Roy and Janet
My entry for this crazy short story thing. Word limit is 500 so I use 499, you can check if you want!
[Editor's note: this story is for grown-up readers only.]
Roy was born under a cloud of bad feeling, a heroin addicted mother and no home, each factor making the other one seem worse. His Mum, Janet, loved her child very much and although she could not offer him a permanent home or future, she gave him all the love she could.
It was a Sunday when things got really bad, Roy wouldn’t sleep and Janet needed to get him down for the night so she could go into town and make some money. With the scraps of her last hit still lingering, Janet gave Roy some sleeping pills and ran out into the cold rain. The water fell onto her body and cascaded down her, she was hardly wearing any clothes and she was freezing, the umbrella she had was broken and tattered, a mirror image of her life. She stumbled onto her usual ‘spot’ where she waited and waited, a car pulled up.
Several hours later, Janet was dropped off on the same street corner, chucked out like rubbish, no love, no care, no feeling. Janet felt sick, she bent down to vomit in the drain but then the thought of Roy entered her mind and there was a moment where she felt at peace… Swallowing the sick that sat at the deep crevasse at the back of her throat, she collected herself and ran to see her son.
It wasn’t long before she was home and although the urge for a fix was too much to bear, she had to make sure her son was well. The thought that she may have made a massive mistake consumed her, but so did the thought of heroin.
Her worst fears were realised, as much as she shook, shouted or screamed she could not wake Roy up. She thought he was dead. The one thing in her life that was pure and innocent had gone. She had killed her son; killed the one thing that she would kill others to protect. Going to sell her body to get heroin tokens had sold her son to the afterlife.
Janet grabbed a knife, she would not let herself be treated like rubbish by this life, man after man had raped her of her dignity; now she would find dignity in death. She cut into her wrist and severed the veins, the meat clinging to her bone split open with ease and the blood started to pour out. As her life faded away, she heard a cry and a scream, it was Roy. He was not dead.
It was too late, Janet’s life started to fade away, the pain of her wrists was matched only by that of the fact that she knew her beloved Roy’s life would be a waste. She bit her thumb.
Two weeks past until anyone noticed anything was wrong. The police crashed through the door, only to see two rotting corpses. Arranged like meat in an abattoir, like meat on a counter, like rubbish in a bin.
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Grown up readers indeed. It is smut ridden. Beautiful.
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very well done
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Toe curling, Dan. Keep it up. You’ll be missed next year.
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The Beginnings (Initiate Son Et Lumière)
There once lived an enormously oversized Gorilla called Steve. He ate way too much and frequently had heartburn (accounting for the heartburn was the fact that he deep fried all his food). His culinary day normally began with deep fried Weetabix drenched in Guinness with lashings of Roquet-deep fried of course. Then as an appetiser before lunch he would find a smaller animal, (like a Rabbit) kill it, deep fry it and eat it. (This activity and culinary delight is now eliminated from his day as he is too fat to move and therefore hunt). Then for lunch he would be conservative and just eat a few bananas-nineteen to be precise- and although he deep fried them all he would use a lighter recipe for his batter. Normally by this time all the food he had eaten would have put him in a light coma so he’d fall asleep for several hours.
When waking up he would be intoxicated by a feeling to a) eat and b) go down the pub. So he would kill two birds with one muffin and munch on bar snacks at his local. Cheesy moments were his favourite but they did pong something nasty, after about twenty eight packs people got put off by him and tended to leave the premises. You would think by this time the landlord would ask him to leave but for some reason, he never did.
The landlord was a shifty character, he had an eye patch, a pet parrot and spoke mostly in “Argghss” his real name was Terrence but an unfortunate accident with a shed door and a telephone wire meant he thought he was a pirate. Formerly a successful investment banker, Terrence, began pillaging, drinking heavily and digging for gold. Then one day, after he had just ransacked an old ladies biscuit tin (all pirates have to start somewhere) he decided to look for treasure. Grabbing a spade out of the unfortunate Granny’s tool shed, he quickly began digging away. Rather peculiarly, and rather continently, he found a treasure chest. In it was a vast collection of Star Wars memorabilia, Beano magazines and at least five Nintendo Entertainment Systems. Also, the case was laced with gold and was made from a wood dating back to the Tudors. All in all Terrence was rich.
