"What's up with the plastic?" Wyatt asked, and we all shrugged in the classic "Who knows?" gesture.
There was a heavy thump, then a strange sliding noise. Mom came back down the hall, her expression grim and set. She had a thick cord clutched in her hands, and she was dragging the offending monitor behind her. We watched in silence as she dragged it to the garage door, down the two steps with more heavy thumps, and into the middle of the plastic she had spread on the garage floor.
She went to where Dad had his tools, attached to a big pegboard on one wall of the garage. She selected a hammer, weighed it in her hand, then returned it to its spot. She moved to what looked like a small sledgehammer or a mallet of some sort. I don't know tools, so I can't say for certain what it was. She took it down from the wall, considered it, and evidently decided it would meet her requirements. Then she returned to where the monitor was sitting on the plastic, and beat it to smithereens. She hammered it until it was nothing more than a pile of pieces. Glass flew; plastic splintered. She beat it almost out of existence. Then she very calmly returned the sledgehammer to its place, dusted her hands, and walked back into the house with a smile on her face.
Wyatt had the weirdest expression in his eyes, as if he didn't know whether to laugh or run for the hills. Dad clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a smart man," he said encouragingly. "Just keep a regular check on your list of transgressions so you'll know if there are any major problems you need to handle, and you'll be okay."
"You promise?" Wyatt asked drily.
Dad laughed. "Hell, no. I have all I can handle; if you get in trouble, you're on your own."
Wyatt turned and winked at me. No, he wasn't on his own; we were in this together.