Like Orpheus and Eurydice, or Lot & his wife, without the looking back part

Last night Wood and I set our signatures in blue ink on the freshly-delivered contract for our new 3-bedroom, 1470 square foot home in downtown Detroit with central air and a finished basement and a garbage disposal and a dishwasher and a full-sized washer and dryer. As the ink dried, the sound of trumpets echoed from all around and the walls of our tiny one-bedroom apartment rattled violently and the sheet that we've hung between our bed and Juniper's crib to keep her from gesticulating crude mammary gestures at us all night fluttered as though a strong gust of wind had ruffled it, and the apartment-sized washer/dryer combo that have been the bane of Wood's existence cowered in the corner of the kitchen, jiggling the doorknob to the fire escape, and the stuffed animals, all those goddamn stuffed animals whose depraved nightly inter-generic orgies have caused their number to swell to the thousands, and all their bizarre hybrid progeny, they whimpered in fear that one day soon they would be confined to a closet or a bedroom and no longer allowed to graze freely on cookie crumbs throughout our living room, and finally the hardwood floor of that very room (in the very spot where my mother-in-law has slept during each of her sixteen visits) opened up into a fiery, roaring maw of Charybdis from which resonated the cackling of Moloch in Pandaemonium and the barking of hellhounds returning to the womb of sin to gnaw at her entrails. . .

I put a rug over it and assured Wood that now we were going to get out of this hellhole for good.