Now most pirates at this point would purchase a boat, drink lots of beer and hire several prostitutes to stroke his nipples. Unfortunately, as mentally unstable as he was, Terrence had a chronic fear of water; he could not drink at the moment due to an enlarged liver and although he was as horny as the next man, his fear of water, and inherently showers, had left him smelling as if he was a hobo who enjoyed the past time of Pig Wrestling. . As a result of this terrible stench, no one would go near him, not even Helga, the oldest, dirtiest, most flea ridden hooker to ever cross the land. So unable to do any of the three things most stereotypically associated with pirates, Terrence retired from full time Piracy and became a landlord by acquiring “The Flossing Rabbit”.
One would expect Terrence to have turned the public house into a Pirate themed pub, but it was already themed and as a result had pushed away customers. Fed up of being told how they should drink their beer, sip their wine and gargle their mouthwash (yes this was a Dentist themed pub), they left and went to the pub over the road.
The first few weeks of his residency at the newly acquired Flossing Rabbit were far from pleasant, the customers had become so disgruntled at the way they were forced to wash their teeth with every shot, that they were hurling bricks, rocks and soap (they could smell) through the windows. This made the renovation of the premises even harder and even though Terrence cried out that it was under new management, the taste of Colgate, Listerine and Dental Floss lingered in the mouth of too many. The torture of being asked, “Have you washed out your molars?” every time you order a pint of Bitter petrified the former locals, and like a band of inbred farmers (which is pretty much what they were anyway) going after an Ogre with pitch forks and clubs on fire, they went after the Flossing Rabbit. Day and night, Terrence would have to endure, all sorts of projectiles, not only the aforementioned but even the might of Mini Cheddars! People were buying them form the pub over the road just to chuck them at Terrence.
Eventually the punishment died down and the projectiles stopped invading his investment. Relieved? Yes, but still the imminent feeling of failure lurked around the corner like a vulture stalking its prey. Waiting for it to die so that it can pick up the pieces, chew, and then spit them out. The damage done by the angry locals had put costs through the roof and with takings nearly non existent Terrence began to think about giving up and going.
It was a dark, cold and wet night. The only light offered was that of the lighting and thunder that belted down from the sky. It had been a baron couple of weeks, no business, no rain and no relief from either the sun or the anger of the people that surrounded Terrence. But on this dark night something happened that would change the landscape of Jolly Mary forever!
Terrence could not sleep, the thought of failure coupled with the tremendous clatter of Mother Nature outside kept him awake. It was very late when Terrence made the call for help that would change his life forever. Weary eyed and sore of head, he shouted, “HELP ME!!! Arggh! I be a Pirate, with no money, no hope and no future, what do I do? HELP ME!!!” Exhausted and on the verge of a mental breakdown, he fell back into his bed. And as he fell, something happened, something magical. There was a tinkling sound, which was followed by a yellow glow and a strange smell. Small stars began to fill the room and as the light that these stars emitted got ever more prominent, a creature showed itself.
With feelings of fear and intrigue intertwining into a ball of confusion, Terrence tentatively asked, “Who are you? What do you want from me?” He put his shaking hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to protect his eyes from the blinding light of this quite magical moment. Still waiting for a reply, he dragged himself back, further into the depths of the pillow, trying to escape this wonderful moment through fear of the unknown. The light began to fade and a strange dust fell on to the floor. Now, as clear as day, a fairy shone in the bedroom’s night.
Terrence’s bowel became loose and he was struggling to keep his fluids. Then the moment came, the fairy spoke.
“Are you the one who called for elp?” Asked the fairy in a deep, gritty and manly voice. There was no reply, Terrence wore a face of shock, fear and confusion; how could something that held so much beauty sound as like gravel going round and round in a washing machine?
