It was difficult for Peter to ignore the sensation that someone outside was shaking his home from side to side. It then occured to Peter that it could be his attempts at shaking the feeling that someone was shaking his house that started the whole shake, shake, shaking business in the first place. And because such a conclusion ignored the real problem and granted him sleep, he left it at that. Just so, he closed his eyes.

This feeling of paranoia was not an unusual one for Peter to have, and in fact frequently proved justifiable for many cliche homeless men who lived in boxes such as himself. People often stumbled upon his wide screen television set-sized cardboard box, and thinking it were trash, would attempt to lift it up only to find an irritable Peter screaming his receding hair line right off his little head. Peter would threaten to call the police, even though he knew very well a now houseless man never, never under any circumstances called the cally, and they would think of him a crazy man anyway. He knew what those conversations would be like:

"Hello, hello. Help! Someone has robbed my house," Peter would say frantically.

"Oh, alright, settle down. Where do you live?"

"Where do I LIVE? Not anywhere at the moment, because as I've said, they've taken my house!"

Then he would be arrested for being homeless, or in his case he would be arrested for having his house stolen. How dare he.

The shaking continued. Shake, shake, shake. Oh, shake shake shake. Get a little freaky now. Bump your booty now. Shake. And...stop. Silence.

The vibration of Peter's house came to a standstill, and he rolled over in the little space he had. Minutes passed. Peter waited for something, anything, to happen. By this point he trembling too persistently to fall asleep. His evening was ruined, probably by some stupid animal or even nothing at all. Get it over with, he thought of screaming to the person doing the shaking. Kill me already, if that's what you're here to do! I want to sleep, that's all I want! ZZZ...zzz...zzz. That's the noise I desire to make sometime soon!

Just when he couldn't fight the desire to sleep any longer, when his eyelids started drooping, and when he could practically feel little z's trying to push his beard out of the way to enter his mouth, he heard a noise. More than a noise, it was an actual word. Someone out there was most certainly saying hi and asking him how he was doing.

At this point he rather be dead than be asked how he was doing by someone he couldn't even see; some voice that for all he knew didn't even come complete with a body. Peter always was rather melodramatic.

“How am I DOING? I'm doing HORRIBLY! You've been vibrating my house for the last couple of minutes, in case you are unaware of what you've been doing,” Woody’s rage added width to his words, and he was a lot louder than he expected to be considering how exhausted he was. “Look, unless you plan on showing yourself, I want you to go awayyyyyyyyy. As of now all you are is a disembodied voice. Yeah, that's right. Why don’t you put on a head, some legs, feet, a uvula, some kind of uvula cover, and get yourself dressed and we’ll talk in the morning when you are prepared to SHOW YOURSELF INSTEAD OF SHAKING MY HOUSE FROM SIDE TO SIDE FROM THE OUTSIDE. YOU'RE LIKE A VIBRATING CELL PHONE IN SOME GUY'S PANT POCKET THAT KEEPS HITTING THE PERSON NEXT TO HIM BECAUSE HE'S SITTING TOO CLOSE. THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE!”

For a short while, all was bewitchingly quiet once again. The obscene and evil “HELLO! HOW ARE YOU!’s had ceased. Peter assumed he managed to scare her off. Naturally he took the opportunity to try once again at shutting his eyes…

“Hello again! Hello!” the woman's shriek was multiplying and growing louder still, as if it hadn't heard a word of Peter's request. It was also introducing itself. “My name is Celine...as in Dion, but not as in 'I am Celine Dion' more so as in I am Celine but my last name is Smith."

"I know, is that like the oldest last name in the book, or what!"

It wouldn't shutup.

"I used to live in L.A but I've come to New York because of various STUFF. I'm 120 pounds. 5'6. Perfect height for a female, just so you know. I thank the Lord every night, because he was the one who invented me - Celine Smith! I've been to jail ONCE for drinking and driving even though I did not deserve jail time for THAT, but I guess we all have to go to jail some time, you know?"

" I like to talk...and party even though I'm trying to kick that habbit. I'm social, you know? Some people think someone else writes everything I say, like on my reality show, but I come up with all the stuff that comes out of my mouth. Right now...this very moment...I'm ablibbing. So. Yeah. Tell me about yourself! Have you always lived in a cardboard box or is this new?"

