Ah, the bliss; the bliss of dreams, of something one has no control over (for once! how nice to relax and let someone else take the wheel), the bliss of feeling deeply entrenched in sleep, the bliss of waking up at twelve in the morning and feeling rested with six more hours to sleep even more. The bliss of the pillow against one's cheek, so cool for the first few minutes, warming into a comforting embrace as the night continues its reign for those few, black hours.

The bliss was so rudely disrupted at precisely six a.m. (he checked on a sun dial and programmed the now-offending device to be completely accurate) when an undulating siren sound crashed through the dreams. No; crashed would be too tame a word. What this masochistic device man created does is snatch the dreams, running in triumph down the hallway with them, and cuts them to ribbons using scissors of the ilk one might find in a classroom (the ones that can not seem to admit even ONE measly finger in the bloody loop let alone cut anything. No, the kind of scissors that maul things until they're kinda in the pieces you wanted them to be. Oh and if you're left-handed…make your lab partner do it.) before taking a potted plant and pulverising the pieces.

The very second the thing went off and his hand slithered pathetically from under the covers to turn it off, he heard the sound of wheels and then a clamorous thump before the whirring of a machine getting further away—if only the alarm noise had dimmed as well, but no, it relentlessly assailed his ears(why, physics, he bemoaned, have you failed me?). Flopping onto the frigid floor from his warm eggshell of a bed, the young man stumbled rapidly out the bedroom door, chasing after the monstrous, enormous, rolling alarm clock. And the noise continued.

xXxXx

He picked up the paper at precisely 5:30 when his coffee was brewing and a warm croissant heating in the oven. Fixing his imaginary glasses (the ones with the plain glass were in shop, so he could only pretend to pretend to be sophisticated today) straighter upon the bridge of his nose, the Denizen from Downstairs (as our Hunter of Menacing Machines dubbed him fondly) sat at the table and perused (oh no, Denizen did not read) the front page before turning to the Metro section at precisely 6:00 when a tumultuous sound came from above. Now his dear fellow tenant had been known to set microwaves on fire, but the noise of the fire squad and that one time with Hazmat did not hold a finger chime to the racket from upstairs now.

He could hear wheels zipping across the floor, feet pounding after them, and then a muffled shout of "NOT THE TOASTER!" before something slammed into a wall and a fizzing noise could be heard.

He turned to the Arts.

xXxXx

The fiend was making a break for the kitchen, but our Hunter was gaining on it. It skidded briefly across the tiled floor before making a beeline for a cabinet. The mad pursuit drew circles round the room before the Hunter was prompted to scream "NOT THE TOASTER!" as the thing careened into his precious machine. Blue electricity arced into the air and the toaster fell into the clogged sink and gave a shock powerful enough to light his closet (something that, he figured briefly, could possibly be useful, as the mould was beginning to venture out from under the door).

And the thing carried on undeterred, even as it pulverised the dish soap and slammed into the window, mashing the toast that had been flung out of his preprogrammed toaster against the glass. The Hunter narrowed his eyes as he restarted his pursuit. Now it was making for a return to the bedroom; not if he could help it.

xXxXx

Just when the noise had reached its most pianissimo, a crack came from above his kitchen table and a king-sized bed fell as a deadweight from the floor above, cracking the table neatly in two and smooshing his croissant beneath.

In shock, the Denizen (whose name, which was forgotten to be mentioned previously, was Drunk Alphonso III) stared in wonder at the hole through his ceiling, his face becoming that of a geisha-drag queen with all the plaster powder that covered, well, everything. He briefly saw a black machine being chased by his accursèd fellow tenant before he saw the other man lift the lamp from the white-covered nightstand an hurl it at the black thing, but the thing was too fast, and the lamp came flying down at Drunk, though he managed to duck. He thought to protest to this utter buffoonery, but his throat was clogged, and he realised he'd been catching flies (and asbestos particles).

Before he could track their movement, they were gone and a bar of soap came crashing through his window to skid to a stop at his feet, leaving soap skid marks on the floor. Again, Drunk stood agape, and slowly moved to the telephone.

xXxXx

The thing had escaped the bar of soap! Dove of all things! What was it named for, if not for its aerodynamic qualities? That was the last straw—and bar of soap (note to self: stop by CVS for Irish Spring (ha, see if he'd be funding Dove again!) and Ray of Destruction for the thing). The Hunter reached into the cabinet as the thing wheeled away (he'd come for it momentarily) and took out the jar of hair gel, smearing Indian warrior marks on his cheeks—never mind that it was just gross and shiny; it is, after all, the thought that counts.

The Hunter, equipped with a curling iron, was ready. For anything.

xXxXx

"Yes, this is the police," a pudgy officer said when Drunk answered the door.

"Ah, yes, good. You must help. There is a madman living upstairs chasing an alarm clock." The officer looked at him dubiously, then hungrily, like he was a donut, then dubiously again.

"I have proof!" Drunk insisted, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket with which to grab the officer by the arm, and dragged him into the decimated kitchen. The officer looked incredulous.

"What caused this?'

"I told you, it's the lunatic upstairs!" The officer turned on Drunk.

"We had an officer check it out; judging," he said, thumbs hooked to his belt and looking all of his numerous IQ points, "by the amount of dust and destruction, no one has lived there for sometime."

"What? That's cause for someone having been there minutes ago! And what on Earth do you think cold have caused this hole?" he asked, gesticulating madly.

"Between you and me, nothing on Earth, if ya know what I mean," he murmured from the side of his mouth. Straightening up, the officer said, "So I must believe you are DUI."

"I'm not driving."

"All the same; are you, sir, drunk, by any chance?"

"Why, yes, yes I am," he said studiously, straightening up.

"Ah-hah! Have you then, sir, been…drinking?"

"No, oh good heavens, no!"

"Then…you are not drunk?"

"Oh, but I am! Drunk Alphonso III," he proclaimed.

"Yes, sir, you're coming with us."

"Us?"

"Oops, I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about—well, never mind. Don't question authority!"

"But I tell you, I saw him!"

"A likely story. Come on, Drunk Alphonso III." Drunk tried to run, but the officer, spotting the soap, chucked it at his head, knocking him down.

"You're coming with us."

And the alarm played on.

xXxXx

As the officer was leading Drunk outside, a blender came slamming into the ground, shattering into hundreds of pieces. Drunk while round in time to see an alarm clock come flying out after it, hit the ground, and take off rolling.

"There! Did you see it?" The officer turned round, saw the blender, look at Drunk, and shook his head slowly, side to side, as a lion with a headache might do.

As they were getting into the squad car, manned by the aforementioned officer, Drunk caught sight of the Hunter scaling down the building, cradling an also aforementioned flowerpot (his iron had gotten jammed in the wall), before he landed and took off after the alarm clock, which, by the way was still blaring.

"There he is!" Drunk shouted, just before the Tazer let him sleep.

xXxXx

The Hunter chased the alarm clock through the park as it churned up pansies, mowed over Scottish Terriers, and blew up the skirts of their walkers. It smacked into a kid, making him drop his ice cream on the Hunter's foot, Rocky Road Blueberry Tangerine Avocado Twist with Rainbow Spectrum Sprinkles and an Iron Man action figure seeped between his toes. He was leaving a trail, but it mattered not when he was this close to his target. He followed the thing down to the docks where, just avoiding the flowerpot projectile, it propelled itself into the water. The Hunter stopped, breathing heavily, staring at the sinking thing. And would you know, he could still hear the blaring, though it slowly faded after he crossed the park once more to go home, ready for a new day.