“My names Trudy, alright, you’re in the shit aren’t you really? well if you answer these three questions, truthfully and honestly then I will help you with this pub.” Proclaimed the fairy, named Trudy, who, as Terrence’s eyes became more and more adjust to the light also looked like she was overweight.
“Ok, ask away and I shall answer like ye say ye want me to.”
“What?”
“Be you not fluent in the ways of the pirate?”
“No you stupid idiot! You want me to ask you the questions or not?”
“Aye!”
“Yes?”
“Aye, Yes!”
“Ok then, ere we go, first question: What is your greatest fear?”
He paused for a few seconds as the thought of the thing that haunted him ran through his head, like cars going down the motorway, they shot passed each other with ever more impending danger daunting him. He grabbed his duvet tighter, scrunching it up like a piece of paper, holding it tighter and closer to him as if to make some sort of shield to protect him from the thoughts that could hurt him.
“Water,” he muttered under his breath, saying it loudly was enough to bring on a tidal wave of negativity, a tsunami of fear or a downfall of horror.
“What?”
He reached for his comfort lemon, yes a lemon, in the hope that it would give him the strength to say what he needed to at the required volume. Placing the fruit close to his heart he screamed, “WATER!” He began to shake, like he had a fever, but he quickly looked at his lemon and all was well, its yellow, swollen, citric power protected him from the pain that he brought upon himself.
“Ok love. Water it is, next question…err: What is your greatest…no fondest…memory? Said Trudy who did not seem entirely sure of herself, she also seemed preoccupied with something and was fiddling her thumbs as if she had forgotten or needed something.
“Urrrm, errr, hmmm, let me be seeing urr…”
“Look darling I aint got all night, I got other useless nothings, sorry I mean lost souls, who need my elp. Now please decide so I can get out of ere.” Interrupted Trudy, who was getting more and more agitated, with her thumb going into to twiddle overdrive.
“My fondest memory be when I was twelve and I found a turtle, Percy be its name, I made it a lil house with a lil wee bed, to rest its head! And..”
Again Trudy interrupted, “Ok fondest memory sorted, now this last question all I need you to do is not lie. Can you do that for me?”
“Aye,” replied Terrence with his left eye brow going up in the air and his eye ball growing in size accordingly.
“Have you ever had fantasies of a sexual nature for a person of the same sex?”
“Pardon, what you be saying you scurvy dog?”
“Have you ever had any gay thoughts? Basically the fairy rule book says that if someone lies to this question then they are a scummy liar and I shouldn’t elp em. Your answer is unimportant; we just wanna see how truthful you are,” coughed Trudy who was becoming more frustrated by the second, her thumbs moving quicker than a helicopter propeller.
“So ye just wanting me to say yay or nay to ya question?”
“Yes!” shouted Trudy who had had enough and stopped the twiddling and lit up a cigarette, much to the disgrace of Terrence who was severely against smoking, what with having asthma, owning a pub (public are) and being a former smoker which in turn represented his days as an evil investment banker.
“What the fuck are you doing?” screamed Terrence, losing his pirate accent as he did.
“I’m sorry but I need a fag, it’s been at least twenty minutes since my last one.”
“Well you will just have to wait for a bit longer then wont you!?”
“Yeah but…”
“No! I am very grateful but I would much prefer it if you didn’t a) give me cancer, b) remind me of a past I don’t want and c) make me smell like the inside of a miner’s lungs! Now either you stop smoking and let me answer the question or fuck off!” Terrence was bright red with rage and as he bellowed out each syllable the look of shock on Trudy’s face became more prominent. She was not use to such bad feeling towards her, normally if she came to help someone they would let her do what she wants, she has even had a shit in someone’s fish tank before. Did they care? Did they balls! But perhaps she had taken her fairyness for granted and now she was paying the price. Her lungs were tattered and this tirade of anger from Terrence had done much the same to her confidence. She began to cry.
