeching, then another. Soon enough, it sounded like the emergency broadcast warning had taken over the PA system at a Spinal Tap concert.

A man grabbed his chest and fell to his knees.

“What’s happening,” Becky screamed.

“Pacemaker … or something,” Markus Ruhl answered in the same monotone.

Dave grabbed them both around the shoulders and pulled them away from the chaos. A cacophony of car alarms erupted across the parking lot. Upon reaching his Tesla, it started itself and drove into oncoming traffic. Squealing brakes, followed by the sickening crunch of heavy metal as a massive pileup ensued.

“Road hazard reported,” Markus Ruhl announced. “First appointment rescheduled to twelve forty five pm.”

A flock of flying birds fell at their feet.

The air itself crackled with electricity, and smelled of scorched circuitry. Police sirens warbled to life in the distance.

Dave and Becky took off running, the golden retriever joyfully pursuing them before bounding off to chase a squirrel up a tree.

“Recalculating,” Markus Ruhl called out, matter of factly.

The couple turned to look back to see the agent turning in tight circles.

“Recalculating,” he repeated, over and over again.

Becky pulled the phone out of her pocket as they ran. Once it powered on, she opened the Zillia app. Encouraged for a review of Markus Ruhl’s service, she highlighted one star.

The agent’s head promptly exploded, coating a twenty foot radius in a red mist.

Becky shrieked. They kept running.

When they could no longer run, they walked in silence for what felt like hours. When they could no longer walk, they sat down on the street curb.

“Jesus,” Dave breathed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Who knew Blade Runner was a fucking documentary?”

“I can’t stop shaking,” Becky answered. “I’m ready to get off of this planet.”

Dave held her for a long moment.

Eventually, Becky remembered the phone in her hand and opened her Uber app.

Prompted to enter a destination, Becky turned to Dave.

“Did you happen to catch the address of that first place,” she asked.

Dave turned his palms up and shrugged in response.

Her phone screeched in her hand.

“Eight one seven five North Oakshore Drive,” a new voice said just behind them, followed by shallow, rhythmic panting.

Dimitry stroked his thin black goatee as he paced, agitated.

“Fine,” he sniffed, his black horn-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose as he stopped abruptly in front of his agent. “I’ll rent it out weekly.”

Lucinda looked up from the paperwork in her hands, taking in the Gen Z programmer anew. His white t-shirt depicted a red nuclear explosion under black lettering that read Ctrl-Alt-Del.

Whatever body spray he had drenched himself in this morning, the unmistakable notes of Rockstar Energy Drink and curry assaulted her sinuses. She assumed the scent had a name like Alpha Disco Party or Purple Daze. She made a mental note to use a little more sage than she normally did when she smudged the room between appointments.

“No weekly rentals either,” she answered, thrusting the paperwork at her aspiring buyer.

Dimitry waved it off, opting to resume pacing instead of scrutinizing the document himself. His black and white checkerboard Vans squeaked on the vinyl imitation wood plank flooring with each sharp left turn.

“Monthly then,” he conceded, throwing his skeletal palms up to the sky in exasperation.

Lucinda just shook her head, her tight black curls dancing in the low light of the dual wall sconces centered on either side of her on the wall to her back. She detested her appearance under the overhead light of the ceiling fan directly above her head. The lighting had been the very first change she made upon taking occupancy of the corner office the previous year.

On this day, as with most days, she had nearly the entire building to herself. In years past, senior agents would have bloodied each other for a shot at this particular private office. Most of her colleagues opted to work from home or coffee shops these days, however. She was unique in preferring the power of a formal business venue, and counted her lucky stars that the titanic shift towards home office culture had opened up opportunities to eager novices like herself. From her black on gold emblazoned nameplate on the door to the precise arrangement of the two high-back chairs situated opposite her mahogany desk for clients, every last detail had been painstakingly designed to portray the trappings of success she had not yet attained, and the authority she did not yet possess.

The office served as her de facto closer until she became one herself.

Dimitry was blind to it all, refusing Lucinda’s repeated invitations to sit. She was not in control of the dynamic, let alone the dialogue. She needed to break the momentum of this runaway train that was threatening to run away with her sale. She threw the papers in front of Dimitry on his next pass by the desk. Startled, he actually yelped, “Eek,” as he jumped away from the resulting thud of the heavy stack thumping the floor.

