The bathtub sloshes in the humid dark. It sloshes because it is filled with... liquid, a liquid that submerges and contains. A man cowers in the corner, a tiny, crumpled man, a man who fears for the end of bathtub liquid containment. He has in his possession a certain clock that can count those hours—has been counting those kernels of seconds mounded in cupped hands of minutes—since it was first constructed and wound by trembling, doom-palsied fingers. The man's fear is compounded by the essential paradox of clocks: that such devices are incapable of measuring the infinite (so it would seem, though it has never been true for anyone) ray of time, instead clipping, with their gear-work, a 12-hour segment joined at the ends like the Ouroboros wyrm. The horrid clock mocks the illusion of Eternity with the same 60 seconds, the same 60 minutes, the same 12 hours repeated for as long as the spring holds the nervous tension of those original hands. The man's true fear is not that things will end but that he must endure the anxiety of his circumstance in an unchanging, undying cycle as the bathtub sloshes in the humid dark. 

Question 1: When the alarm sounds, is it a heart attack, poop, or both?

Question 2: This is not a question: Let's involve a monkey with a radio collar (or bomb) somehow.