I’m walking my friends home from the bar because the air is crisp and the friends are clean. As we approach their place, I acknowledge that I will not be immediately continuing on. There’s unfinished business inside, and although I’m still unsure of its extent, I am forced to meander, as one does. I park my keister on a nearby bench, but before they close the front door I invite myself in to their building, never planning to go further than the hallway. Once they’re comfortably inside their apartment, fully absolved of whatever is to take place, I rub my hands together much like a sneaky or religious insect would, primed to do the bidding of my master.
A few of their neighbours have those welcome mats outside their doors. One says “Join the Party”. Another has the head of a fox and the body of a mat. I notice a plain thatch rug guarding the entry of an innocent bystander. With no time to deduce deductions, the swap begins. The regular rug is grifted and placed in front of a suite whose entrance includes the cartoon fox. The fox rug is moved swiftly through a set of doors to replace the party rug we all know and love. That last rug, as expected, is laid gently in front of the now naked door, and so the triangle switch is complete. I have nowhere to wait but here. No time to wait, but until tomorrow. Tomorrow we discover the truth. Tomorrow we dine.