Chainsaw Shower Massacre

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The distinctive grinding sound of a chainsaw woke Stick Chick from her hazy fade in-fade out which happens each morning just after sunrise, before she sets foot one on the ragged carpet to greet the day. Muttering, (mostly for the lack of 24-hour forewarning which she had requested a week prior from the contractor assigned to fell the tree on the adjoining property) she flailed off her covers, threw one leg after the other over the side of the bed and stood.

Without reaching onto the bedside table for her glasses, she paddled into the bathroom, jammies and hair askew from the crimes she fought in her sleep. She turned on the shower and defrocked. Just outside the bathroom window, the chainsaw buzzed and the cracking and snapping sounds of limbs crashing to the ground 30 feet below gave her no pause until she had unceremoniously ducked beneath the shower head soaking herself.

Bit by bit she collected her thoughts, making an outline of the day’s calendar. Reaching for a bottle of color-maintaining red shampoo, she opened her palm, snapped open the lid and poured. Like a scene from Psycho, the cap snapped shut spattering red dye that pelted the shower walls leaving a spotted trail. Only then did she consider that a tree limb might crash through the window at any moment rendering her naked, covered in red dye, and helpless when rescuers would arrive to retrieve her body.

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To avoid such a scenario, Stick Chick removed the shower head and sprayed the walls to remove all evidence, twisted the knob to turn off the water, quickly toweled dry and dressed in enough time to avoid a wildly embarrassing death.

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