As the tears poured out of her eyes, Terrence started to feel a strange guilt overcome him and with this he put a hand out. Trudy saw this gesture of friendship and duly obliged, stepping on to his hand and becoming one. With each step that she got closer to Terrence, he realised that she was not only a clear fag addict – she had nicotine coloured hair, dirty nails and an extinguished cancer stick in her left hand – but she also resembled a middle age woman who just will not let go of her younger days. She wore too much make up, wore too little clothes and had the sophistication and charm of a piece of dog faeces…in a bag.
With her belly rolling out her boob tube and her 99p mascara starting to run, she pathetically muttered something that Terrence could not hear.
“Pardon?” asked Terrence whose pitch, tone and volume had transformed to that of a person consoling someone after the death of lost one; slightly patronising, ever so understanding and overzealously nice.
“I said; why am I such a mess?” screamed Trudy, throwing her cigarette away in disgust and moving her arms around as if she was some kind of adolescent, hormonal teenager having a hissy fit.
“You’re not a mess…
“I am! Nobody loves me,” the tears became more violent, so Terrence reached for a tissue but then remembered that his tissues would probably act as a tepee for Trudy and not much else, “I’m fat, I smell and I’m a shit mother.”
“Ok you are right you are fat yes, you do smell – like a burnt piece of plastic – and although I have only just met you I can quite happily say that you, as a mother, are rather turd shaped. However, you seem to have an allegory of innocence which I think you need to find and pull out. You don’t need “OK Magazine” or “Victoria Beckham’s brilliant new bread and butter pudding diet” all you need is a bit of will power. You can stop smoking, you can lose the weight and yes, you can stop social services coming round every two weeks to check if you have been staying in with your child on a Friday night instead clinging on to some equally as sad and desperate middle aged bloke who has a swollen wallet and equally as swollen balls!”
“You really think so?” asked Trudy who thanks to this honest tirade of abuse and help had stopped crying.
“I know so! Now please ask me the last question.
“Ok,” she wiped what tears were left off her face and replaced the miserable frown that resided on her cheeks to a wonderful smile of hope and joy, “have you ever had thought of a sexual nature for a person of the same sex?”
“No.” replied Terrence with no emotion whatsoever.
After the last question both Trudy and Terrence were silent. Both looked tired and shocked after what had just taken place. Terrence was expecting some sort of wonderful explosion of magical fairy dust but there nothing. They were both intrigued, Trudy looked at her handbook and after a minute or so of rapidly rummaging through the pages she floated up into the air and cast her waver her wand.
“In the morrow, you shall wake up and all we be well, you will change the name of this public house to the first two things you see (i.e. “The Blank and Blank”) and with the same will power you have installed into me you will turn this place around. Now sleep!!!”
As she began to depart a wonderful light shone, little stars began to appear and almost as soon as they did, they began to disappear. With sounds of winds whirling and pearls dropping an intoxicating smell of the sweetest fruits hit the air. As she twirled up into the air, her outline began to fade and as Terrence sat amazed he began to drift off. All that was left was a residue of fairy dust, slight reeds of scent and a man, in his bed, at peace.
The next day finally came round and Terrence woke up, as his eye lids parted from one another, leaving a deposit of mucus in the corner of each eye and blocking his vision slightly. As his sight became clearer he remembered that the first two things he would see would be his new pub and would hold the key to success for the forthcoming future. He frantically closed his eyes and started to think about clambering to a position where he would know what was around and therefore would be able to name his pub with no luck, just planning. The eyes stayed closed for a minute or so as thoughts ran though his mind but after a while he realised that the fairy coming to his abode happened for a reason and what she told him had to therefore be for a reason.
Tentatively Terrence opened his two eyes, a feeling of excitement and fear overcame his face (just his face) and the gooey jelly he called his eyes saw the two things that would act as a name. The first did not surprise him, it was his comfort lemon; its slightly bruised yellow skin and obscure egg shape stood in front of him like…well a lemon. The second item was similar in shape but was rather alien to his habitat (i.e. his bedroom). It is not often that hand-grenades are just placed on your duvet but somehow there was one there and Terrence vowed to honour Trudy’s request and named the public house what it is today, The Lemon and Hand Grenade.
