No Outlet

The man who owned the house before me took every short cut he possibly could. For that reason I have taken to raising my fist in the air and shouting, "Bartleby!" His name isn't really Bartleby, his real name is Gomer Hartofitz, but I'll call him Bartleby to protect his identity.

As soon as I signed the papers to my new house, I ran over to the property to survey my kingdom (or "Queendom" for all the feminists out there). It was disgusting, but all mine! I ran upstairs to the bedrooms to make the ever important decision of which bedroom would be mine. The sunlight streamed through the dusty air. I took a deep breath. I coughed and opened a window. I took another deep breath, this time leaning out the window. When I brought my head back in and turned, around I saw it. Gloriously adorning the wall directly above a blown-out, crusty, burnt outlet was the evidence of a fire. The singed plaster and black soot that had been hidden by one of Bartleby's many bookshelves now stared me defiantly in the face. I raised my fist.

"Bartleby!"