“For the tenth time, Dimitry,” she hissed. “No.”

“Semi annually,” he squeaked.

“No.”

“Yearly?”

“No.”

“Furnished?”

“No.”

“Unfurnished?”

“No.”

“Make it a timeshare?”

“No.”

“Can I rent out one bedroom and occupy the rest?”

“No.”

“Can I rent out the pool for private parties?”

“No.”

“Can I rent out the garage and charge event parking?”

“No.”

“Can I charge memberships to my home gym?”

“No.”

“Can I rent my coat closet to a fashion influencer?”

“No.”

“Can I rent the pantry to a culinary student?”

“No.”

“Can I have a roomate?”

“Yes.”

“A roommate that pays me rent?”

“Dimitry, the covenants, codes, and restrictions make it crystal clear,” Lucinda replied. “No rentals of any kind allowed. Period. The end.”

“That’s insane,” Dimitry exclaimed as he stepped over the papers and sank into one of the previously refused chairs. “It’s bad enough they expect me to pay three quarters of a million dollars for a starter home, but now they won’t let me recoup any of the cost? What kind of bullshit is that? Maybe I should just rent for another year and wait for this bubble to pop.”

He looked utterly defeated.

Lucinda could relate. She neglected to mention that she, herself, had a forty minute daily commute from the boonies because she couldn’t afford Scottsdale prices either. That commute wasn’t going to get any shorter if she couldn’t close more skiddish buyers like young Dimitry here, however.

“Affordability is certainly an issue in this market,” Lucinda agreed, expanding with new confidence as Dimitry shrunk deeper into his chair. The conversation had moved to much more familiar terrain, and she was ready with her scripts.

She straightened the gold REALTOR pin on her red blouse as she continued.

“But the flip side of the coin is that current rental rates are even more ridiculous. You can either pay through the nose to the bank to own a place, or you can pay through the nose to a landlord and own nothing. I’d rather pay my own mortgage than someone else’s, personally.”

“Yes, but I hear interest rates are going to come down and values are going to crash,” Dimitry countered.

“Rates are expected to come down, yes,” Lucinda agreed. “But prices are actually expected to climb a bit in response. This same house might cost eight hundred thousand next year instead of seven.”

“Insanity,” Dimitry repeated, checking the time on his pink iPhone 13 Pro. “I make good money, have seven fifty credit. If I can’t afford to live here, who can?”

“Well, I suppose folks just have to cut back on some extravagances these days,” Lucinda offered. “Or they move back to Ohio.”

Dimitry stiffened, pantomiming the sign of the cross despite having never set foot in a church in his adult life.

“Low blow,” he whined, reaching for the papers on the floor with a heavy sigh. He scanned the document for what felt like an eternity to Lucinda in complete silence.

And they say kids today can’t focus, she thought.

Finally, Dimitry sat back in the chair. A wide Cheshire Cat’s grin rolled up his face as he held his agent’s stare.

“It doesn’t say anything about lemonade stands,” he declared. “Gimme the fucking paperwork. Looks like I’m hitting Costco on my way home.”

Geraldine sat back from her keyboard, grinning as she laced her fingers behind her head.

“You still go it,” she congratulated herself on another job well done, her smoker’s rasp yielding to a brief coughing fit. She fished the last cigarette out of the pack of Virginia Slims on the desk next to the old Toshiba laptop with an arthritic claw. Everything took longer these days, but that only added to the eventual satisfaction.

Lighting up, she proofed her ad copy for the fourth time through the cancerous haze. She chuckled at her favorite bits, like the proud parent of puns and witticisms that she was.

More upgrades than a Kardashian! More remodeling than a Jenner!

Don’t take these counter tops for granite!

Even the pronoun police agree that Mrs. Clean lives here!

Despite having written hundreds of property descriptions over the years, the one thing Geraldine prided herself on above all else was that no two were exactly the same. She agonized over every noun. Scrutinized every verb. Relished every adjective. While there may be only so many ways to describe a swimming pool, or a great room, by God she would find a new combination of words every time. Even if it just meant tweaking timeless cliches ever so slightly.