With a new name came a sense of strength. It shot through Terrence’s arteries and he shot up, dropping his lemon and clenching his fist! He tensed all his muscles and like a professional wrestler, displayed his body for all (in this case a small buzzard passing the window) to see, shouting out a large, “Arggggh!” as he did so. Although he was not a notably muscular, strong or physically impressive pirate, he was going to sail to the top of the public house mountain and anyone who got in his way would be quashed!
After pushing the door open in quite a violent fashion, and scaring a few of the spiders who had been lurking in the corners of the hallway in the process, he stomped down the corridor and went into the garage where he picked up a ladder, a hammer, a screwdriver, some paint and a paintbrush. He was acting mainly on impulse but he knew that he wanted to rid himself of the flossy tangles of the pub and make it something new, something that the public would want and something that would not keep him up till the cuckoo crows.
Determined but in need of a wee Terrence proceeded to the front of the premises and as he swung open the door his face of aggression, resolution and a new found optimism were wiped off his face and replaced with shock, just shock.
Now outside in just his pyjamas, (a pair of boxer shorts, a bandanna and a t-shirt commemorating Edam cheese) the cold blanketing his body, he dropped the ladder and likewise his jaw. Staring as if he had just discovered some kind of new plum with a mouth like a guppy fish at feeding time he relaxed his muscles. What adrenaline there was left in him from his will power fuelled energy burst evaporated into the air and a feeling of bewilderment overcame him. For what was across the road would change his life forever.
In the storm of the night before, the large redwood that overlooked all of Jolly Mary fell, and beneath it were not safety mats or a nice a net, but the pub that had been taking all of Terrence’s customers away. The Paintbrush and Stapler (known to the locals as the pencil case) sat directly below the might beast of a tree and what with its size and sheer presence they saw it as the thing that would protect them and for years at held in high regard. But on that morning they cursed its name and wondered as to what part of mother nature could be so strong, so vicious so violent and forceful that it could slay a tree which had stood proud in this small part of the world for so long.
Terrence turned white, whiter than snow, as he began to realise that this could well be the work of Trudy. Had she caused all this devastation in order to help him? had she caused the storm in the first place? or what it just a case of a really bad storm and some more bad weather reporting from Mr Fish?
Navigating through the destruction was no easy business, braches and twigs lay stricken on the road, separated from the parent and never to be returned again. What was once a cobbled street surrounded by ancient walls made from slate from a long time ago, was transformed into a forest of destruction. Leaves covered the surface of the street with the occasional stone showing, but only in the shadow of the decimation of the wood that stood above them.
After a while he made his way across to survey the damage and to see if anyone was in danger. Clambering up and over the main trunk, Terrence was horrified! The landlord lay, naked, with a collection of people around him, weeping, and sobbing. Behind him was a pub, beyond repair with windows smashed doors caved in and the statue of a rubber duck disfigured beyond repair. The tears that flowed were not for the landlord himself as although he died, and death is not that funny really (unless it happens to someone who is a complete bastard, in which case this was hilarious) the pub lay dead also and as the locals were more stubborn than Simon Cowell on the fact that he is not a cunt, they would not wet their whistles anywhere else. They were now publess and alone.
Like the locals the landlord was a stubborn old git, he refused to serve people who held hands when they entered the premises, he refused to stock more than one type of lager at a time and had the customer service skills of pit-bull terrier with a piece of glass in its arse. He had a voice like Barry White gargling gravel and a face similar to that of the duck statue that stood disfigured outside. The face was not his fault, being repeatedly attacked with the ugly stick, well in the case of Frederick, ugly heat-seeking missile, was something he had no control over. Doctors had no explanation for it and neither did he. It was a local myth that he had come out of his Swedish mother’s vagina sideways and therefore had a run in with a can of coke that was stuck up there…but that was bollocks.
