The Air Dehumidifier | By: Joseph Schlegel | | Category: Short Story - Action Bookmark and Share

The Air Dehumidifier

The air dehumidifier stopped all at once. Paul never knew that gunshots had that sort of effect on air dehumidifying devices until now.
“Why did I shoot the gun?” he wondered to himself. “Now my air dehumidationizer thingy will probably never work again.”
Paul continued his pondering, now speaking aloud, “I mean, I guess I could try and take it to the air dehumidilizationizer cleaning place, but man, that thing weighs like a hundred pounds – I’d never be able to carry it that far. I’d have to ask mom to use the car, and then she’d want to know why, and I’d have to explain about the gunshot, and she’d be totally pissed. But, then again, if I don’t do something, this air will get all stuffy in here, and she’ll know something’s up, and I’ll have to explain anyways. I have to at least try and carry it there. But someone’s bound to be curious if I bump into them on the street carrying a giant dehumiliizer. They’d be like, ‘Hey, what’s that big ugly thing?’ and I’d be like, ‘what, you mean you? ‘Cause you’re a big ugly thing.’ And then they’d be like, ‘that’s not nice. You’re mean.’ And then I’d have to tell them all about the gunshot, and the true reason why the air dissimilator stopped working, and they’d get mad, and yell, and then I’d have to kill them.”
His words gave Paul an idea, and he decided to try it. “Another gunshot might be just the thing to get this air demodulationizer working again,” he pondered aloud. “It would have to be aimed just right (like right at someone’s skull, ready to kill). And since I’d have to kill that guy on the street anyways, after our brief conversation, why should I even bother to have that conversation? He wouldn’t remember it. I’ll just kill the first guy I see on the street. That’ll actually be fun. And then, the air machine would work again, and I could begin to breathe without fear of breathing the defective air. Then I wouldn’t have to lug that one hundred pound air fresherizer with me over a hundred yards to the air defroster cleaning place that probably wouldn’t even know how to fix it, since all they ever do is clean stuff. I’d be like, ‘Hey guys, fix this air demystifyer.’ And they’d be like, ‘What? We don’t fix stuff.’ ‘Well, I’ll pay you a million bucks to fix it.’ ‘Well, okay then, in that case.’ And then they’d try to fix it, and fail, of course, because they’re freakin’ morons, and they’d take my money. Not a million bucks, ‘cause I don’t have that much money . . . no one has that much money! And even if someone did, they certainly wouldn’t waste it fixing an air detoxifier at a shitty cleaning store. They’d buy a thousand new ones that work a thousand times better than the old one.”
As Paul finished up his rantings, he realized that he had no idea where the air dehumidifier cleaning shop was located – the time had come to kill. He immediately hit the streets with the intention of fixing his air machine once and for all, the only way he knew how – with innocent blood.
That night on the local news, Paul watched a story of a young businessman, father of three young children, who had been shot that night in his own neighborhood by an unknown assassin. Paul slid his gun quietly under his humming air dehumidifier.
Later that night, on the local news, the weatherman stated that the air had never been fresher. Paul took a deep breath, and went to sleep.

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