One Man's Trash (G) 100 Grand Challenge - September 1, 2009
Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2009 3:52 am
One Man’s Trash
A/N: This is a light piece of fluff in response to the One Hundred Grand Challenge. Thanks to Luxe de Luxe for sharing her amazing beta talent. You inspire me.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
One Man’s Trash
By Nutmegger911
Mick stood on the small stoop banging on Logan’s back door. “Maybe he does leave his basement,” he thought.
As he turned to leave he heard a lone car in the darkness – not that it would take vampire senses to hear it. Try as it may, the heavy metal blaring from the speakers couldn’t quite compete with the muffler. He crossed the street heading toward his Mercedes, his black duster flapping open with each long stride.
His long fingers had just wrapped around the chrome door handle when the soft pop and mechanical hum of the garage door opener came from the house. The engine stoking the muffler cut as headlights marked the trail of a brown Dodge Dart coasting around the corner and into the garage. It was a tight fit, but the car negotiated its way expertly between a cliff of overstuffed boxes and a teetering mass of sporting equipment and yard tools. The headlights cut, then the music. The car door cracked open, wedging against the precarious pile, and a Nike Air Morgan snaked out and planted itself on the floor pointing towards the rear of the car. The arm that followed reached straight up through the crack and stabilized the unlikely Jenga tower before arcing back to seek purchase on the door’s frame. The driver pulled on the rear edge of the door trying to unscrew himself from the driver’s seat without setting off an avalanche of baseball bats, football gear and garden rakes. He made a small grunt as he hoisted his body through the crevice, then slammed the car door closed. Once clear of the car his pace quickened.
“Hey, Mick, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Logan, I was surprised to find you out. What’s up?”
“Just picking up a few things. Gimme a hand here.”
Logan turned the key and opened the trunk. Half a dozen small boxes filled with even smaller shipping boxes were crammed into the compartment. They each grabbed a few and continued their conversation as they walked to the familiar entrance. Instead of heading down the stairs, though, Logan unlocked the kitchen door at the top landing.
As the door swung open Mick almost recoiled in surprise. The sixties era kitchen was completely filled with garbage bags and every square inch of horizontal space was covered, if not piled, with clutter. There was a dinette set somewhere towards the middle of the heap with one chair not quite touching the floor as it balanced on yet another bag of trash. With the exception of a small path to another room, bags covered the entire linoleum floor.
Logan stacked his boxes in the space left by the opening door and invited Mick to do the same.
“What the f—?”
“Yeah, I’m cleaning up. That’s what the boxes are for.”
“Look, Logan, I’m no expert, but I think you’re going to need a little more than a few small boxes to take care of this.”
“Well, yeah! This is just what they had in stock. The rest are on order.”
“You have more on order?”
“Yeah, about a hundred grand.”
Mick’s eyebrows went up. “So let me get this straight. You spent a hundred thousand dollars on small shipping boxes so you could clean your kitchen?”
“No. I bought a hundred thousand shipping boxes. They’re delivering the rest later this week. I figure that’s what I’ll need – give or take a few thousand for beer cans crushed on my forehead during my ‘Animal House’ stage.”
“You could just toss ‘em.” Mick picked up a trash bag and shook it for good measure.
“Hey! Watch the merchandise! Those things have to be kept in good shape, or I won’t get a penny for them.”
“You’re selling your garbage? What? Like it’s a piece of the Berlin Wall? Logan, nobody is gonna buy this crap. The most you’ll get is a nickel on deposit.”
“Yeah? Check it out. These aren’t just beer cans, they’re classics.” He pulled a can out of one of the bags and tossed it to Mick.
It was an old pull-tab emblazoned with the words ‘Ballantine Salutes U.S.A. Bi-Centennial.’ The flag and the Liberty Bell were prominently displayed across the front.
Mick grimaced. “When’s the last time you cleaned your house?”
“It’s not like that. We were saving them to build a house. We read an article about this guy in New Mexico who built a house out of beer cans. So me and CindiLou – ”
“Who?” The crease between his eyebrows deepened.
“That’s right. You know her, too?” Logan looked surprised.
“Who?!”
“Yes. CindiLou.”
Mick looked confused.
“Never mind. That’s not the point. We were saving them, but when my mom died she left me the house. Anyway, I was gonna throw them out when I saw an article about an old Mountain Dew bottle that sold for $7,400 on eBay. So, I got to thinking…”
“You’re selling your trash on eBay? Nobody’s going to pay you $7,400 for an old beer can.”
“But that’s the beauty of it. They don’t have to.”
Now Mick was thoroughly confused. Logan tried to help. “Dude, don’t you get it? Shipping!” He gave his best salesman look with an open-mouthed smile, overly-wide eyes and big palms waving next to his face.
“What?”
“Shipping. It doesn’t matter what the beer can is worth. I throw it on line and track all bidders. If it’s worth a lot they bid it up; if not, they bid a buck. When the sale is over, I offer duplicate cans to losing bidders at a discount. Either way, I charge five dollars shipping and handling. I figure with all the cans I’ve saved I could make a half a million.”
“Less postage”
“That’s covered in the one-dollar sales price.”
Mick shook his head trying to clear it. “Logan, I… I gotta go.” As he backed out of the rabbit hole Mick’s bootlace caught on the leg of the dinette chair. Even vamp agility was not enough to dodge this mess, and he fell into a pile of the trash bags. Mick’s staccato cussing could be heard over the metallic gnashing of cans as he attempted to right himself.
“Man! Watch what you’re doing. You just crushed fifteen hundred dollars worth of inventory. You so owe me.”
Yeah okay, PayPal, the check is in the mail.
