Duct Work

So, a while back, my friend's AC started acting up. And, as any good friend would surely do, I sat down and wrote a super short story to poke fun at his dire situation. I figured it was the very least I could do.

Duct Work

by Guy Medley

He carefully  pried open the vent covering with his screwdriver and peered into the dark recess of the exposed duct work. Shining his flashlight inside it became immediately clear to him what the problem was.

“Sir,” he called over his shoulder into the silence of the house. “Mr. Weiscott, sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to show you something.”

The client, Mr. Weiscott, appeared almost at once without a sound from around a shadowy corner and approached. The man motioned toward a step stool adjacent to the one he stood atop, and Mr. Weiscott stepped onto it and craned his neck to peer into his house’s duct work, following the repairman’s beam of yellow light into the darkness within.

“There’s your problem, sir.” He reached in, moving around with a gloved hand the crumbly sweaty lumps of grey and black debris blocking the duct. “There’s just too many bodies in here for the air to move freely around. It’s making the condensers freeze up.”

He and the client looked solemnly at the pile of human corpses impeding the air conditioner’s air flow, silent in thought.

“Have you tried the cellar? Or even the lake? These ducts simply can’t accommodate any more cadavers, Mr. Weiscott.”

Mr. Weiscott looked into the clogged duct work, scratching his bristly chin contemplatively. “You may be right. I’ve just been so very busy, you know.”

“I can see that, sir. There has to be what, five, maybe six bodies crammed into here.”

“Six,” he answered. “Though in various states of completeness, of course.”

“Yes, well, Mr. Weiscott, that’s well in excess of the manufacturer’s recommended limit. I’ll clear some space around them as best as I can so the air can flow through, but I assure you, any more bodies in this duct and you’ll fry your unit.”

Mr. Weiscott lowered his head rather sheepishly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Hey, not to worry, Mr. Weiscott,” he said, patting him on the shoulder, “these sort of things happen.”