This was what she brought to the table. This was why her clients hired her. It was right there on her business card, after all:

“Geraldine Jurgenson – The House Poet“

The cursor was still flashing on the screen, insistent. It drew her grey eye to the call to action just beneath her text:

Improve with AI

Geraldine scoffed, as she always had since artificial intelligence entered her profession in recent months. Not for the first time, she wondered what illiterate boob of an agent would outsource her very words to R2D2. The world had become a very strange place since Reagan left office.

And yet … she couldn’t deny the morbid curiosity that flooded her doubting mind.

What does a machine know about selling a house?

What computer code can tug at a home buyer’s emotions like my prose?

She saved what she had written, took a long swig of Diet Pepsi through a turtle-killing bendy plastic straw, and pressed the button allowing for artificial “enhancement” of her property description. This would be good for a laugh.

“Okay, Data, show me what you got,” she smirked, pleased with her reference.

No sooner had she finished her sentence did the lengthy paragraphs on the screen rearrange themselves into shorter blurbs. Despite herself, she had to admit that the new layout was more approachable and easier on the eye than her wall of text.

Parlor trick, she told herself. Of course a computer would structure everything just right. She did use spellcheck and grammarcheck, after all. She shouldn’t be surprised that maximum efficiency was a check in the robot’s column. A useful syntax tool, nothing more.

Fair play, Mr.Roboto, but now let’s see how you do with the actual art of writing.

She comforted herself with the certainty that the glorified Roomba’s words would have all the flow of her late husband’s prostate.

Her smile faded as she read through the opening lines, however. It disappeared entirely when she moved on to the second paragraph. By the time she read through the conclusion, she was physically shaking and near tears.

It was beautiful. Captivating even. The details. The descriptions. The robot’s version was so much more concise and impactful than hers, despite being confined to the same 1000 character limit.

She had never before seen a walk-in pantry described as ” a magical wardrobe to culinary Narnia.” Nor had she ever considered opening a line dedicated to a home’s hardwood flooring with, “Well, shiver me timbers!” Every nuanced phrase was as fresh and unique as her old rote was tired and hackneyed.

It made her want to buy the house. And she hated this house.

She could scarcely believe it. Just like that, the niche she had dedicated decades to carving out for herself had been filled in by the lifeless fever dream of some computer geek in Northern California.

If AI was the latest and greatest trend, Geraldine realized that she had become the handyman special, in need of a total makeover. With her osteoporosis, she couldn’t even make the claim to good bones anymore.

She had seen the future, and octogenarian agents like herself certainly weren’t it. All the selfie filters in the world couldn’t obscure that fact.

“Well, old gal,” she announced to the room as she powered off the laptop and stood. “There is always a market for a fixer-upper.”

She made a mental note to reduce her fee and order new business cards as she shuffled out of the cramped, smoke-filled room.

“Alexa, turn off the lights,” she croaked over her bony shoulder, plunging the old cottage into darkness. “The party’s over.”

Local Real Estate agent, “Big” Bob DuPree is fed up with his paycheck going down.

Originally licensed in 1982, DuPree has seen just about everything there is to see in the Scottsdale Real Estate market. From the double digit inflation of the late 80s to the Great Recession of 2008-2009, he has managed to carve out a comfortable living in an ever-shifting industry.

Until now, that is.

The steady rise in home prices over the past decade, coupled with the explosion in Real Estate licensees, has resulted in downward pressure on commission rates.

“I used to charge seven percent to list a home, and people didn’t bat an eye,” DuPree lamented. “I didn’t have to worry about my competitors undercutting my fee because we all charged the same amount. That was before all of these bottom feeding newbies started grabbing their ankles and listing houses for free.”

Asked whether he felt the public was better served by an industry of yesteryear that was steeped in anti-trust practices, price-fixing, and collusion, DuPree responded, “Hogwash.”

DuPree contends that the level of professionalism in the housing industry has diminished in direct correlation to its growth.

“You’d go to a cocktail party back in the day and be the only agent there. People would want to talk to you. Ask how much their home was worth. Gossip about their neighbor’s hideous remodeling. Now they treat me like a leper in a kissing booth. Everyone has a brother in law or cousin with a license as a side hustle. They charge a seller like five hundred bucks to list a house because it’s more money than they have ever seen in their Whataburger paycheck.”

DuPree holds the new online world in the same contempt.

