The Crusher

If walls could talk, I’d have a novel, a real spy thriller. I’m sure you’ve seen movies where the good guy gets captured and tied up in some elaborate trap that’s supposed to kill him very slowly and dramatically while the bad guy carries out his evil plans.

Well, I’m ashamed to admit, I work for that bad guy. Not in the way you might think. I have no choice. You see, I am a wall in ‘the crusher.’

Oh, not familiar with ‘the crusher?’

It's a locked room with two white walls and glass on either side so the psychopath can witness all the guts and gore. Sadistic sonofabitch. It takes two maids the better part of an hour just to hose us down.

“Right, Dave?”

That’s Dave. He’s not much of a conversationalist.

Anyway, ‘the crusher’ flattens grown men into pancakes. Eventually. Dave and I move towards each other at a rate of one inch per minute. Technically, only one of us needs to move to effectively crush. It’s not a very practical design, but that’s not really the point.

With all this time, you’d think someone would have figured out how to escape, but no. They always start off so determined, staggering to their feet after the goons rough them up and throw them in here.

First they try the lock on the door, then the air vent, but there’s nothing to climb, nothing to grip onto. I hate watching them give up and accept their fate. Their faces haunt me. It’s not true what they say about walls. I am a sucker for human emotion.

I’ve made up my mind now. I’m through. No more crushing for me. I can’t stomach it anymore. If I had a stomach. Stomachs are the worst. I hate the way they squish, liquified contents bursting all over me like a water balloon.

Oh no, another one? The goons deposit some random looking guy in jeans and a baseball cap. And before locking the door they throw in a bulging white plastic bag emanating with a sweet yet pungent aroma. What is it, a last meal? That would be a first.

This poor schmuck is banging on the door. Now, look at that, he’s trying his phone. It’s a waste of time. He’s not going to get any reception down here. You know, I don’t usually do this, but maybe I should say someth- Oh, no, he’s giving up already.

“Hey. Psst. Buddy. It’s me, the wall. Yeah, the wall. Stop screaming. Listen, man, I’m on your side. I don’t like crushing people. I’ve given it up. I just haven’t figured out how to stop.”

Guy says he just came to drop off some Thai food. Apparently something was wrong with the order. The boss must be getting sloppy. From international spies to this? The friggin’ Uber Eats guy? Look at him, so young and innocent.

This is the last straw. I’ve got to do something,

Dave and I inch closer and closer. Dave is no help as usual. I’m about to give up too, then it hits me. “You got anything in that bag we can use?” Guy pulls out a big handful of plastic cutlery. I tell him to jam it in the gap between me and the floor. Then he does the same with Dave. He dumps out the Thai food and uses the styrofoam clamshells too.

Lucky sonofabitch pulls it off! The forks and other garbage get sucked up into my electrical mechanisms and whatnot. We grind to a stop with a crackle and a hiss just a couple of feet from the guy. It kind of hurts actually, having plastic forks all stuck up in your whatnot.

A stay of execution. For now. The goons take him away. He’s probably going to be dangled over the shark tank, which is arguably worse than getting crushed to death, but at least I won’t have any part in it.

I wonder if Dave and I will be fixed, torn down, or redecorated. We could use another walk-in closet or a romper room for the hairless cats. Anything is better than this.