MR. JOHN'S MORNING

"Sniff! Sniff! Sniff! Sniff!" the old-fashioned alarm clock stubbornly played its programmed melody, waking Mr. John from his slumber.

It was 6:30 a.m., and the sleep-deprived, balding man with a wrinkled forehead and purple bags under his eyes had the unpleasant sensation of two kilograms of dry sand clinging to his eyes.

He began to look around the room, his right hand out from under the covers and scratching his head, picking out the remnants of greasy dandruff. He let out a foul-smelling fart reeking of rotten eggs and yawned from lack of sleep, having had an exceptionally sleepless night. He kept waking up, as the nightmares that kept popping into his head kept him awake.

"Another ordinary, gray day," he said to himself, because there was no one else in the room except Mr. John. The man lived alone. He was a bachelor, over forty years old, and it didn't bother him that he led such a lifestyle. Why get involved with someone who would file for divorce in a few years? Did such a life have any meaning? Nothing but stress and suffering, unnecessary court appearances, alimony payments, and problems. Better to live alone and manage the world around you on your own. Women are insidious, poisonous snakes. They'll start with your heart and end with your bulging wallet.

"Okay, John, time to get up!" he shouted, laughing to himself, because unpleasant thoughts about women always brightened his mood for the rest of the long, gray day.

He tried to stand and lift the duvet.

"What the hell?" he said angrily, tugging harder at the duvet. However, it was clinging tightly to Mr. John's body.

He barely rolled onto his left side and pushed his shoulder against the sheets with all his might, but the corners of the duvet gripped the edges of the wooden bed, and all his efforts were in vain. "Let go,

you stupid bitch!" the man shouted, kicking the duvet with his feet, throwing it against the opposite wall. She stood up on the two bottom corners, assumed a vertical position, and pointed the upper left corner, which now resembled a protruding hand, defiantly at Mr. John.

"I've had enough of you, you stinking old skunk!" the duvet shouted, slowly approaching the bed. "You've been lying under me all this time, letting out stinking farts! I'm so sick of this! I'm leaving!"

The man watched with horror and anxiety as the duvet, pillow, and sheet left the room and headed toward the kitchen. After a moment, silence fell upon the room. "

I'm going crazy!" John thought, and quickly got out of bed. "I'm going crazy, and I know it. This is all some kind of fucked-up, insane paranoia! This can't be happening!"

His hands shaking with nervousness, he reached for his panties lying on the chair.

The chair gently moved back toward the exit door. The panties rested precariously on the back of the chair.

"Don't touch us, you filthy bastard! You haven't washed in a week and you haven't changed us in a month! How long do you think we're going to put up with this? Our sisters have been lying in the drawer for months. We've had enough of smelling your pimply bottom!"

This was too much. Mr. John flushed with anger and walked briskly to the chair. This wasn't normal, he was sure of it. These were hallucinations, perhaps some serious personality disorder, such as had been frequently affecting him lately. His private psychologist, Dr. Smith, had often warned him about the possible consequences of overwork. But he had never given it much thought. Until today.

"Come back to me immediately, that's an order, you hear me?"

Incredible, he thought, and for a moment he felt ashamed of his own behavior. "Incredible, I'm starting to talk to inanimate objects. It's a bad dream, it's a bad dream..."

Mr. John turned around and walked toward the darned socks lying on the floor. Maybe this time it would work? She can go to work in just her pants and no underwear.

However, at the sight of the man, the socks quickly hid under the bed, which began to make an unsettling squeaking sound. For a moment, Mr. John felt as if the carpet he was standing on was slowly shifting toward the apartment's exit.

"Come back here this instant!" he shouted. "Come back to me, stinky socks, now!"

"Exactly, Mr. John, stinky socks!" the socks said, peeking their toes out from under the bed. "Look at how we look! We stink of sweat and look like we've had surgery! You don't care about us, you put us in shoes every day and go to work. Zero respect!"

"Listen, socks...

" "Call us by our first names," a shirt hanging on the open door of an old oak wardrobe interjected. "We have names just like you people. My name is Edward. That's what my ancestor, who is a famous tailor, called me. And I don't want anyone calling me shirt!"

"And I'm Michael," the pants said, slung over the chair. The zipper moved rhythmically with each word, resembling a mouth. "I'm from China, and I have a twin brother, whom you left in the laundry basket."

Mr. John watched the spectacle with anxiety and curiosity, constantly glancing at the clothes that began to come to life and filed out of the apartment.

"You stink, John, you stink!" cried the socks, which resembled a closely knit pair of twins. "You don't wash every day, you don't take care of your hair or nails, you don't shave your armpits, you don't shave. You have dandruff on the last few hairs, and your face stinks! No underwear can handle it! You don't even have anyone, you're alone. And all because of that stench that hangs around you!"

Mr. John became angry and his face flushed. This was too much. Not that he was the choleric type, but things had gone too far. The final straw was when a wardrobe began to emerge from the apartment on its short legs. It resembled an elephant trying to squeeze through the recess in the doorway.

"Enough! Come back this instant, or I'll burn you all!" He reached for the matches lying on the windowsill. "I'm not kidding! I know I'm dreaming, so nothing will happen. I'll wake up, like I do every day, and put you on me!" He placed a lit match on the bed on the left side.

The bed burst into flames. He began to scream in agony. A moment later, the entire apartment was engulfed in flames. Underpants and socks were burning, Edward and Michael were on fire.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Now you know who's in charge here!" Mr. John shouted from the flames, running toward the exit door, which closed in his face with a dull thud, clearing the way.

He woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat.

The apartment was safe and sound, bathed in moonlight, looking fabulous.

His shirt, underpants, pants, and socks were where he'd left them. "

What a messed-up, damned messed-up dream," he thought angrily, and got out of bed to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water.

He went to the faucet and turned on the tap. The cold water carelessly splashed on his face brought him even closer to reality. "What a dream, what a dream..."

Or maybe it wasn't such a bad dream after all? Maybe it really stank? He'd never really thought about it before. He didn't really have many friends. Everyone avoided him, citing important personal matters.

He sniffed his armpits, then brought his feet up to his nose. It wasn't that bad, it had been worse. Sometimes he didn't bathe for a month.

Mr. John stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. If I'm to have clean thoughts for the rest of the night, I'd better have a clean body too, he thought happily, and picked up the scented soap.

The metal shower hose descended from its fork and, approaching from behind, slowly approached Mr. John's neck...