“Everything is available to everyone twenty four seven now,” he said. “Everything. Times were a buyer had no idea what was for sale. The multiple listing service was a weekly pamphlet that only we agents received. John Q Public wanted to know what houses were for sale in Scottsdale? He couldn’t go to Twiddledy Doo dot com to find out. He had to call me.”

Asked to clarify whether he viewed his value more as a service provider or as a hoarder of secret information, DuPree answered, “Yes.”

While several competing agents who did not want to go on record for this piece indicated that the Internet has added value to their businesses and made it easier to reach prospective clients, DuPree argues that the readily available information of today actually makes his job harder. He contends that the additional time and energy spent educating a demographic that isn’t sold on his value in the first place is not worth the brain damage.

“They all want to play Realtor,” he noted. “Like their fifteen minutes looking at bogus data trumps my forty two years in the business. And then they want to say they only need me to open a door or write the offer so they can jam me down on commission. Cut my fee for the pleasure of working for a goddamn knowitall? I don’t think so, chief.”

The owner of two Bentleys and a vacation home in La Jolla, DuPree insists his cause is just and in defense of the little guy getting crushed in a high inflation world.

“All I’m saying is that you can’t make a living on two and a half percent per sales side,” DuPree added. “Hell, even three or three and a half is a stretch. Have you seen the price of milk? Gas? My paycheck keeps getting smaller while my bills keep getting bigger. Welcome to Joe Biden’s America.”

When this reporter pointed out that home prices had effectively doubled over the last five years, leading to larger total commissions despite the lower average percentages being charged, DuPree was succinct.

“Fuck you, socialist.”

– Daryl Eckshund, REBIZ NEWS

“What was that, an F-52,” he marveled.

“You’ve been playing too much Call Of Duty, Jerry,” his non-amused audience replied. “Or not enough. An F-52 isn’t a thing. That was a 15. The Norwegians have been here testing them for the last two weeks.”

“Norwegians, you say,” Jerry asked, tilting his pock-marked face quizzically. “Interesting. How do you know so much about jets anyway? Didn’t take you for a military man.”

The man in the faded blue jeans, untucked orange Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks scoffed. He adjusted the square glasses that had slid down the bridge of his sharp nose, and smoothed his unruly goatee.

“I sell locally-sourced, gluten-free, non-GMO vegan cookies online, Jerry,” he reminded the Real Estate agent. “The closest I ever got to the military was a brief flirtation with the Peace Corps.”

“Of course,” Jerry boomed. “I ordered some just the other day! The caramel pistachio hemp seed truffle was delicious!”

Both paused as another plane approached.

“Cesna 510,” Ned muttered to himself before returning his attention to his guest. “You tend to read up on these things when the sleepy, commuter airport next door turns out to have a contract with the United States Air Force.”

His brown eyes drifted to the picket fence that separated his property from the barren field beyond it. He jutted his chin towards an obviously newer portion of fencing. The ground beneath it was scorched black.

“That’s the section I had to replace last spring when an F-35A Lightning decided to lose an engine on final approach.”

“Who’da thunk,” Jerry empathized, eyes wide and palms turned up to the sky. A single bead of sweat formed on the short man’s bulbous forehead. “Shall we head inside? I’d love to have a look at that kitchen!”

“Of course,” the man acquiesced, turning and leading the way along a treacherous stone path that bisected the dead lawn.

“Mind your step,” he cautioned his guest. “The oil won’t be easy to get off those fancy shoes. Are they leather?”

The scowl that threatened to consume Jerry’s face gave way to a broad, toothy grin.

“Alligator,” he boasted. “Straight from the Everglades.”

His grin settled back into a grimace as he inspected the blackish mud that oozed between the mismatched stones of varying height and width.

“Oil?”

“Abandoned underground tanks,” his companion informed him without turning around. “There was a gas station here in the 50s, according to old man Hansby a couple miles over. I had a guy over to look, but it would cost even more to repair them than to rip them out. Have to involve the EPA, USDA, ONRR, DHS, FEMA, Mulder and Scully … pretty much every division of the federal and state government other than game and fish. I’m sure they’d pop up to tell me that my drums are endangering the hunchback pigeonfish of Eastern Idaho at some point, too.”

