I opened the fridge and discovered that the freezer was encased in ice. There I sat with melting groceries and all of the space was taken up by kitchen tundra. So, I decided to chip the ice away. Because I was in a rush, a sissy spatula or lame-ass butter knife would not do the trick. I pulled out a big angry kitchen knife and chipped away. Chip, chunk, chip! I was getting off these book sized hunks of ice. I took some perverse joy in my handiwork. Then -pfft!- Like a coolant seal in the Enterprise's engine room, freon jetted out from a puncture in my freezer. I panicked. I slammed the door shut. Peas and juice were melting on the counter. My cat was standing there perplexed. Toxins vented into my fridge. It was time for action!
As luck would have it, I managed the apartment building. An apartment down the hall was vacant. nothing but echoes and an unimpaled refrigerator. So I trucked down the hall, unplugged the virginal fridge and realized I had to get it back. No dollies were available. I couldn't ask a friend or neighbor to help me steal a fridge. I was the sort of guy with average strength and above average willpower. So, I unplugged the fridge, tipped it, angled it and spun it out from its home. Then, I tipped it, spun the opposite corner and walked the fridge out. I repeated this step-turn-kick-turn thing out of the kitchen, out the apartment and down the hall. I opened the door to suite, walked it into the kitchen and proceeded to transfer all of my foodstuffs into this new fridge. I walked the old fridge out of its home and walked in the new fridge. Then, I walked the old toxic waste dump down the hall to complete the swap. Ah.
A week later, the new tenant moved in and discovered that his fridge had died. So, I got right onto getting a replacement sent up. A few days after that, there was a knock on my door. One of the maintenance people for the building noticed something odd. Every two or so feet, there was a gouge in the linoleum in the hallway. The gouges started at the suite where he had to replace a fridge and ended at my suite. I shrugged and pronounced that it was one of the oddest things to be sure. Who knows, maybe he was going to make more of it. Or, he was going to let it go. I couldn't say. Like the beating of some terrible heart, these triangular gouges were a forensic echo of my deeds. Just in case the investigation deepened, I went out to my hall late that night. With an exacto-knife, I carefully cut a new trail of gouges every two or so feet and lead that path to the stairs. If the maintenance guy returned with some absolutely spot-on theory as to what I did, I could show him that indeed there were gouges in the hall, but, no, they lead to the stairs where some unknown large appliance thief could have made a clean get away. The imperfect crime, edited with an exacto-knife spell checker.