Fuzzy Legs

         There is a rather large variety of ways in which a Saturday morning can be unusual, and as such, Saturday mornings rarely find reason to be all that creative in their attempts to distinguish themselves from their surroundings.  There are, however, certain occasions when, in the middle of an unusually hectic time, a Saturday morning feels the need to pull out all the stops in its endeavors to stand out.
         I daresay that when Roger Miller woke up on Saturday the Twenty-Fifth of April, he did not expect his Saturday morning to be driven to such lengths.  He woke up, in the only way that one does.  He sat up, in the only way that one does, and he attempted to put on his slippers in the only way that one does.  It was then that he discovered that although there is only one way to put on slippers, there are multiple ways a slipper can react to being put on.
         He quickly withdrew his feet, closed his eyes, smacked himself on the temple several times, and then, satisfied that he was not necessarily insane, peered again at the offending slippers.  They appeared to him to be rather normal slippers, which is to say black, fuzzy, and quite inanimate.
         He shrugged and reinserted his feet.  It was at this particular time that the slippers became distinctly animate.  He yelled and scrambled back, staring in stark horror at four pairs of legs newly sprouted from each slipper.
         He had, in his youth, sampled several types of potent hallucinogens, and was now being irresistibly reminded of those experiences.  But then again, his temple-smacking had conclusively diagnosed him as sober, so perhaps there was another explanation.
         Roger stood awhile and considered his predicament.  It is safe to say that the average individual is not emotionally equipped to deal with suddenly legged footwear.  The slippers were much less impressed with the situation, however, and they demonstrated their boredom by attempting to climb up one of the legs of his bed.
         That was it.  It was one thing for a slipper to be unthreateningly legged, but is quite another for that slipper to be actively approaching him.  Roger backed up against his wall, not daring to step down from his bed.  The slipper continued to climb, each of its eight legs moving simultaneously, bringing that velveteen horror ever closer, ever nearer.          
         But Roger was not one to cower from his own apparel; Roger was a man of action.  He glared belligerently at the slipper, daring it to take another step, which the slipper took.  Or rather, it took eight.  Roger leapt forward and, with a power and precision born of mild annoyance, kicked the slipper clear across the bedroom.
         The slipper bounced several times, rolled over, and began to approach him again.
         Well, Roger was a humble and commonly self-effacing man, and he knew that once an enemy had proved itself resistant to a half-hearted kick, it had proved itself resistant to the greatest weapon in Roger’s extensive arsenal.  The time had come for professional help.
         He took a running leap and landed in his doorway, cast a last, frightened glance back at his slippers, and dashed down the hall to where his phone, and possibly a comforting voice, awaited him.
         He grabbed his phone and hastily punched in the only number he could think of in a moment such as this.
         “Good Morning, Dunsboro Police Department Non-Emergency Number.”  The answering voice was a woman’s, collected and cool.
         “Hello, I have a bit of a problem here.”
         “Could you describe the nature of your problem, sir?”
         “Well, not without sounding ridiculous, no.”
         “I’ll try to contain my laughter, sir.  What is your problem?”
         “My slippers appear to be chasing me.”
         There was a long silence on the other end.
         “Hello?”
         “Yes, sir.  Would you care to speculate as to their intentions?”
         “I would estimate them to be malevolent.”
         “Alright, sir.  If you could just give me your name and address, we’ll send an officer by.”
         The officer who arrived thirty anxious minutes later appeared to be there as a result of some sort of lost bet.  He cast Roger a very hard glance as he entered the room.  “Alright, where’ve you been keeping them?”
         “The slippers?”
         “Of course the slippers, what else do you think I’m here for?”
         “I’m being absolutely serious, you know.  They really did grow legs and chase me around the room.”
         The officer nodded.  “I imagine they did, Mr. Miller.  Now, where have you been keeping them?”
         Roger wasn’t sure where this was going.  The policeman seemed to be taking everything in stride.  “If you don’t believe me, you can look in the bedroom.”
         The officer shook himself and moved down the hallway.  He gave off the unmistakable appearance of a man readying himself for battle.
         “So you’re saying you believe me?”
         The officer held up a hand for silence and moved into the bedroom at a deliberate pace, an unusually shaped handgun held level.  Roger waited, partly nervous and partly incredulous.
         Two great blasts came from the bedroom and the officer emerged, wiping his sweaty face.  “Yeah, those were some of the nastiest we’ve had this week.  You should be fine now, Mr. Miller, as long as you don’t mind the scorch marks.”  He gave off a short laugh as he holstered the pistol.
         “So that’s it?
         “That’s it.”
         Roger crept down the hallway apprehensively and peered into the bedroom, so recently the lair of his fuzzy tormenters.  There were two large burn marks etched deep into the wooden floor, and upon those two burn marks were two unmistakable piles of soot.