The towels didn’t fit on the usual shelf of the linen closet. Usually, usually they did. Not today. For whatever reason, not today.
So today Todd took a sledgehammer to — actually, he didn’t take a sledgehammer to anything. He doesn’t own a sledgehammer. He lives in an apartment, that he rents, has his whole life. The fuck would he need with a sledgehammer?
Sorry. But no, no sledgehammer. Screwdriver. He took a screwdriver to the shelves, cranking them away from the wood boards they clung to, clawing some onto them as he wrenched them away.
He didn’t know why he felt sorry for them. Well, he did. He knew he’d be throwing them away, never to be used again. Not that they were of much use now, having warped with the wood.
Poor bastards. They lived out that medieval torture rack. That was literally what they were made for.
They were also like parasites though, embedding themselves in something else. Not that it was up to them. They might have thought themselves some type of exotic top, meant to befuddle parents to the delight of their kids, who couldn’t get them to spin either but were in it for the trying.
Then some asshole pulls them out of the box. Away from the others, who are cheering for the top that got its day and die down at the crushing whir. They don’t know the sound, whether it’s laughter. So they listen until it stops and imagine how great to be used after so much waiting.
Poor, poor bastards. He threw them away anyway. Unscrewing then, he had stripped their tops.