Toolshed is beside himself; though the tack hammer had done it's job he was unsatisfied. Before him lay the wreckage of seventeen televisions of various sizes. All had given Toolshed a hard time and none would be forgiven. Their screens were blacking out the sun in Toolshed's mind. Their antennae matriculating him into the College of Depression and Sadness. Their constant blare tearing a hole in his mind to be filled with the likes of anti-depressants, painkillers, and appetite suppressants. Could it be that all his efforts were in vain? A wind of emptiness still tore through his petty existence and the predatory pharmaceuticals preying upon his mind were still holding sway. Years previous it had struck Toolshed like a dumptruck slamming through a bridge embankment: he was hanging by a thread spun of medicated sadness above an abyss of woe. Though sidestepping the mental anguish had been fruitful for years, it eventually became futile. He realized the darkness creeping in could not be controlled. And so the media mogul that had been preaching in his living room for his entire life, the television, became private enemy number one within the realm of his broke-down, seedy boarding room. Scapegoats, however, breed more scapegoats. Every box of static was eventually trained under the mental cross-hairs of Toolshed. His latest and largest rampage yet, a raid on the local TV Repairman's shed, leaves him empty still. Popping another Xanax, Toolshed longs for a dramatic, single tear to drip down his cheek. But alas, tears denote emotion and Toolshed is so Zoned that he is just devoid of such things.
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