My name is Ryan, and I live a pretty standard bachelor life. Small apartment, messy desk, and a fridge that usually only contains leftover pizza. But lately, things have been getting weird. Every night at 2:00 AM, I'd hear a loud clatter-bang from the kitchen. By morning, my snacks were gone, replaced by a trail of white dust and broken plates.
Last night, I decided to end the mystery. Armed with a cricket bat and a flashlight, I hid behind the sofa. Suddenly, I heard a strange click-clack sound. I jumped out and flicked the lights on.
"Gotcha!" I yelled.
Standing by my fridge was a skeleton. A literal, bone-white skeleton wearing my favorite "Kiss the Cook" apron. He was holding a jar of pickles, but his bony fingers kept slipping. Crash! The jar hit the floor, splashing pickle juice everywhere.
"Oh, pickles!" the skeleton sighed, his jawbone rattling. "I am so sorry, old sport. My metacarpals are a bit greasy today."
I stared, mouth agape. "You... you're a skeleton. And you're eating my pickles?"
"The name's Bony Benny," he said, trying to bow but accidentally hitting his skull against the microwave. Thump. "I'm not exactly 'eating' them. Since I don't have a stomach, the food just falls through my ribs onto the floor. But the taste? Exquisite! I just can't seem to hold onto anything."
Benny turned out to be the world's clumsiest ghost-tenant. He claimed he was a five-star chef in the 1920s, but clearly, death had ruined his coordination. Over the next week, my kitchen became a disaster zone. Benny tried to flip pancakes, but they ended up stuck to the ceiling. He tried to brew coffee, but somehow managed to trap his own ribcage inside the machine.
The funniest part was his "eating" habit. Benny would sit at the table, chew a taco with great enthusiasm, and then look down in disappointment as the chewed-up taco fell straight onto his lap. "Right," he'd mutter. "I always forget I'm missing the plumbing."
Things peaked when my landlord, Mr. Henderson, came for a surprise inspection. Panicked, I told Benny to stand in the corner and pretend to be a medical model.
"Nice anatomical display, Ryan!" Mr. Henderson remarked, poking Benny's shoulder. "Very realistic."
Just then, a fly landed on Benny's nose bone. He tried to hold it in, but he let out a massive sneeze. A-choo! His entire skull popped off, bounced off the landlord's shoe, and rolled under the dining table. Mr. Henderson fainted faster than a falling rock. I told him it was a "high-tech animatronic prank," but I don't think he believed me.
Now, Benny and I have an agreement. I buy the groceries, and he stays away from the expensive glassware. Every night, we sit together—me with my dinner, and Benny with a bowl of soup that he inevitably pours directly through his chest onto a bucket I've placed under his chair.
It's a messy life, and my grocery bill has tripled, but I have to admit—living with a clumsy skeleton is never boring. Just yesterday, he tried to learn the moonwalk and accidentally kicked his own leg into the trash can.
If you ever hear a clatter-clack in your kitchen at night, check your fridge. You might just have a Bony Benny of your own!
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