The Closing Ceremony
My favorite part of the homeowner's journey had to be the closing. Normally I'm not much for ceremony, but the official signing over of real estate was such a perfectly designed capstone to the months of hellish effort I had endured, that I couldn't help but relish every part of it. Down to each individual page, announced by the title attorney (esquire, no less) like a medieval crier at a palace, welcoming ravishing debutantes to the ballroom. Each lick of my pen, as I signed my name and indicated the date, over and over. The calm reassurance of my buyer's agent, who'd held me through storm and sun, warm smiles, and tasteful jokes when our eyes met. The title agents had offered me a remote closing, for convenience and expeditiousness, but I would have been a fool to turn down the real deal in the flesh.
But of course, the best part of the entire ceremony was my old landlord, sitting on the stool at the end of the table. He was shackled in place, to prevent any sort of squirrely foolishness that his breed was so prone to. You could never pin one of them down properly. They were always telling you one thing, then doing another. The one and only consistent element of their creed was the mindless grubbing greed with which they swept the hopes of citizens like me and you into their bottomless hoards.
He sat there, dewy-eyed, as if he still hadn’t quite come to terms with the new state of things. And I couldn’t really blame him, I mean who could have guessed that the people would finally unite within our lifetimes? How many times had we said, “enough is enough!” without really meaning it? So when enough finally did become enough, well, we were all surprised, but the landlords most of all.
A few times he mumbled something through the gag as I signed papers, but my title attorney put a decisive end to the interruptions.
As the final document settled into the folder in the esquire’s deft hands, my entourage broke into congratulations. I was overflowing with joy, pride at my own perseverance. They agreed, and ushered me over to the cabinet behind the restrained landpig. I perceived my options, twiddling my fingers, before settling on the silver revolver. “A classic,” encouraged my title attorney.
According to the new law, the landlord was permitted a final opportunity to speak. By now, he’d realized that this wasn’t a nightmare. No, this was the collective suffering of the people coming back to him, with interest. My buyer’s agent removed the gag, dripping slobber, and the scum and I locked eyes for the final time. He breathed raggedly, but I felt elated. “Was I at least a good landlord?” he whispered, almost ruining the atmosphere. I closed my eyes and shook my head. “No,” I admitted, “you weren’t.” My witnesses and I donned our hearing protection, and I placed the barrel under Tony’s chin. He closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. As if God would ever entertain the pathetic squeals of a landlord. I laughed, and pulled the trigger.
As brains and blood dripped from the ceiling, I removed the earmuffs to a chorus of applause from my team. I attempted to offer assistance with the cleanup, but they politely refused. My buyer’s agent jangled the keys in celebration. “Get out of here and enjoy your new home!”