Apocalypse now

So the A/C died--choked to death--a day or two before this filthy heatwave.  And the box fan, rooted out so I could sleep at all, exploded last night.  Apocalyptically.  I've never seen a clearer case of malicious suicide.  All at once in the dark, it started chewing up its own bladewings in a frenzy of self-loathing, spraying out a hail of shards like machine-gun fire.  They rattled round in the maelstrom with a din like God's dice, and they hit like shrapnel.

I've had better awakenings.

For a second or two it was like the bloody Somme in there--the bed was already as soggy as a trench--and then I leapt up and hit the switch.

And there it sits, with its blades like flies' wings in a spiderweb, fantastically gnawed.  (Who knew that Shelob likes plastic?)  With its long warped shadows, it looks ineffably sad and menacing and dusty.    Now I know that Beelzebub has five wings.

Nine