i got back home late that night, filled with dread by the sight of my front door left ajar. had i forgotten to close it on the way out earlier? i've never done that before, but there's a first time for everything, right? like the first time i met dave, a lifetime ago... my panic grew as i walked in to find my possessions and furniture strewn about. burglars, vagrants, escaped convicts- any terrible thing seemed possible. as i walked past the shattered remains of my overturned bookshelves, i noticed something out of place. an arrow? stooping over to pick it up i was struck by my own poor taste in literature, the dust jacket of twilight obscured by a fallen copy of carlos mencia's autobiography. do books devoid of literary merit qualify as literature? a question for another time.

it wasn't an arrow. the side read 'zildjian,' the tip was splintered from seeing too many days on stage. i stood up and tried to turn the lights on- nothing happened. it was then that i heard it, a low hum coming from back in the darkened house. walking towards it i stumbled into my living room couch, flipped upside down and left in the middle of the hall. what had happened? some foul smell wafting out of the bathroom hastened my steps as i approached the dining room, where flickering candlelight spilled out through the door. in the room sat dave himself, perched on top of a five-foot ladder with an eerie smile. his fingers held his lips up, while his eyes glared at me with such force that i was left unable to summon words. on the floor beneath me sat a pile of crushed light bulbs.

"we're still friends, right?"
"of course we are, dave. but..."

i tried to gesture towards all of my broken furniture and upended belongings. it was a futile attempt: the ruins of my house encircled me on all sides. before i could say one more word dave disappeared, pale smoke dissipating into the air after a blinding flash. on top of the ladder i found a matching drum stick, identical to the first save for curious scorch marks on the grip.

the next time i saw dave neither of us mentioned what had happened. we met at a nice restaurant and spent the evening discussing my relationship woes and the great joys of turkey-based indulgences. i still give thanks for my friendship with dave every day, but i can't deny that sometimes on dark, lonely evenings my mind wanders back to that night and the peculiar horrors i experienced. ask not for whom dave grohl hums, dear reader- he hums for thee.