As posted to the NIC Zone discussion group:

Let’s keep the conversation rolling.

What is your ideal dart?

I pull another blank from my box. It’s ends are cut square and neat, with no burrs. I swirl my meltin’ gun around one end, and form an accurately centered hole the precise width and depth needed for a #8 washer and some glue. I inhale sharply though my nose, but instead of acrid burning plastic, I smell only the scent of lilac floating in through an open window on a cool breeze.

I gently squeeze the trigger on my gluin’ gun and the amount of glue dispensed is enough to penetrate the foam and hold the washer, but not enough to squeeze out of the edges as I seat the tip, which is a nice bit of green felt that hasn’t been loosened or pinched, with a #8 washer perfectly centered on the adhesive pad. As I let the dart cool on the coffee table, Alice brings me a roast beef sandwitch with lettuce, tomato, and horseradish mustard on pumpernickel. We eat our lunch quietly, the way you do when you know someone so well that there isn’t any need to fill the silence with words. She smiles and gives me a wink as she clears the dishes from the table. I pick up my perfect dart, intending to top off another McMaster parts bag filled to the brim, when an almost invisible filament of hot glue snags on my glue gun’s kickstand, knocking it over. It lands on Alice’s bare foot. She screams in pain as she and the dishes crash to the floor. The intricate web of hot glue stringers that inevitably connects every god damn dart on the table entangles the glue gun’s cord. Darts are everywhere, and I grind foam and hot glue into the fucking carpet as I leap across the living room to grab a wet paper towel from the kitchen. I get the towel and the first aid kit, but in my haste I trip over my box of uncut foam and land elbow first on Alice’s outstretched calf. FUCK SHIT FUCK COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKER FUUUUUCK.
“OW FUCK FUCK…..Ugh! Why do you have to do this in the living room on the god damn carpet!?”
“Shit. We’re never going to get the deposit back….”
As curls of smoke rise up from the singed carpet, I toss the last dart, still on the table, into the now empty bag.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 6th, 2015 at 2:13 AM and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.