Chuck, very stealthily, pogoed his way up the side yard o the door into the garage. Well, as stealthily as a pogo stick can be. He took out his wallet and then out of that his American Express card (never leave home without it) and slid it through the slot up and to the left of the doorknob. He then pushed it down and, as it opened the latch, he opened the door. He pogoed through the garage, making quite a splash in the dog's water dish, the strange bottles and jars, with their yet stranger contents on the uneven shelves glittered with the light from the wedge of an open door.
When he reached the inner door, it too was locked. So he took out his wallet, and then out of that his Visa card (it's everywhere you want to be) and repeated the afore mentioned process. Pogoing through the house, he searched for his target, his mark, his objective. But it was not to be found. He paused for a moment, causing him to tip over and fall onto the floor.
"Damn," he said aloud. He made a mental note : stop stopping. This was the third time this month that it happened. As he picked himself up he had an idea. Hecarefullypogoed back over to the garage door. There was no car. Hmmmm... He went back to the couch and sat down. He didn't know what to do. It had never occurred to him that the guy wouldn't be home. Absentmindedly he picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. He suddenly realized what he just did, so he turned it back off and put the remote down. Slowly he began to think.
"What the hay," he muttered. "No one will ever find out. Except him; but he'll be dead soon afterwards anyway." The TV went back on. He flipped channels aimlessly for a while, pausing briefly when he reached something that piqued his interest: Richard Simmons, hippos mating, a rerun of a Catholic mass, how to make twice-baked potatoes, the revolutionary "Slice-A-Roni" (It slices! It Dices! It steams rice!) he stopped after a bit, leaving old Tom & Jerry cartoons running. He got up, stretching, looking at his surroundings. Like that pile of magazines an TV Guides.
He moved over to it. tisk-tisking to himself, he straightened them out. Then, after another mental light bulb illuminated the vast, yet mostly motionless, workings of his mind, he organized them by date, newest at the top. Nearby was an overturned coffee mug of pencils. He rightened the cup, and then put the pencils back in. he stood up, and walked partway down the hall. There was a hamper of dirty clothes there, right in front of the washing machine. So he filled it, soaped it, and ran it. Hey, why not?
Moving along, Chuck cleaned out the man's fridge, washed his plates, organized his Tupperware, fed the dog, buffed the hardware floor, brushed the dog, vacuumed the stairs, washed the dog, put the clothes in the dryer, walked the dog (pogoed the dog, rather), took the clothes out of the dryer, and then, after finding the iron and ironing board, ironed all the clothes, folding them nicely and placing them neatly in the hamper.
Just as he was finishing this, he heard the garage door open and a car pull up. He picked up his pogo stick and hid in the closet, looking out a crack.
The man walked in wearing the God-awfulest set of clothes ever. It reminded Chuck of when he rented "Saturday Night Fever," ate three bags of Milk Duds, threw up on the screen, and then watched the rest of the movie through a thin layer of puke. He walked in further, and then plomped himself down on the couch, and reached for the remote...which was no longer there.
He looked around curiously and found it on a neat stack of Sports Illustrated and National Geographic's. Strange, he thought. I don't remember stacking these. He looked over and saw a neat stack of TV Guides. He began to scan the area bemusedly. The clothes in the hamper are folded...and... (he sniffs) clean. Pressed, too. The sparkling kitchen attracted him like a moth to a flame. He was sure now that something was amiss, because he knew that he hadn't cleaned the kitchen. And now that he thought of it, he hadn't cleaned the floor, either. Strange...he moved back into the hall, passing the dog, which he noticed he had not cleaned either, but without noticing that the closet, slightly ajar, was watching him, waiting; waiting for the moment that would be right.
That moment was now.
The door flung open just as he passed, catching the edge of his heel. He stumbled, putting his hand on the (freshly scrubbed) wall to steady himself, leaving a small brown smear. He recovered and stood up straight before jerking around, eyes widening at what he saw: a man, about 5'11", with a very frizzled tow-head. His clothes didn't match; in fact, it looked like the man's sleeves had some from different shirts, as well as the chest and collar from different ones. This only added to the fearand bewildermentcaused by the fact that the man was on a pogo stick.
The man (whose home it was) was about to confront the other man (in the other other man's closet) when that man (in the closet) suddenly pogoed at him (the man not on a pogo stick) causing him (the same 'him' as the last use of this pronoun) to stagger back, screaming "What do you (meaning that man) want?"
Chuck simply said, well, nothing. He just honked the horn menacingly and continued his advance. The man ran backwards, tripping over the (newly) stacked magazines, causing Chuck to "Tsk, tsk" softly at him as Mark (for not only was that his name, but, at the moment, was also what he was) stood back up. He continued to knock as much over as possible, trying, ineffectually, to slow Chuck down. He ran around the room, circling the coffee table and then running up the stairs.
Chuck mentally paused t examine the situation: his mark Mark was running up the stairs and he was confined to his pogo stick. What to do, what to do. So, being a psychotic serial killer, he followed Mark.
No, should you ever be confronted by a Pogoing killer, wouldn't you suppose that going up stairs would save you, or at least buy you some time? Well, if you were Mark, and that killer was Chuck, well, you'd be wrong.
Chuck chased Mark up the stairs and to the right, into the master bedroom. Mark turned and faced his attacker, eyes darting everywhere, looking for a weapon. The nearly full moon cast light from behind him through the expansive window.
Chuck kept advancing.
Mark backed up more and more, until he suddenly tripped over a doggy bed and then into and then out of the window. His last thought, before falling on his Daihatsu was: Damn. I didn't even know I had a doggy bed.
Chuck went over to the window and looked on the prone body sprawled over the now crumpled import, its alarm blaring to no one in particular. Chuck realized that policemen would be arriving soon, so he got what he came for and pogoed off into the night.