Opinion

Overreacting to a kind care package

This is one possible theory as to what really happened the night of the bomb scare.

Picture this:

You’re a member of an organization. Maybe you’re even on the board. You decide to tell your boss that you’re going to stay a little late and finish up some work. He agrees and tells you to lock up on your way out.

Truth is- you just placed three tabs of acid under your tongue and plan to spend the next six hours visualizing fractals and little green monsters running up and down the halls.

The lysergic acid diethylamide is slowly seeping into your spinal column and up to your brain.

Your thoughts are running wild and time is nothing more than a number. You walk by a mirror in the dark lobby and catch a glimpse of yourself.

The longer you stare, the more distorted your face becomes. Your left eye is drooping down past your mouth and your right eye swells to take up half your face.

You shake your head to clear the image and scamper away from the mirror in hopes that you won’t actually start to melt.

You’re right next to the front door when all of a sudden, you hear three roaring bangs on the front door.

You quickly dart around the corner into the kitchen. The front door slowly creeks open and you’re as close to shitting your pants as you’ve ever been.

A cloaked older woman with a familiar face enters the foyer.

“Hellooo, the door was unlocked,” she hollers.

The distinct voice echoes at least 20 times, fluctuating in volume each time. You can’t quite figure out if you know this woman.

You notice her carrying an unmarked cardboard package.

“What the hell could that be,” you manage to lucidly think.

Intently watching her black cloak flow in the open-door breeze, you notice a change. No longer is this figure a woman. Her scarf has turned into a flowing grey beard and the pattern on her sweater looks like sticks of dynamite strapped across her chest.

You can’t get it out of your head. “Terrorist, terrorist, terrorist…” is all you can think.

The figure near the front door then bellows, “I’m leaving this right here…enjoy,” and slams the door shut.

With that, you’re left with your thoughts. You start delving into the deepest, darkest portals of your mind. You convince yourself that the only possible thing that familiar face left in the lobby was an explosive device.

You don’t know why, but you know it must be true.

You manage to take out your cell phone and dial what looks like “9-1-1”. A voice speaks, “9-1-1 emergency…”

“Uh, um, bomb, UM, Stanford Drive” and then you hang up.

It takes you am minute to realize what you just did.

You stumble outside in a panic. You get lost in a sea of red and blue flashing lights as a SWAT member ushers you to a police officer.

He tells you to catch your breath and then you will give an official statement.

Listening to yourself breath, you’re suddenly struck with a moment of clarity. Every Sunday evening, a woman delivers the weekly newsletters.

Before you can contemplate the thought, you jump in horror from the blast of a “controlled detonation”.

The police officer that sat you down now comes up to you and asks, “so what exactly happened?”

You stare into his eyes with dilated pupils and you’re speechless.

 

Any similarities to actual events is coincidence.

October 29, 2008

Reporters

Joshua W. Newman


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