_____________________
Th-th-th-that's all folks!
A/N: This is a light piece of fluff in response to the One Hundred Grand Challenge. Thanks to Luxe de Luxe for sharing her amazing beta talent. You inspire me.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
One Man’s Trash
By Nutmegger911
Mick stood on the small stoop banging on Logan’s back door. “Maybe he does leave his basement,” he thought.
As he turned to leave he heard a lone car in the darkness – not that it would take vampire senses to hear it. Try as it may, the heavy metal blaring from the speakers couldn’t quite compete with the muffler. He crossed the street heading toward his Mercedes, his black duster flapping open with each long stride.
His long fingers had just wrapped around the chrome door handle when the soft pop and mechanical hum of the garage door opener came from the house. The engine stoking the muffler cut as headlights marked the trail of a brown Dodge Dart coasting around the corner and into the garage. It was a tight fit, but the car negotiated its way expertly between a cliff of overstuffed boxes and a teetering mass of sporting equipment and yard tools. The headlights cut, then the music. The car door cracked open, wedging against the precarious pile, and a Nike Air Morgan snaked out and planted itself on the floor pointing towards the rear of the car. The arm that followed reached straight up through the crack and stabilized the unlikely Jenga tower before arcing back to seek purchase on the door’s frame. The driver pulled on the rear edge of the door trying to unscrew himself from the driver’s seat without setting off an avalanche of baseball bats, football gear and garden rakes. He made a small grunt as he hoisted his body through the crevice, then slammed the car door closed. Once clear of the car his pace quickened.
“Hey, Mick, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Logan, I was surprised to find you out. What’s up?”
“Just picking up a few things. Gimme a hand here.”
Logan turned the key and opened the trunk. Half a dozen small boxes filled with even smaller shipping boxes were crammed into the compartment. They each grabbed a few and continued their conversation as they walked to the familiar entrance. Instead of heading down the stairs, though, Logan unlocked the kitchen door at the top landing.
As the door swung open Mick almost recoiled in surprise. The sixties era kitchen was completely filled with garbage bags and every square inch of horizontal space was covered, if not piled, with clutter. There was a dinette set somewhere towards the middle of the heap with one chair not quite touching the floor as it balanced on yet another bag of trash. With the exception of a small path to another room, bags covered the entire linoleum floor.
Logan stacked his boxes in the space left by the opening door and invited Mick to do the same.
“What the f—?”
“Yeah, I’m cleaning up. That’s what the boxes are for.”
“Look, Logan, I’m no expert, but I think you’re going to need a little more than a few small boxes to take care of this.”
“Well, yeah! This is just what they had in stock. The rest are on order.”
“You have more on order?”
“Yeah, about a hundred grand.”
Mick’s eyebrows went up. “So let me get this straight. You spent a hundred thousand dollars on small shipping boxes so you could clean your kitchen?”
“No. I bought a hundred thousand shipping boxes. They’re delivering the rest later this week. I figure that’s what I’ll need – give or take a few thousand for beer cans crushed on my forehead during my ‘Animal House’ stage.”
“You could just toss ‘em.” Mick picked up a trash bag and shook it for good measure.
“Hey! Watch the merchandise! Those things have to be kept in good shape, or I won’t get a penny for them.”
“You’re selling your garbage? What? Like it’s a piece of the Berlin Wall? Logan, nobody is gonna buy this crap. The most you’ll get is a nickel on deposit.”
“Yeah? Check it out. These aren’t just beer cans, they’re classics.” He pulled a can out of one of the bags and tossed it to Mick.
It was an old pull-tab emblazoned with the words ‘Ballantine Salutes U.S.A. Bi-Centennial.’ The flag and the Liberty Bell were prominently displayed across the front.
Mick grimaced. “When’s the last time you cleaned your house?”
“It’s not like that. We were saving them to build a house. We read an article about this guy in New Mexico who built a house out of beer cans. So me and CindiLou – ”
“Who?” The crease between his eyebrows deepened.
“That’s right. You know her, too?” Logan looked surprised.
“Who?!”
“Yes. CindiLou.”
Mick looked confused.
“Never mind. That’s not the point. We were saving them, but when my mom died she left me the house. Anyway, I was gonna throw them out when I saw an article about an old Mountain Dew bottle that sold for $7,400 on eBay. So, I got to thinking…”
“You’re selling your trash on eBay? Nobody’s going to pay you $7,400 for an old beer can.”
“But that’s the beauty of it. They don’t have to.”
Now Mick was thoroughly confused. Logan tried to help. “Dude, don’t you get it? Shipping!” He gave his best salesman look with an open-mouthed smile, overly-wide eyes and big palms waving next to his face.
“What?”
“Shipping. It doesn’t matter what the beer can is worth. I throw it on line and track all bidders. If it’s worth a lot they bid it up; if not, they bid a buck. When the sale is over, I offer duplicate cans to losing bidders at a discount. Either way, I charge five dollars shipping and handling. I figure with all the cans I’ve saved I could make a half a million.”
“Less postage”
“That’s covered in the one-dollar sales price.”
Mick shook his head trying to clear it. “Logan, I… I gotta go.” As he backed out of the rabbit hole Mick’s bootlace caught on the leg of the dinette chair. Even vamp agility was not enough to dodge this mess, and he fell into a pile of the trash bags. Mick’s staccato cussing could be heard over the metallic gnashing of cans as he attempted to right himself.
“Man! Watch what you’re doing. You just crushed fifteen hundred dollars worth of inventory. You so owe me.”
Yeah okay, PayPal, the check is in the mail.
_____________________
Th-th-th-that's all folks!