Doc Vs. The Vacuum Cleaner
By Flaming Trails
A Back To The Future Comedy
Disclaimer: I don't own BTTF. If I did, it would have won an Oscar.
Author's Note: This is basically what happens when I have to wrestle with our old vacuum cleaner. It's all in good, Anakin/Jamie McFly-style fun.
October 7th, 1885
Hill Valley, California
11: 57 A. M.
It was just before high noon. Dr. Emmett Brown, fastest gun in the West, had wandered into the saloon for some grub and a drink. He smiled at the weathered bartender. "My usual, Lou," he ordered, taking a seat at the bar.
"Coming right up, Emmett," Lou said, reaching under the counter for a bottle. Before he could get his hands on it, though, there was a rumbling at the door. Lou turned white. "Oh no," he whispered.
Doc frowned. He had never seen Lou look this scared before. "What is it, Lou? Buford Tannen again?" he asked quietly.
Lou shook his head. "Worse. The worst outlaw to ever come this way. Hoover."
"What??"
Lou pointed. Doc turned around. The entire saloon had gone silent, looking at the doors. There stood -- a Hoover 340. A vacuum cleaner.
More specifically, Doc's vacuum cleaner.
Doc blinked. What on earth was his vacuum cleaner doing in the Old West? To his knowledge, they weren't invented yet. And why was everyone so scared?
The Hoover rolled up to the bar, buzzing softly as it did so. Its cord dragged behind it, like a long floppy tail. "Scotch, Lou," it ordered in a raspy voice.
"Yes sir, Hoover, yes sir," Lou said, scrambling to pour the ordered drink.
The Hoover turned to Doc, who was staring at it. "Aha! Dr. Brown! We meet again!"
"When did you learn to move under your own power? And to talk?" Doc asked, befuddled.
The Hoover seemed to laugh at him. "Poor Dr. Brown. Like most human beings, he never thinks about his appliances. I've been able to do these things all my life. And now, I've earned some respect for it. Thank you, Lou," he said as Lou put the drink on the counter.
"You're a vacuum cleaner," Doc argued, as the tube attachment snaked out and attached itself to the drink. "How do you earn respect?"
"Oh, I have my ways," the Hoover said, sucking in the drink. "You wouldn't understand, naturally."
Doc was getting fed up with the machine's cockiness. "I don't think I would. Seeing how you're the worst vacuum cleaner I ever owned."
Once again, the bar fell silent. Lou quickly backed away, while a few others took cover behind their chairs. "What?" the Hoover growled, turning to "face" Doc again. Its cord flipped threateningly behind it.
"You heard me," Doc said, getting red in the face. "God damn it, you have no idea how long I've wanted to say this! You're a piece of junk! You barely run, and when you do, it's like you're trying to get away from me! You get clogged by the smallest amounts of dirt, your brushes never work like they're supposed too -- suffice it to say, you're a poorly made piece of shit! And I wish I'd never bought you!"
The Hoover was silent for a moment. Then it growled almost threateningly. "You want to settle this, Brown?"
"Damn right I want to settle it!"
"Fine. Let's step outside. It's high noon."
"Appliances first," Doc mocked, allowing the Hoover to go before him.
He stepped through the saloon doors, into the street. It was deserted, except for the Hoover at one end. Doc casually walked to the other, feeling his trusty Colt. A few bullets in the works, and this would be over.
Suddenly, the Hoover went flat, buzzing loudly as its brushes went into action. It zoomed straight at him, weaving from side to side like a drunken snake. Doc laughed. This is too easy, he thought, firing.
The bullet glanced off the plastic. Puzzled, Doc fired again. Same result. What in the name of Sir Isaac H. Newton --
The Hoover grabbed a hold of his boot. Yelping in surprise, Doc yanked his foot out of it. The Hoover shredded the boot into confetti, then sucked up the pieces. Doc felt a burst of fear as he saw the brushes now had teeth on them, instead of bristles! "Great Scott!"
The Hoover laughed evilly. "You'd better think twice before insulting your machines!" It made another go for his feet.
Doc leapt onto the saloon porch. He had to think fast, otherwise he was going to have a bunch of blood stumps where his toes used to be. He dashed inside the saloon, only to find it was empty. They must have ran when I challenged the vacuum cleaner. Damn damn. . . .
The familiar loud buzzing got his attention. Doc quickly jumped onto a nearby table. "You can't get me up here," he mocked as the Hoover zipped in.
"Oh no?" The cord swung into the air, then twisted around Doc's neck. Doc grabbed at it as it began to tighten. He gasped as his air supply was cut off. If he didn't do something soon, he'd die from asphyxiation.
Weakly, he grabbed his gun. He placed the muzzle on the cord. Using the last of his strength, he pulled the trigger.
The Hoover howled as the bullet severed the cord. Sparks flew everywhere as it zoomed away, grumbling to itself. Doc yanked the end from around his neck and began jumping from table to table to avoid the vacuum cleaner. It turned and went after him, its buzzing now sounding like a full-throated roar.
Doc tried to think as he went from table to table. All right, you're being chased by an evil vacuum cleaner who wants to kill you. No, that's not all right. I have to escape this darn thing and figure out what the hell's going on. But where can I go? I can't hop these tables for the rest of my life. . . .
The stairs! I can simply go upstairs! Without its cord, the Hoover can't follow me -- I don't think. Well, it'll take it a while to get up there, at any rate, and that buys me some time. Heartened, Doc headed for the stairs.
Finally, he was on the last table. The Hoover circled him, upright again. Its handle moving around him reminded Doc of JAWS. He ignored it and concentrated on getting his leap just right. "Ready or not, here I come," he whispered, and jumped.
He landed on the second step. The Hoover raced toward him, but Doc shot up the stairs like a rocket. He paused for a breather at the landing, relieved the vacuum cleaner wasn't following him.
"Don't think you've gotten off easy, Brown! I have brethren in this time!" the Hoover yelled up to him, cord still sparking.
"Like who?" Doc yelled back.
A loud jangling behind him caught his attention. Doc turned to find himself surrounded by slot machines. "Uh -- hi."
"Hello," one said, its voice sounding like jangling coins.
"GET HIM DOWN HERE!" the Hoover roared.
The slot machines began bearing down on Doc, forcing him closer and closer to the landing's edge. Doc desperately dug into his pocket. Finding some silver, he slammed it into the slot of the closest machine and pulled the lever, forcing it back. The slots spun, revealing all lemons. A fountain of coins spilled out of the machine. Doc quickly tried to scoop them up, to keep playing --
But then, one flipped its lever out, sending him off-balance. With a scream, he fell toward the waiting teeth of the cleaner --
And onto the floor.
Blinking wildly, Doc looked around. He was back in his own house, on the floor by his bed. There was no sign of the Old West, slot machines, or evil vacuum cleaners. Just a dark house, lit by the light of his TV. Doc sighed, got up, and rubbed his back. And as he climbed back under the covers, he made a solemn vow:
NO MORE "TWILIGHT ZONE" RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME!
The End
(Hey, even people like me like stupidity once in a while.)