Upon reaching the porch, he stepped out of his sandals and slipped into a pair of disposable blue booties. He gestured for Jerry to do the same. Grumbling, Jerry obliged.

“What in God’s name is that smell,” Jerry squawked before the man even finished swinging the front door open on its protesting hinges. He took half a step back, placing a hand over his mouth as his gorge rose in his throat.

“That would be the sewer backup,” the man said with a sigh. “Remember the slow sink in the master bathroom? Turns out it needed more than just a little Drain-O. There are more roots in the main drain line than in Kunta Kinte’s family tree.”

“These old houses … probably should have had that scoped prior to purchasing,” Jerry chastised. He eyed an alarming system of cracks in the walls and ceiling as he stepped inside the small home.

“Yes, that would have been good advice,” the man agreed through clenched teeth. “If only someone had told me what to look out for as a naive, first-time buyer.”

“Not big on decor, Ned,” the agent asked, changing the subject. As he looked around the cramped great room, if you could call it that, he saw a small suede sofa, a matching love seat, and an unadorned coffee table. A single picture of an empty beach at sunset hung slightly askew on the wall behind the sofa. “I mean, no offense, but I’ve seen more warmth in the county morgue.”

The house shuttered as another plane rocketed directly overhead. The picture rattled off its nail and fell on the sofa.

“Boeing V-22 Osprey,” the homeowner noted, returning the picture to its place before rounding on his former Realtor.

“There used to be more,” he hissed. He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by an otherworldly mewling that seemed to originate from the floor directly beneath their feet.

“What the devil is that,” Jerry demanded, fiddling nervously with his ill-fitting red tie as he considered abandoning the appointment altogether.

Lord knew he needed the listing. He never could figure out why repeat business didn’t come his way like it did for the other agents in his office. He suspected it was his hair. If he were straight out of central casting like Bob or Veronica, he would be the one with all the awards for production at the annual holiday party instead of constantly looking for new clients who weren’t put off by his appearance and zillow reviews.

As eager as he was for the business, however, he needed houses he could actually sell. Not this monstrosity. He vaguely recalled telling Ned during the purchase that home inspections were a waste of money, but it was all a bit fuzzy. He had been huffing a lot of Reddi-wip at the time.

“Chupacabra,” Ned answered. “Bastards are everywhere out here. I don’t have any goats, but turns out they like to eat the insulation in the attic. Go figure.”

“I’m sorry, did you say chupacabra,” Jerry demanded.

“Relax,” Ned assured him. “It’s locked in the basement.”

“But you don’t have a basement,” Jerry protested.

“That’s the fun part,” Ned replied. “Turns out I do.”

“Well, how did you get him down there,” Jerry asked, ceding the point.

“Caught it rummaging in the utility shed when I came home from a zoning hearing about converting the cemetery on 5th to a luxury condo development last week,” Ned answered. “Zapped him with the taser I got to fight off the sludge mutants. Bullets don’t work.”

“Sludge … mutants …,” Jerry gasped.

“In the pool,” Ned said with a wink. A wicked glint flared in his weary eyes.

Jerry lifted his gaze to the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. A layer of trash covered the murky bog that lay just beyond the patio. As he looked on in horror, one hump, then another, emerged from the sludge, and disappeared back into the inky depths.

“Should I fill it in for showings,” Ned asked with no hint of sarcasm. “Or offer rides?”

“What the hell was that,” Jerry croaked. The room spun dizzily as he nearly fainted.

“Not entirely sure,” Ned confessed. “But I’m pretty sure it’s a plesiosaur of some kind. Maybe a mosasaurus. Either way, I don’t host too many pool parties here.”

Jerry turned and ran, not bothering to stop for his nineteen dollar shoes. Smoke rose from the booties on his feet as he touched the oily ground, missing several stepping stones in his haste.

“Wait, Jerry,” Ned called after him, bursting into laughter. “You haven’t even seen the new granite in the kitchen yet!”

“Thanks for thinking of me, Ned, but I’m gonna have to pass,” Jerry bellowed over his shoulder as he fled. “And your cookies are shit by the way!”

Ned continued laughing hysterically.

“Well, locally sourced isn’t alway a positive, now is it, Jerry,” he called after him between ragged breaths. “Drive safe!”

