Dear local guild of locksmiths;
I assume you form guilds. And if you don’t, I assume you all talk to each other at some point or another, even if just to suss out the competition, and I don’t know what else to call that loose association with one another but a guild. I play a lot of video games. That isn’t just a randomly confessional moment, a brief window into the halls of my life. It’s relevant.
It happened like this: as I said earlier, I play a lot of video games. Actually, I’m somewhat of a professional gamer. Not just the type that says that because they still live with their parents (what’s with that stereotype?) and don’t have a job, thus allowing them to play video games 40+ hours a week, ‘just like a profession!’ No. I actually con-hop (it’s where you go from convention to convention—you guys have conventions, right?) across the country attending competitions and winning. Winning, like, real money, in return for being really, really, supermega excellent at videogames. It’s my gift. I actually think I won the boxprize of the Universe with my life. I have the decoder-ring life. For serious.
When I am at home, I have a couple of roommates. Two, to be precise. That is where my story goes awry, and leads itself into emergency locksmith territory. But let me set it up.
At first, I didn’t notice anything was wrong; I’d come home, you know, ten in the morning, crash for the next eight hours, wake up, get breakfast, and then settle in for some serious gaming. For some reason, most serious gaming happens in the middle of the night. I mean, sure, you can bump into a bunch of Asians and Australians and the like, so it’s, like, the middle of the day for them, but a great majority are actually just awake in the middle of the night running recon on dragon lairs or alien hive-minds. We’re a pretty rad bunch. So, yes, I’d game all night. With headphones in, but maybe it was still kind of noisy.
Anyways. My one roommate started getting sneaky. Passive-aggressive. Out and out aggressive. Hostile. Dishes left unwashed, food left on the counters, groceries left unbought, lights left on, music all day at high volume (that’s my night, man!), banging on my door, loud conversations about how they were exhausted all the time because of my ‘incessant tappings!’ The list goes on. They finally moved out… but kept their keys, unbeknownst to me or my remaining (pretty chill dude) roommate.
So this is where the crazy really kicks itself up a notch, and why I am writing to you, dear maybe-guild of hopefully 24 hour locksmiths: help me, I have been reverse-besieged by my disgruntled ex-roommate, who has locked themselves inside of MY apartment, and I cannot get in because they have taken it upon themselves to change the locks (just for revenge! Who does that?). I send out this missive in hopes that someone, anyone, will help me in my darkest hour (also known as approximately the beginning of regular workdays).
Yours in need,