Tweeweeweeweewee
In my street there is a car alarm keeping me company through the night. It is one I haven’t heard before; sounds like somebody’s raygun set to “stun” in a seventies B-movie, except that it keeps going and going, and the tweeweeweewee sound warbles back and forth slowly in random ways to make sure it is very hard to fall asleep to (unlike a raygun set to “stun,” which puts you to sleep expertly (as does the average seventies B-movie, for that matter)).
The owner is probably already on the way home from his midtown travails, lying sideways in alcoholic stupor in a taxi with an understandably disgruntled driver who wishes he could find a new avenue in life as well as between Reykjavík and Hafnarfjörður.
Maybe the owner is the one who left that impressively bright-saturated-red puddle of vomit on my steps; probably he wanted to get it done before going home, out of consideration for the taxi driver. How do you give your barf that color? Drink Bloody-Maries all night? Get yourself a bleeding ulcer?
It just turned off. I’ll do the same.