What made him even more of a bastard was the fact that he had such weird sexual fetishes and made them very public. Obviously, in the interest of fairness one must understand that all of us have sick thought every now and again, but parading them in front of everyone, especially at primary school sports days is, well, a bit sick (although in retrospect quite funny).
The first instance of showing off what he liked to do behind closed doors, and curtains, was when – at the 4th Annual Anniversary of Princess Diana’s death dinner – he dressed up as a maid and began serving everyone. At this point people just thought he was being very out of character and trying to make the event more, light hearted. They were however proved very wrong when after ten minute or so he started masturbating in front of everyone and when asked to stop he simply dunked his penis in the Tar Tar sauce and let go, after a ferocious, “Aaaa yeaaah!” out came a disgusting yellow, sticky overly thick mess that was masquerading as semen. Not satisfied at just silencing everyone who sat in the room he decided to sicken them some more by grabbing the small dish and smearing its content all over his face. Needless to say this act was met with shock by all in attendance. One man shouted, “You fucking sicko! Have some respect for the dear lady Diana will you!?” To which, like Oscar Wilde perhaps would have, or even Mr Chaucer had he been the one doing the sick deed, Frederick replied , “Ah Fuck off, no one gives a shit though really do they?” A fair point as, like the sick old bastard said, no did give a shit, only the protesting man and the Daily Express. However his actions were met with some dismay and disgust and many people left, apart from those who were too intoxicated to do so.
The second instance of public sexual sickness was on bonfire night the year after. As it was his event, he felt it morally right to make a speech thanking everyone who had come and asking them to give generously to the several causes that the event was organised for. Needless to say the speech was met with a pleasant round of applause, but the clapping soon stopped. Being in charge of the bonfire, Frederick has access to an abundance of sticks and feeling a bit randy he inserted one of the sticks up his rectum. A flabbergasted crowd stood, shielded their children’s eyes and watch whilst he bounced up and down, groaning in both pain and pleasure. Similar to what might happen if a large box labelled Anthrax, carried by a man wearing Islam attire, were to be placed in front of them and prized open, the crowd ran. The field was almost empty within seconds and in the middle there was just one old half Swedish landlord, bouncing up and down on a rough piece of wood.
The third and final piece of public perversity was something that happened at the school sports day of the penultimate year of his life. I would go into graphic detail but I shant as I have just eaten. All I can say that it involved a rent boy, a gimp costume, some whipped cream, some human excrement and a lot of small children screaming at what was perhaps the sickest thing to come out of Jolly Mary since the bulimia epidemic of the early 1970s. The police were called and Frederick was taken away, as was the rent boy (who, not that it really matters, was a podgy little Welsh boy named Huw), to the police station where they would be charged and tried for several crimes; but as I feel his piece has gone on for long enough I wont bore you with the details of what they were.
One member of the crowd standing around the frail, naked and rather blue looking Frederick was holding what appeared to be some plastic. It was hard to believe that a tree which weighed the probable collective weight of all of Jolly Mary could kill someone without leaving any external evidence and the plastic started the cogs off in Terrence’s mind. Without wanting to he asked what happened, “Hi, urrm what happened? Is he ok?” said Terrence knowing that the reaction he would receive would be volatile and patronising.
“What?” replied the man, who was sporting a Bjorn Borg headband and a dressing gown saying “Big Boy” in glittery italic font. In truth the man should have been sued under the trades descriptions act as he was not big, he was in fact around 5ft and had all the masculinity of a wet cloth. Nevertheless Terrence wanted to know what had happened and asked the clearly disgruntled man the question again.
“Urrm…” said Terrence before being rudely cut off.
“Well what do you think happened? Frederick decided he wanted to redecorate and decided that a giant redwood would be a nice feature! In case you haven’t noticed I am in fact being sarcastic you twat!” shouted the man who was being inconceivably rude, but Terrence expected this so stood his ground.