It would not shut up like a good obedient voice. “Well, I can’t seem to find the doorbell on your little cardboard box… shall I invite myself in, hobo tramp? Do you mind if I call you tramp? I mean, you are. Okay sorry. Let’s cut straight to business. I am pleased to inform LUCKY YOU that I come with several pieces of cardboard for you to add a second edition to your house. Just in case you’re looking to have a two bedroom instead of a one or a new basement. And smell the cardboard! Lemon scented.”

This woman’s mother must not have bothered to teach her that homeless men are not fond of lemon scented items. Here in the Americas, bank tellers will reject lemon scented cash and checks. Super markets almost always decline lemon scented VISAS or Master card.

For the next five minutes or so, the formulation of a list detailing ideas and suggestions for killing Celine swam around innocently in Woody’s small brain. He was thinking of a murder so pleasant and gentlemanly that rather than being sent to the prison AGAIN he would kindly be offered a generous paycheck. It would be a paycheck from the big boys of the government. All Woody would have to give in return would be his signature, which as a result would allow the Supreme Court to use his copyrighted humane method of murder to get that death row line moving a little faster. Woody’s artfully designed plan, however, ended there because he had no idea as to what such a murder would consist of.

“Hey Celine,” Woody spoke up just loud enough to be heard. His voice startled her a bit, but she gained her composure and was eager to listen to the man. She edged her ears against the box for her listening needs. He said, “What’s a cute way to kill someone?”

Celine delicately scratched her chin. She could have sworn she used to know this once. After an interestingly thoughtful pause, it came to her. “So okay I think it would be totally cute if not adorable to give someone a rather deadly heart attack by telling them that you love them and have always loved them and will love them for the rest of the universe's existence. Awwww.”

Woody nearly purred at the success and triumph he felt in Celine’s answer. He pictured the murderers, assassins, and rapist sitting in the newly named, painted pink electrical looove chair where they would wait until they would get the phone call. Wondering who would be calling them at this hour considering they were scheduled to die at 3PM (don’t be late), curiosity would overwhelm them and they’d answer it. On the other end of the line would be an eerily perky sort of pre-recorded voice whispering softly and sweetly the words of wickedness: “I love you and have always loved you and will continue to love you for the rest of time.”

Boom. Heart attack. Oh no. I seem to have died. And they would.

Admittedly, it wasn’t going to make the a-list of plans for eliminating a fellow human being without prison consequences, but Woody was sleepy and may be excused.

Woody decided if he was going to give Celine a heart attack, now was as good a time as any. He fumbled for the appropriate words to express his pretend love fake out. Most of all he fumbled for the charm that he knew a homeless man simply did not have. He desperately hoped to whoever was up there to hope to that Celine would mistake his disgusting, trashy grunting for a well-bred man tuning in preparation for a love song.

Arg jaaaa argggg boom aghh arg jaaaa! Arg ja arg boom aghhhhh arg jaaaaaaaa!!

Deep down, Woody and Celine both knew that it was not a newly developed scale so much as a poor man trying to get rid of enough flam to make room for words. Woody thought of sleep, which he wanted more than anything in the world. For that very reason he thought that he might as well just get it over with and get the woman to die already. As was always the case for Woody, he had very little left to loose.

“Celine,” he narrowed his voice down to a breezy coo as best as he could. “Even though I have just met you about thirty minutes ago, I have always loved you. You, ya know, probably own more property and retail than any of the street babes I’ve ever met…combined…and multiplied by a thousand…and that’s, uh…I’m happy for you and your home purchases. So, Celine...with the last name that I have forgotten, will you marry me? Also, will you tell me if you are feeling any sharp pains in your chest area?”

Celine told him that she did not, and Woody was consumed in the sudden inability to command tears to stop swelling up in his eyes. He tried to tell her that he didn’t mean any of that, but she chose not to hear that crucial portion and excitedly asked him if he had a ring for his new fiancé. He only shook his head, for every time he tried speaking he couldn’t help but cry.

“I think you look sad because you don’t have any lemon scented cardboard,” Celine smiled broadly, her lips almost touching her forehead. “We could cut in the shape of a ring. Here, I’ll put it on my finger for you then. Awwww. So cute.”

At this point, Woody wanted more than anything in the world for this woman to go home to her own cardboard box complex and leave him alone forever. Suffering from a depressing loss for any better ideas, he gave in. He carefully slipped his right hand through the crack on the top of his cardboard box, his home. He held his palm out. He waited until the woman eagerly placed her chopped up pieces of lemon-scented cardboard in his angry grip. Then, Woody took a nice, long nap.