The deafening roar of a jet overhead nearly drove Jerry to his knees, but he managed to stagger the rest of the way to his waiting 2009 gold Buick, where his booties promptly burst into flames. He danced them off and dared to glance back at the house just in time to see Ned, still doubled over howling with laughter as the porch collapsed around him.

Home warranty should cover that, Jerry told himself before remembering that he advised not upsetting the seller by requesting one during negotiations.

Jerry floored the Buick, pulling away from the house as it imploded into itself and vanished. Along with Ned’s 1 star review, he hoped.

Was it the sagging beam on my front porch?

Is that what drove you away?

Was it my flimsy windows? My unruly yard?

What about my fading paint convinced you that I was unworthy of a fresh coat?

When did all the trudging about up and down my stairs become too much of an annoyance? The groaning treads of the third and fifth risers no longer an amusing quirk of my personality, but an affront. A harbinger of imminent collapse.

Did you tire of my air conditioner running all day long to keep pace with your demands? Of the hard to change lights of my ceiling fans?

My pool? Its sparkling blue waters gone varying shades of green throughout your disinterested watch?

It was my citrus trees, wasn’t it? The ones you once admired so? The reality of fallen, rotting fruit replacing the visions of freshly squeezed juice and cocktail parties.

Was it my picket fence? Oh, the picket fence. Its sagging posts and missing planks no longer capable of keeping the world out and the warmth in. My once benevolent grin now a snarling menace.

I offered safe haven. You made me a prison.

But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. There will be others. In fact, here comes a nice looking couple now. They look excited. The boy wants to climb my walls. I bet he’d even sneak out onto my patio roof to watch the fireworks as yours once did. Did I ever tell you about that time?

Well, it doesn’t matter now.

They see me.

Not my flaws. Not the features I lack. Not the promises I never made.

Me.

As you once did.

I will be happy.

And you will forever be the one who got away.

Goodbye, old friend,

– The Blue House

Or their gigantic backsides, at least.

In a stunning development, local Realtor Rich Anful claims that the four hour Tuesday morning boondoggles have added value to exactly one thing: his ass.

“Sure, it’s nice to meet and mingle with my colleagues every week to discuss our new business,” Anful stated when reached for comment at the Golden Corral. “But we’re really here for the waffles.”

Response to Anful’s bombshell was swift. Well, as swift as one could expect from this lumbering community of sauropods.

“Rich doesn’t speak for all of us,” fellow agent Abel Twerkins assured this reporter. “Most of us are here to actually work on behalf of our clients. Maybe his sales numbers would outpace his caloric intake if he put down the blueberry compote long enough to actually do some networking.”

Anful laughed off the criticism, insisting that his colleagues were simply protecting their golden goose.

“Look, all I’m saying is that we wouldn’t be having this conversation if these meetings were held at LA Fitness,” he assured, gesturing at his fellow agents. “Do I look like the only one here who brushes his teeth with a pork chop?”

“It’s glandular,” Twerkins responded, looking down into has own plate of smothered hash browns.

While none of the respondents polled could produce any tangible documentation that demonstrated a clear correlation between the weekly sales meetings and increased production, many assured this reporter that they had put together numerous off market deals as a direct result.

“Yes, I like the danish,” Bridget Waggles admitted, licking her fork. “I like the vendor raffles, too. More than that, though, I like to see the inventory firsthand. I also like to be the first to know about a new listing that might be coming up for one of my buyers.”

“Bridget hasn’t had a buyer in her car in three years,” Anful countered, looking out the window at a pink Mazda Miata. “Good thing, too.”

Reached for comment, National Association of Realtors spokeswoman Iris Knacks stated, “Om nom nom er gah” around a mouthful of jelly donuts supplied by a local title company.

– Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE NEWS

Bonzai, the assistant manager of the Verizon Wireless store, openly gawked at the old coot in front of him that fit somewhere between Steggosaurus and Woody Guthrie in the fossil record. He could practically smell the mothballs beneath the Barbasol.

“Exactly,” Bonzai replied. “Of course, if it’s really a matter of life or death, we use the pony express or carrier pigeons.”

“Oh, a wiseguy,” Samuel retorted, pointing at his younger counterpart with a shaky wooden cane. “You know, back in my day, we had a name for guys with tattoos on their necks.”

