Painted Walls

Curiouser and curiouser! I opened my door about ten minutes ago, meaning to head downstairs for my mail, and discovered that the walls had been painted. They hadn't had a new coat, or anything normal like that--they were more...splattered, sort of thing. Big messy daubs everywhere. It wasn't just round my door, either. It was everywhere, as if someone'd gone round the nineteenth floor with a potato-stamp, printing the walls at random. I touched a daub near the elevator: dry. Evidently, the painting had been done a while ago. I would've noticed sooner, but I've been confined to my couch all week. Technically speaking, I am still on the couch right now, but I have been up today. I got some work done, and almost went downstairs. I would've gotten all the way down, but I had to wander aimlessly for a while, checking out the splattery white paint. By the time I'd scoped it out to my satisfaction, all strength had abandoned me, and I had to go back in.

Anyhow, what a mystery! I'll have to ask the security guard what happened. In the meantime, I've got a few theories:

1) I had this incredibly realistic dream a couple of nights ago, where I was running around my apartment trying to find somewhere to hide. There were bangings and explosions coming from somewhere nearby, and people were screaming. Somebody was shouting Get out of there! Get out of there or you're dead! But I couldn't get out, because there were people banging around right outside my door. So I hid behind the couch, peering nervously over the arm. Suddenly, the door slammed open and my annoying neighbour came haring in. A grenade flew in after him, catching him square in the back. He splattered over my ceiling in an exuberant spray of guts and shrapnel. I ducked down, but it was too late. The grenade-thrower had already seen me. I gave him a hopeful little smile, but he wasn't having any of it. He lobbed one straight at my head. I reached up to catch it, meaning throw it right back at the bastard, and then I woke up.

"What a weird dream," I said to Stella, who was wide awake and whisker-twitching the air. "What are you doing up?" Stella usually sleeps all day, and doesn't get up till dinner is served.

Maybe there really was banging, I thought. Maybe somebody was shooting up the building, and...oh. That's when I realised I'd gone to sleep with the telly on. An actor in a policeman's uniform was creeping along a wall with his weapon outstretched. He must've been the one doing all the banging.

Then again, in view of the white paint in the hallway, maybe he wasn't. Maybe it isn't paint at all, but plaster--what do you call the stuff? You know. Poly-Filler, or something. The stuff you put in walls when they've got a hole in them, and then you sand it down and paint over it. Maybe it's that. Maybe they Poly-Fillered a hundred gunshot wounds out of the walls, and haven't gotten round to beiging over them yet.

(Of course, if there was a monumental gunfight on the nineteenth floor, where are the blood splatters, and the shell-casing burns on the carpet? And wouldn't bullets have come through the walls and, you know, invaded my bathtub? Furthermore, I'd imagine Stella would've been more frantic if folks had been croaking on the other side of the walls. Not to mention which, cops would've come round, wanting to see if anyone was alive in here. And I'd have woken up sooner.)

Okay, that theory holds about as much water as a sieve. There's got to be some explanation for the paint splatters, though. People don't just...go around wrecking people's paintjobs--

2) Perhaps there was an earthquake, and the walls cracked. In spots and speckles. And then someone painted over the spots and speckles so they'd be less noticeable, but used the wrong colour of paint. (That was even worse, wasn't it?)

3) Well...what if there was some kind of benign explosion--not a grenade, but something similarly shrapnelous? A can of white spraypaint, say. Some wanker left it sat sitting outside the elevators on a hot day, and the temperature rose and rose till it detonated. Little pieces flew everywhere, including--er, round several corners. Okay, hang on. What if it was several cans of spraypaint? Nah, couldn't be. We haven't had any hot days lately. And why on earth would anyone leave spraypaint strategically positioned round the hallways?

4) I know! I know! Some dumbass kids let off a few firecrackers out there. They whizzbanged all over the place (boom, whee, whee!), making just enough noise to bother me in my dreams, and leaving singed spots on the walls. The building manager came up, summoned by the noise, and shouted "Get out! Get out! You're dead!" (which made it into my dream as "Get out or you're dead!"). The kids ran off, and the manager went around painting over the marks. He only had white enamel paint, unfortunately, so he had to do a temporary patch job till he could get a new pot of beige (which he hasn't yet gotten round to).

No?

5) How about this, then?--the paint in the halls was getting a bit chipped and cracked and whatnot, just your average wear and tear, and they're doing repairs. They've just finished filling in all the dented bits, and they'll be round painting on Monday.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

I may need to get my rat's arse out more.