"Tick...tick...tick...tick...quack...tick..."

"What was that?"

"Tick..."

"Oh. Good..."

That damn clock has always been a bit testy. It peforms its primary function, waking him up far too early, with expected precision, but if it wasn't gong on and on about those silly demolition derbys and air shows, then it was losing his spare change or waking him up in entirely the wrong places (and always far too early). Like those two consecutive years wherein, day in and out, it would continually tell him it's time to go to junior high school. What a nightmare that little fiasco burp of time was. Still, it's no tlike he'd remember it for the rest of his life or anything, would he? WOULD HE??

"Tick...tick...tick..."

That's another thing about that wretched hunk of digits. It always gets him so wound up (like a clock, as it were), but should he try to present his counter-case, it goes back to pretending it again lacks communicative ability. But he knew better.

He'd often considered selling the damn thing, but what was the use? It'd be there the next day, waking him up Far Too Early, as usual....or would it?

"It would."

Shit.