“Ok…sorry I asked, I’ll be asking someone else”
“Look do you want to know what really happened?”
“Aye, that I do” replied Terrence who was starting to regain his pirate voice that he lost in shock last night.
“Basically, as you have probably worked out with those three or four brain cells in there, the storm made the tree come down and that is the reason why we are upset. The reason why that bastard is lying naked is because Grant, the one holding the plastic, went in the morning to see if the beer barrels had been hurt…” The man stopped speaking briefly as he wiped a developing tear away from his face at the thought of spilt ale and broken bags of peanuts. “Well he thought he had best go upstairs to see if there was anyone hurt and he found Frederick with a bag over his head lying naked on the floor. Grant doesn’t know what, probably one of Fred’s sick sex games gone wrong…all that beer, that poor innocent beer! There, you happy now?” asked the man who had now gone into a full blown crying fest.
“Urrr Yes, thanks.” Said Terrence who backed away, slightly disturbed at the man’s clearly alcoholic level of obsession for the safety of the beer.
Surprisingly, Frederick’s death was not the conclusion of a sexual experiment gone wrong. It was in fact suicide as what the man failed to tell Terrence, mainly because Grant forgot to tell him, was that beside Frederick was a letter from his estranged wife. It read:
Dear Frederick,
It is with a heavy heart that I write these words. We have not spoken for such for a long time but I hope that you will remember me in your heart just as much as I know you will in your mind. The reason I write is to inform you that our dear son, Nathanial, has past away. He died in a car accident last year. The ceremony took place a week after at the same church where we were wed, it was well attended and I even saw your brother; the hospital let him out for the day. I apologise for the delay in letting you know is that in his will it stated that he did not want you present at the funeral so I thought it would be best to wait before telling you.
I know this is hard to take but you have to expect it really and although I feel bad for you, I also feel in agreement with Nathanial as the reason why your relationship with him failed, is the same as the reason why ours did. You were such a nice father and husband, but something happened deep inside that turned you bad and from that day the man I fell in love with, was a man I began to hate.
I also write to ask for a divorce as I have fallen in love again. His name is Aneal and we have been together for almost a year; I want to marry him and I know that you will do the right thing. I don’t want anything else from you other than a promise that you will try and get help as you are old now and I know that your mind will have become more frail and sick.
I am sure that when you leave this mortal realm you will do as the husband and loving father that you once were and not the demented pervert that you have become.
Your wife and former friend, Harriet.
Having read the letter, Frederick realised the error of his ways, and gave up on all hope of once being happy again. His decision to become a guerrilla of sexual deviance and personal enjoyment, at the expense of others, had cost him his marriage and any chance of reconciliation with his son. Having this clarified in a letter was too much to bear so he took his own life, perhaps in the meagre hope that he could return to the person he once was and be with his son, in death and for all eternity. Wrapping some plastic from the covering of a coke syrup box, and ductaping it air tight, he took his own life; clutching on to the letter that led him to do so, he suffocated. And with each dying breath one can only assume that he felt a feeling of regret more than anyone of us could imagine; as the bag closed in on him, surrounding him and covering him like a cloak, his life became more distant. Forever, for Frederick at least, was a long time coming.
Terrence now knew that it was time to leave and as he heard the echo of the ambulances in the background he remembered the visit of the fairy. Going inside to relieve himself of the wee that had been storing up inside his bladder he started to realise that all this was not coincidence, a bastard dead, a pub gone and a new chance for him to be a success. As the wee poured out of his penis he starting to think of the changes he would make to his pub with the first being the thing he set out to do this morning: get up that ladder and like a child’s scribble attached to a fridge by a magnet, he would graffiti “The Lemon and Hand-Grenade” on the sign for all to see.