“What’s that,” Bonzai invited, smirking as he rubbed the two-dimensional spiderweb crawling out of his white polo shirt. The small garment was tent-like on his skeletal frame.

“Unemployed,” Samuel finished.

“Whatever, pops,” Bonzai rebutted. “You’re the one who came in here asking for my help, remember?”

“And my date to the junior prom wore those very earrings,” Samuel jabbed, unwilling to let the pissant claim the high ground.

“Thanks for coming in today,” Bonzai replied. “Come on back anytime you’re ready to trade in that Betamax you call a phone.”

The insufferable twit strutted back behind the counter, exchanging fist bumps with a pasty-faced teen who watched the exchange. The pair didn’t weigh two bills between them. Despite himself, Samuel was moderately impressed that either twerp was even aware there had been life before Blu-ray, let alone VHS.

“Alright, alright,” Samuel sighed, his eyes darting back and forth between the obsolete brick in his hand and the sleek new smartphones in the display case. “My granddaughter says I need one of these gizmos so I can watch her piano recitals wherever I go.”

“‘I’m sorry,” Bonzai replied, tilting his head and cupping a hand to his well-perforated ear. “What was that?”

Samuel gritted his teeth.

“I need your help,” he admitted.

“Come again?”

“I said I need your help,” Samuel repeated, louder. “Happy?”

“As a clam,” Bonzai affirmed, sauntering back around the counter with his sunken chest puffed to its fullest. “So where were we?”

“You were telling me when to text, when to email and when to call.”

“You never call,” Bonzai snickered. “You don’t buy a rocket ship to drive it to Sears. Calling requires conversation. The entire point of all this technology is to streamline communication, get your point across without sitting through twenty minutes of bullshit.”

“So if I don’t call, do I text,” Samuel asked, perplexed.

“Or Facebook or Tweet,” Bonzai agreed.

“Tweet?”

“That’s what it’s called when you say something on Twitter,” Bonzai condescended.

“What the hell is Twitter?

“Oh come on,” Bonzai moaned, exasperated. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

Samuel just stared at the preening peacock, imagining what it would feel like to wrap his arthritic fingers around that scrawny neck and squeeeeeeeeeeze.

Bonzai sighed, shaking his ridiculous head ever so slightly.

“Twitter is a real time social medium that allows users to interact directly with people across the globe,” Bonzai recited, boredom lacing his uninflected voice.

“Like a telephone?”

“Yes, wait, no,” Bonzai answered. “A regular old phone is limited to the person you’re talking to on the other end. With Twitter, you can interact with anyone online by sending them an ‘at’ response or a direct message.”

“Like an email?”

“Yes, wait, no,” Bonzai repeated. “Look, you’re making this harder than it is–”

Samuel waved him off.

“No, you kids are the ones making things more difficult,” he chastised the human Otter Pop. “You could be curing prostate cancer with all this technology, but you’d rather use it to play Pacman on your telephones.”

“Pacman,” Bonzai exclaimed, his shrill burst of hyena-like laughter quickly degenerating into a coughing fit. “OMG, my dad loves that game!”

Samuel turned to leave.

“Hey, where ya going, pops,” Bonzai demanded, his voice strained. “I want to hear all about the phonograph!”

“We give you color television and you reinvent the telephone,” Samuel muttered to himself as he approached the glass front door.

He turned when he reached it, his fingers on the handle. Bonzai’s angular head was buried in his mobile device.

“Now I know why you don’t like talking to each other,” he announced.

Bonzai looked up, waiting.

“Because there ain’t a one of you got a damn thing to say worth hearing,” Samuel finished, wrenching open the door. “All the world’s wisdom at your finger tips, but not a lick of sense to go with it.”

The fifty four year old limped into the daylight, leaning on the cane he had relied upon since being broadsided by a texting driver the year before. The door rattled shut behind him.

“Tag me in that,” Bonzai instructed his co-worker, knowing he had surreptitiously photographed the exchange. “Going to submit it to National Geographic.”

The pair shared a brief chuckle before returning to their phones, casting the room in silence.

Sid Gustafson took in the back end of the forest green automobile that jutted out of the modest mid-century ranch. He had closed the purchase on the home mere hours earlier.

