When Ninjas Attack
I recently made a deal with all-powerful Atheismo that if I survived a particular encounter I would write two blog posts this week. I lived, so I'm making good on my promise.
" 'sjust Abel... gobacktosleep'kay?"
But as Sarah's hearing is much better than mine and her wake-up-ability at important times is stronger, she persisted, and we listened to more footsteps, which, admittedly, sounded like they were coming from a decidedly unbasement-like location. Not to mention the shadows moving around visible through the crack in the bottom of the door. Some amount of time between four and five years passed, and we heard the unmistakable noises of a door closing, footsteps on the pathway moving away from the house, and a car starting up and driving away.
While we were pretty sure the house was now empty, we armed ourselves as best as we could from the weapons cache in my room. We emerged defiantly equipped with a tennis racket (on loan from Sarah's dad) and a mini bike pump, fully extended (about three feet of telescoping hard plastic).
Lo and behold, the house was empty (I knew it!) but there was a window open... and the door too... I think my exact words were "Well crap, I think you were right." Oddly enough, there was nothing missing. Both my laptop and Sarah's, as well as our digital cameras and TV were exactly where we had left them. The explanation I've used for the last two years were that a couple of guys came in through the window, looked around, decided that crime wasn't for them, and left through the back door. I now realize that it's entirely possible that they could've come in through the back and one of them got so freaked out he had to dive out the window, while the other shook his head at the rookie, left out the back and drove away.
We called 911 and a policeman showed up right away, but even though he pulled out his gun and his flashlight and yelled "Walla Walla police!" at the ghost in the attic, he didn't get a chance to fire off any warning shots for noncompliance. The born-again thieves were long gone, and Sarah and I were left to watch episodes of Scrubs until the sun came up, too shell-shocked to sleep.
Fast forward two years to a month ago. Sarah and I leave the house empty with the lights off, and when we come back, the light in our room is on and the door is now closed. We slowly but surely reach the only logical conclusion-- that there is a ghost/hobo (a ghobo?) living in the attic. He is henceforth known as Hobie the Hobo. In my imagination he looks something like this.
A few nights ago, my PTSD kicked in and a hurried animalistic scratching downstairs made me wake up, convinced that our born-again thieves from Whitman followed us back to Davis and had decided that crime really was for them after all. I don't blame them, seeing as how we're in a recession and all. Sarah didn't think anything much of the noises, reasoning that if they sound like animals scratching, they probably are animals scratching. Fair enough. Just to be on the safe side, I started talking to Atheismo (and the Flying Spaghetti Monster for good measure) and assured them that if I made it through the encounter with these burglars I'd continue to make my life useful. I then realized that it's not all that useful now, so I said that I'd write an extra blog post, and here we are.
I bundled myself up in my leather jacket, reasoning that it might deflect the ninja stars the burglars would throw at us when we caught them. Having lost the mini bike pump in the move but gained an extra tennis racket (a gift from my grandpa) we equipped ourselves to play doubles against the ninjas with an obvious love-hate relationship to crime.
We were just about to volley the stealthy burglars back to the dojo, but being such excellent ninjas, they must've slipped out the back silently and locked the door behind while we were warming up our backhands. Next time ninjas!
Lo and behold, the house was empty (I knew it!) but there was a window open... and the door too... I think my exact words were "Well crap, I think you were right." Oddly enough, there was nothing missing. Both my laptop and Sarah's, as well as our digital cameras and TV were exactly where we had left them. The explanation I've used for the last two years were that a couple of guys came in through the window, looked around, decided that crime wasn't for them, and left through the back door. I now realize that it's entirely possible that they could've come in through the back and one of them got so freaked out he had to dive out the window, while the other shook his head at the rookie, left out the back and drove away.
We called 911 and a policeman showed up right away, but even though he pulled out his gun and his flashlight and yelled "Walla Walla police!" at the ghost in the attic, he didn't get a chance to fire off any warning shots for noncompliance. The born-again thieves were long gone, and Sarah and I were left to watch episodes of Scrubs until the sun came up, too shell-shocked to sleep.
Fast forward two years to a month ago. Sarah and I leave the house empty with the lights off, and when we come back, the light in our room is on and the door is now closed. We slowly but surely reach the only logical conclusion-- that there is a ghost/hobo (a ghobo?) living in the attic. He is henceforth known as Hobie the Hobo. In my imagination he looks something like this.
A few nights ago, my PTSD kicked in and a hurried animalistic scratching downstairs made me wake up, convinced that our born-again thieves from Whitman followed us back to Davis and had decided that crime really was for them after all. I don't blame them, seeing as how we're in a recession and all. Sarah didn't think anything much of the noises, reasoning that if they sound like animals scratching, they probably are animals scratching. Fair enough. Just to be on the safe side, I started talking to Atheismo (and the Flying Spaghetti Monster for good measure) and assured them that if I made it through the encounter with these burglars I'd continue to make my life useful. I then realized that it's not all that useful now, so I said that I'd write an extra blog post, and here we are.
I bundled myself up in my leather jacket, reasoning that it might deflect the ninja stars the burglars would throw at us when we caught them. Having lost the mini bike pump in the move but gained an extra tennis racket (a gift from my grandpa) we equipped ourselves to play doubles against the ninjas with an obvious love-hate relationship to crime.
We were just about to volley the stealthy burglars back to the dojo, but being such excellent ninjas, they must've slipped out the back silently and locked the door behind while we were warming up our backhands. Next time ninjas!
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