[ WP ] The sound of sirens is heard as you watch an ambulance make it 's way down your road . You look to see where it stops as you realise it finishes it 's journey outside your door . A hooded figure in black makes his way to the door . You clutch at your chest as you feel your heart struggle ...

The sound was deafening. The cacaphony rose and fell from the trio of ethereal skanks, perched lanquidly atop my roof, as they screamed at me in harmony. It was, apparently, the least of my worries. Do n't get me wrong, they were hot, and I have extremely low standards at the best of times, but my attention from said menage-a-twats was unceremoniously disturbed by the arrival of a rusted out 68' Cadillac shitbox, left over from the glory days of `` Emergency!''. 
 
 The ambulance ground to a halt at the base of the small dirty pitch I'll lovingly refer to as a driveway. To my complete and utter shock, and tall, billowing form unfolded itself from the passenger side, and swept quickly towards me, black fabric whipping around in the same way that shit paints the toilet bowl after a chili cook-off. 
 
 Leaning an over-sized straight razor against the wall, the figure pulled out a clipboard, thick with faded papers, from who knows where, and studied the top page. The sound from the rooftop reached crescendo, and the figure snapped his head up in annoyance, as if blackness surrounded by darkness could convey `` Seriously? Shut the fuck up''. A moment later, there was no sound. Not even a mummers fart. And I would n't know what a mummer was if I woke up next to it. 
 
 `` Dave Sutton? ``, the figure asked. 
 
 Too scared to speak, with my ears ringing from the now silent landscape, I shook my head in the negative. 
 
 The figure consulted his papers, roughly flipping back and forth. 
 
 `` Peter Mendel? ``, came the almost hopeful sounding follow up. 
 
 Again, a no. 
 
 Exasperated, the figure poured through the pages, a long, pale finger tracing up and down like a yo-yo. After sometime, while the three up top shifted and tittered quietly to each other, the figure composed itself with a renewed certainty. 
 
 In a clear, firm voice that would peel the skin off a nazi, it asked `` Shaun'', pausing for dramatic effect, `` Tennyson''. 
 
 Sheepishly, I looked up into what I hoped was the general area where eyes should be, and shook my head once more. 
 
 `` Oh for fucks sake'', the figure stammered. He flung the clipboard down, stomped around, kicked at my begonias, swore at my garden gnomes, and when the peanut gallery erupted in multi-tonal laughter, he snapped his fingers angrily and disappeared those bitches like Doug fucking Henning. 
 
 I cowered, trying to hide somewhere between the door and the frontyard. After a few moments of heavy breathing and what sounded like tersely spoken Latin, the figure stopped its tantrum, cocked something like a head, and looked up and towards the sky. 
 
 It suddenly turned, and walked back toward me, a solitary finger jabbing in my direction accusingly. 
 
 `` What year is this? ``, it asked. 
 
 `` 2014? ``, I replied dumbly. 
 
 The figure smacked itself approximately where a forehead would normally be, and gathered up its clipboard. It dug inside one of the numerous black folds of its garment, and pulled out a 3x5 card, shoving the card into the crook of my folded and, by now, rigidly kinked arms. 
 
 It sauntered away towards the still sputtering ambulance. `` Wrong year, Bob'', it said to the unseen driver, collapsing back into the passenger seat. With a loud slam, and the remnants of a seatbelt fluttering in the breeze, the ambulance drove off, lights flashing, sending reflections haphazardly into every direction. Exactly one second later, it was gone. 
 
 I looked at the card left behind, pins and needles playing fast, sweaty jazz on my arms. `` Your opinion matters!'' blazed across the top of the customer service survey, and I promised myself I would never take acid again.