The car occupied the space in the living room’s exterior wall where a large picture window had formerly resided. Remnants from the surrounding brick littered the planter box below, dusting the remains of a lantana hedge in terracotta. Glass stalactites dangled precariously from the top of the demolished window, eager to avenge their fallen brethren.

His wife, Nancy, did not respond, but her sharp intake of breath confirmed that he was not alone in his recollection. Sid scanned the license plate that clung to the rear fender by one twisted screw.

“Warp speed,” he interpreted with a dry chuckle. He turned to Nancy, but she lifted a trembling finger to stifle the welling joke.  Grudgingly, he let it pass.

“So,” he tried again after a moment of tense silence. “Do you think this is a home or auto claim?”

“Call Adam,” Nancy commanded, her icy voice scarcely more than a whisper.

“Let’s just see-” Sid began to reply before being cut short.

“Now!” Nancy hissed, rounding on him with nostrils flared and murder in the cobalt eyes that lay coiled beneath tight curls of snow white hair.

The crisp autumn air carried on it the chemical smell of burned plastic. Sid was halfway convinced that the barrel fire blazing within his significant other, rather than the smoldering wreckage behind her, was responsible for it.

He removed his cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans, flipped it open, and dialed their real estate agent without further argument.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Sid mumbled in practiced response to the automated voice that told him to enjoy the playback music before his party was reached. His Realtor’s genial answer came midway through the well-traveled chorus of Paradise City by Guns and Roses. Unfortunately, it was just his canned message assuring Sid of the importance of his call.

“Adam, it’s Sid,” he said after the beep. “We’ve got a problem here.”

He braved a sideways glance at his wife. Somehow, she seemed to have swelled well beyond her sub five foot frame. Malice alone put her nearly eyeball to eyeball with Sid’s stooped six feet and two inches.

“Someone’s in my parking spot,” Sid finished. “Call me back.”

There was a sudden change to the ozone as everything stopped for a moment, a perfect, unnatural stillness cast over the world. Then Nancy exploded.

“Everything is funny to you, isn’t it,” she demanded. “Just one big running joke!”

“Well, guess what, mister comedian,” she continued. “I don’t think it’s funny.”

Sid retracted from the verbal battering to come, an aged hand thick as an oven glove reflexively rising to ward off the blows.

“I didn’t think it was funny when you introduced me at the first office Christmas party as your naughty secretary! I didn’t think it was funny when you told Helen’s third grade teacher that I wouldn’t let her attend the field trip to the dairy farm because I am lactose intolerant!”

“Honey,” Sid pleaded. “This is ancient hist-”

“I didn’t think it was funny,” Nancy interrupted, her face a pleated crimson mask, “when you told everyone that I was just carb loading when I was six months pregnant with Isaac!”

The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of Sid’s mouth, but he beat it back before it could materialize into the death sentence it was sure to be.

“I didn’t think it was funny that time you interrupted my bridge group to ask if your speedo made you look fat.”

At this, Sid did smile. He laughed, in fact. A deep, bellowing laugh, unravaged by time, that had won Nancy over so many years ago.

“I didn’t think it was funny when you asked the bishop if he was a boxers or briefs man.”

A slight smile betrayed her, however. The angry maze of wrinkles began to disband, reestablishing itself along the deeper grooves of her laugh lines.

“I really don’t think it’s funny that there’s a car sticking out of our new house.”

Now, Helen was closing her eyes and shaking her head. Staying angry at her lovable goof of a husband was like cursing the tides. He was who he was. In truth, she was mad at herself. She was the de facto iron fist, responsible for steering their ship when Sid, the drunken captain, inevitably fell asleep at the wheel. It had been an unusually hectic week. Things that she would ordinarily never miss, got missed. And here they were.

“And I really, really don’t think it’s funny that you forgot about the final walkthrough that you promised to do before we signed the closing papers.”

Sid pulled her close and held her tight. Resigned, her breath came slow and steady against his chest.

“What are we going to do,” Nancy whispered.

The phone rang.

Sid answered on the second ring, interrupting the vaguely robotic factory-programmed tone from 2006 that he had never bothered to reset.

“Hi Adam,” he responded without checking the caller ID. The only other person who ever called him at this number was standing next to him.

“About that home warranty policy the seller bought for us …”

“Does it include windows?”