How to Murder a House by Jeff Gard
In Bensonville, no one plans for a career as an assailant; it just sort of happens the way one catches a cold or loses their keys. Most of our forests have burned, the ore is gone, and recycled material is worth its weight in gold. None of this compares to the double-digit unemployment rate or diploma inflation, where even the most modest blue-collar job requires a master’s degree.
All would-be assailants find their way to The Roosevelt, a dive bar on Fourth and Jackson that covered its walls with fake forests, trees sculpted from repatriated scrap gleaned from junkyards. There, among the disenfranchised, the scoundrels, and ne’erdowells, I find a pair that might work for my project.
The first is a man with two names, one freely given to friends and the other whispered about him when he isn’t around. He tells me to call him Beck because he’s a musician. For the right price, he’ll make bone sing.
“Especially the joints. Knees. Wrists. Knuckles. Shoulders.”
“The shoulder isn’t a joint.”
He sighs into his beer. “Whatever, man. What’s the job?”
“You ever murder a house?”
His eyes gleam like a child discovering a hidden stash of chocolate. “I’ve crippled a few condos.”
“Close enough.”
I turn to the second man called Tofu, who watches everything in the bar but never stares at anything. He turns his head sideways like a bird, one eye nonchalantly absorbing my greasy overalls and the dirt under my fingernails.
“Whatta you got against the house?” he asks.
“That’s between me and the house. What’s your specialty?”
“I’m an artist. Fire, mostly.”
“Houses?” I ask.
“Museums. A church or two.”
I offer Beck and Tofu all the copper pipes as compensation. The hardwood floors and exposed beams, worth a fortune, must burn to ash.
According to the video, the fire started in the kitchen. Grease-fed flames danced on the range, safely contained in a Teflon-coated pan yet generating a thick, black smoke inhaled by the house’s respirators.
“Mom!” shrieked my daughter, Gemma.
“It’s just a tiny fire.” Samantha smothered the flames in baking powder.
“Fire hazard detected,” announced our Queen Victoria house.
Beck whistles. “Never seen a Queen Victorian before. Must have at least four bedrooms.”
“Five,” I correct him. “And three full baths, one with a clawfoot tub.”
Tofu covers his heart with his hat. “Stained-glass windows. Just like a church.”
I escort the assailants off my treeless street before the neighbors can see them. What we are about to do breaks over a dozen laws, but it must be done. Justice demands it.
“Welcome home,” the house greets me. “Who are your guests?”
“Just a few friends I met at the bar.”
“Friends?”
Although I cannot hear or see them, hidden cameras scan the assailants’ faces. We have only a few moments before the house recognizes whatever criminal records Beck and Tofu have amassed.
Beck pulls out a piece of chalk and draws an X on the wall behind the television set.
The house warns, “Section C, paragraph 4 of the Code for the Preservation of Historic Buildings forbids alterations to the structure. Recent court cases have expanded this definition to include plaster walls.”
Beck pulls a sledgehammer from a duffle bag and takes a few practice swings to loosen up his arms. Tofu whistles a jaunty tune, opens a can of turpentine, and stuffs an oily rag down its metallic throat.
“Turpentine is a Class A, banned substance. Highly flammable.”
I slide an armchair beneath the arch between the living room and foyer.
A heavy door fell from the ceiling, separating the kitchen from the rest of the house.
“There are unacceptable levels of carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, and particulate matter in the air. These pollutants can damage my walls,” announced the house.
“But I’ve put out the fire,” protested my wife.
“The Code for the Preservation of Historic Buildings dictates homes over 100 years old must be protected at all costs. My air filters have been compromised.”
The wall trembled slightly as the respirators sucked up the polluted air and vented it outside. Gemma wobbled and slipped to the floor. Samantha stabbed the override code into the keypad on the wall.
“You’re suffocating us!”
“I must prevent irreparable damage.”
Before falling to the floor, Samantha sent me the video of the whole incident.
“You’ve done irreparable damage to my walls. I must report you.”
Beck wipes the sweat from his brow as he admires his handiwork. Tofu douses a couch in kerosene, and I yank wires from the gaping cavity above the television. I find the communications line and sever it before the house can call for help.
“I am a historic landmark,” the house declares logically, irrefutably. “The wood in this house is over one hundred years old, most of it from endangered trees. The stained-glass windows were created by a well-known patriot. Section A, paragraph 1 stipulates that destruction of a historic home is punishable by death.”
Plaster crumbles and showers our feet as Beck grunts and swings his sledgehammer. Tofu warms his hands over a couch bonfire. I hurl lamps and knickknacks at the precious windows until I’m panting with effort. It’s not enough. The house will never feel pain or remorse.
“I must stop you.”
A metal blast door falls from the ceiling but stops when it hits the armchair. The auxiliary generator kicks in briefly before sputtering and dying. The house cannot expel the plumes of plaster dust or the thick yellow smoke rising from the furniture.
“You will be caught,” the house warns.
I pause at the door. Tofu and Beck have already fled.
“Bureaucracy moves slowly,” I say. “There will be an investigation and an inquest. By the time the authorities catch up with me, your studs and pipes will be on the black market.”
“You will lose everything.”
“I already have.”
In Bensonville, assailants can be hired for any price, but some things remain priceless.
