Congratulations on Getting It Just Right!

The ticking of the clock, the slow pulsing drone of trace electricity running through the circuit, the tingling of your own sweat. These things will be your world, these things and multicolored wires and screaming children, background noise to the tick, the hum, the drip.

The circumstances that brought you here will flash before your eyes. Jumping out into a cross walk, you’ll have made that young woman brake far too hard, driving her forward through her windshield due to an incorrectly fastened seat belt. She’ll be on the pavement a few feet away, still skidding to a stop as you trot up to check on her.

“Oh christ,” you’ll say.

“Hrrgh,” she’ll reply, coughing up blood.

“Oh jesus fucking christ,” you’ll say once again, dragging your hands through your hair. You’ll look at the girl, her eyes fluttering, her breath shallow and occluded by blood, and you’ll ram your hand into your mouth. You’ll realize, suddenly, that she’s really cute, and you’ll want her not to die.

“What can I do to help?” you’ll ask her, cradling her head, taking care not to move her any more than a few inches. Looking into her eyes you’ll know that there’s no chance that she’ll survive more than a few minutes. The knowledge will be there, in the iris, glinting meanly at you, shattering your lonely hopes of cementing the world’s worst meet-cute story.

“Case,” she’ll say, throwing her arm towards the now empty and idle car. You’ll assume she wants to sue you with her dying breath, but her hand will clutch, as if she’s attempting to grab something.

With dreams of a purse with a hot sister’s photo and a new meet-cute story already bright in your mind you’ll rush over the car and look inside. The interior will be sparse, without a purse or anything to speak of aside from a single black valise, clasped shut. The valise will be on its side on the passenger side floor, having been hurled to the ground. You’ll grab it and look inside, hoping for some hint of this exotic woman’s life, perhaps a hint referencing some hot friends or siblings who might be interested in her recent death.

You won’t find anything like that. Instead you’ll find a set of urgent directions, detailing a specific location on the bottom floor of a parking garage underneath an old Volvo less than a mile away. There will be a note accompanying the directions which projects casualties and makes several references to a previous relationship and sharing hurt feelings and some weird emo bullshit like that. There will also be some bomb diffusal tools in there for good measure.

Clutching the valise close to your chest you’ll shout back at the dying woman.

“I will avenge you!”

She’ll cough convulsively in response, a crimson stream arcing out of her mouth and splattering on the ground.

You’ll run flat out for almost a full mile, sprinting down city streets, your feet slapping the pavement, coat tails flapping in the wind. When you get to the parking garage you won’t stop, sprinting at full gallop through the ground floor entrance and down two levels to the lowest sub level.

Once you’re down there you’ll drop below the Volvo and very carefully drag the case out from underneath the car. Exposed to the light, you’ll be met with a mass of wires and cords, labyrinthine but with a few stand out ones, clearly important “disable the bomb” wires.

You’ll open up the valise and examine the tools, looking at the note to see if it has any directions on how to disable the bomb. When you fail to find any you’ll shrug and just go about disarming the bomb the way they do in the movies: by staring at it, sweating a lot and panicking.

After a five minute period of stressing out you’ll just go ahead and use a pair of needle nose pliers to snip the biggest, reddest cable in there, following the directions of every single movie you’ve ever seen. After it’s done there will be a second. Then another second, similar to the first, as you watch the timer and it remains unchanged.

You’ll breath a sigh of relief and wipe the sweat from your brow, smiling at your success. You’ll step back from the bomb and let the glow of your success wash over you. You’ll smile, thinking of the lives you’ve saved and the guy you made feel kind of like a dick for not being able to deal with being dumped. Then you’ll think of that girl and feel kind of sad, because even though you proved your manhood and saved the day you won’t have met a single eligible bachlorette despite trotting around the city in your finery for the better part of a day.

Congratulations on Getting It Just Right!