Laundry room mold pungent. The light bulb is left burning, too hot to touch. Otherwise a fuse blows and there are something like eight fuse boxes down there to dig through. Two quarters and a lighter (Get to the pockets, what's in the pockets???). Fuse boxes distribute electricity to the Villa while in the back room lurks the ghostface killah. I plunge my arm into the clogged tub filled with chilled foamy suds of green backwash. The drain is in the far right corner. Whatever is down there is soft, moist, filmy, like a possum that's been tenderized and filled up like a water balloon. I grab some of the stuff and it dissolves between my fingernails. I draw the arm out and up the length of it sits a gray river of wet lint and particles. The water level does not budge; it is still and opaque. I cannot see to the bottom of this gunky funk. The plungers, we have three. I chose Plunger #2, and the SLURP SLURP FLRP SLFRP BRFPFRRP BLRRFFRP PRFLPRURGHHRFP SLRFFSHSSS FLRR RPHHH SSHSH SHWOOOOOOOGHRRSSHFLURPF!
the water crawls down the drain leaving behind sediment records for the archeologists of the future. The plunger, a sacred artifact.
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