Uninvited Visit

It's a beautiful Sunday. The weather outside is lovely, but I don't mind at all. Neither does my family. It's not an art to go outside when it's nice. I'm sitting in front of the TV and feeling great. After a good lunch, my wife is singing in the next room, and my son accompanies her playing the harp. The idyll is  interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

"What?! A visit? Today?" I shout into the phone and angrily hang up.

Apparently, my friend didn’t understand my message that we’re sick. A normal person would understand. Besides, I consider Sunday a day of rest. He wants to drag his family here. The nerve!

My wife stopped singing, and my son tore a string.

What are we going to do?! I imagine my friend in my warm chair, flipping through channels. He pulls the best food from the fridge, smearing greasy hands on the remote control. He sits on the toilet for  an hour, creating a queue. I'm scared.

My wife is worried about the verbal attacks from my friend's wife, a huge pedant. She rolls her eyes when she finds a speck on the carpet, throws a remark when she spots a stain on the window. She  wrinkles her nose at the pile of unfolded laundry. This is going to be bad. My wife is shaking.

My friend has two kids. His son is probably the most scared. During the last visit, all the toy cars, the  PlayStation controller, and the monitor disappeared.

We need to prepare. The strategy is clear. We’re not home for anyone! We’ll block the windows, barricade the doors. Just in case, we'll cut the wooden staircase leading to our apartment. I leave a  small hole in the window boards to keep an eye on the situation outside. My phone rings. I don’t pick up. I peek through the hole. Yes, it’s them. Smiling and hungry, they’re standing under our windows. They’re loudly discussing how they’re going to rob us today and what they’re going to take. They’re well-equipped. The kids are carrying a large battering ram. My friend’s wife has a few hooks slung over her shoulder. My friend is carrying a ladder.

Realizing we won’t answer the phone, they start to take action. They’re perfectly coordinated. He’s bringing the ladder, she’s throwing the hooks. The kids are fighting with each other. My friend climbs up the ladder, and his wife directs everything with battle cries.

Well, whatever. They don’t care that we’re not home. My wife is heating up a pot of tar on the stove. My son runs for an axe. A short knock sounds on the window boards.

"We’re here! It’s me, your friend," I hear a cheerful voice from behind the boards. I signal to my wife and son to stay quiet. I show various symbols, and I feel like a paratrooper. They wave back, my wife threatens with a tiny fist, and my son waves "bye-bye." I realize we need to start using gestures to  handle these attacks more easily in the future.

The voices behind the boards go silent, and the knocking stops. They must have left and gone to visit someone else. Suddenly, the sound of a chainsaw rings out. Strong hammer strikes on the board indicate a direct attack on our home. They’re trying to get in at any cost. We quickly tear off one of the boards, which confuses the attackers a little. We gain some time and the element of surprise. My  son is chopping the ladder with the axe and shouting that he’s Spiderman. My wife is pouring hot tar and hitting my friend over the head with a big spoon. I’m trying to push the persistent kids away from the window. They’re shouting at me that they want to play. My friend screams in pain and hunger, and his wife yells that our windows are dirty. After an hour, the war noise dies down. We  catch our breath and assess the situation. My wife is blackened with tar, but happy they’ve gone. My son has a hurt hand, but he’s happy he didn’t lose his computer.

A rustling behind the door reveals an attempt to get to us from the back. The thumping and curses indicate that the cutting of the staircase has worked. I hear them unrolling ropes and setting up a  trampoline. I notice scratching and knocking on the door.

"I’m here. Your mom’s a goat. Open up."

What are these words? Did they come drunk? That’s inappropriate. Confused, I throw another couch onto the barricade. I take a new spray gun, my wife grabs a wet cloth, and my son squeezes the fire extinguisher. We wait for the next wave.

A deafening battering ram strike begins. The door won’t hold up much longer. I look at my wife. I see she’s resigned. My son screams that he’s Spiderman and tries to climb the wall. We’ve agreed to let them in.

I carry different dishes into the living room. My friend sits on the couch and laughs cheekily. I think he’ll take the couch home. The tar holds perfectly. The kids are shoving my TV into their backpack. My  friend’s wife is scolding my wife for the big tar stains on the floor. Hold on!

We say goodbye. I show various symbols, my wife waves her clenched fist, and my son waves "bye- bye." In the end, it wasn’t that bad. How many people in history died just because they were unwanted visitors, I think to myself. How many tourists in the Middle Ages died just because they wanted to visit some castle.