Door-to-door salesmen always drive me crazy. I don't want any knives, and I don't care how sharp or cheap they are. If I did, I'd go out and buy some myself. Do you really need to come knock on my door and wave them in my face? And you thought knives were threatening — a sweaty, overly energetic door-to-door salesman is much scarier.
My back to the door, I march purposefully down the hall, my microwave dinner beeping angrily in the kitchen. "I know, I know. I'm coming," I yell at it, quite uselessly. The glaringly white linoleum of the kitchen greets me as I walk into the room, reaching a singular digit for the "Cancel" button on the microwave. A speck of something brown and unsightly on the floor catches my eye, distracting me momentarily as would a worm a hungry magpie.
The phone rings, shocking me from my reverie, overlapping with the final, succinct beep marking my frozen dinner's last kick at the can.
"Damnit." I open the microwave and extract the meal tentatively, burning my fingers while the phone emits another shrill ring. I drop the box on the counter, waving my scalded fingertips in the air as I reach the other hand for the phone.
"Hello, sir. I'm with the United Knife Warehouse. I was wond..."
I throw the phone at the wall and scream in rage. Why?! Why can't they just let me eat my dinner in peace? An annoyed breath escapes my lips as I try and settle down. Time to eat.
"Sir?" the phone says, breaking the silence, lying dazedly on the floor. Apparently, speakerphone managed to turn on as it hit the ground. "Are you interested in the absolute finest set of steak knives made this side of the Mississippi? Just $29.99, today only, and shipping is free!"
I throw the no-longer frozen dinner at the phone. Meatballs seep out to cover the earpiece, and a mild zzzzzzt escapes the device.
"And stay dead!"
(Apologies for the last branch, but it was part of a commercial running on the TV in the background while I was writing, and I couldn't resist.)