As the removal of the tree took place, and the rather meagre funeral procession rolled by, Terrence busied himself with transforming the cursed Flossing Rabbit. New furniture, new beer, new snacks, new windows, even new toilet seats and even new ornamental lemons and hand-grenades were purchased and fitted by Terrence. To fund the renovation he got out a load from Smiley Bank and as a result, placing 100% faith in Trudy, the fairy who came to help him but realised she needed help too.
The work was finished and the locals were won over. The pub was a full, smoke-free haven and Terrence was enjoying nothing but good times. With no one wanting, or able, to purchase the premises over the road, Terrence struck up a monopoly and every day he thanked the fairy who had visited him on that dark night.
So there sat Steve, drinking away, on his own in an empty but successful pub. Terrence leant on the bar preparing for the night to come; drunk middle aged women, desperate men and inbred farming locals would all flock to the pub in the hope that they might find something at the bottom of a bottle or in the dregs of a glass of white wine. In the mean time he was content standing, waiting and being alone with his fat Gorilla friend.
The Story of Steve (The obese Gorilla)
Steve leant back on the bench that Terrence has specially made for him; reinforced with iron girders to take the extreme weight which he exerted on it every day. One has to feel sorry for the bench. An antique bench having residency at many a prestigious place had been purchased by another seemingly loving owner at an auction, only to be tortured daily by the phenomenal behind of a fabulously overweight Gorilla. To add insult to injury he now had to wear braces equivalent to a Zimmer frame or a walking stick. The antique mahogany sitting place was once looked at with wonder and glee by compatriots and benches alike, but now it sits there, like a vegetable, living too long and hating every minute of it.
Leaning back in this manner created a creaking sound similar to that of a door in need of WD40. The sound alerted Terrence who looked up from reading the paper (which had the headline, “HOT CHOCOLATE CAN CAUSE CANCER” (needless to say he was reading the Daily Mail, where journalistic virtue and objectivity come second place to a load of racist middle class twats) in shock that Steve had enough energy to move his massive structure.
“You be ok young Steve?” asked Terrence with as much concern as a pirate can place in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m ok.” responded Steve who judging by the glumness on his face, the lack of words in his reply and the tone with which he delivered them, was not ok. Terrence knew this and said, “Come on matey, let’s be havin you. What be the matter?”
“Well look at me, I’m a fat, greasy, smelly and unhealthy mess. You’re my only friend and that’s only cuz you feel sorry for me. I haven’t got a job, I haven’t got a future and I haven’t got any family who will speak to me. I’ve got so fat now that I can’t even get drunk which was the only thing that kept me going before! It’s just shit!” shouted Steve who slammed his massive Gorilla hand on the table in anger and dropped his head.
Terrence knew that Steve could never have been entirely happy with his subsistence but he never expected his friend to be this unhappy. Seeing that he was in quite a bit of discomfort he went over to him and sat on the chair opposite. Steve lifted his head and looked at Terrence. He asked, “What should I do?”
Unlike most Gorillas, Steve was born in a small village in Leicestershire called Great Glen. Similar to Jolly Mary, it had an aged charm and fantastic scenery. There were no cobbled streets and no giant trees but you can’t have everything in life.
All was well for Steve until he hit his eighteenth birthday. His parents, who were very wealthy (a wealth that would be passed to them if there was any misfortune placed upon them) and owned property, a large sock making company, a small collection of convenience stores and the pub at which they resided, organised a surprise party. They asked their son to go down to the local shop to get some milk and quickly they filled the pub with his friends and almost all of his extended family expecting him to come back and for the festivities to begin.
However Steve did not come back swiftly, he got sidetracked and ended up going round his girlfriend Sara’s house. Unable to tell his parents that he was going to her house – due to the hostility that his catholic parents held towards Hindus – he proceeded to go round and would concoct a story for his tardiness later.
Sara was a nice girl and had been to school with Steve since the age of 7. Being one of the few Hindus in the village, along with the fact that she, like Steve, was a former jungle dwelling Gorilla meant that they struck up a bond from the moment they met and all those around them knew that they would one day be married. However, the parents of both Sara and Steve were not so fairytaleesque in their viewing of the situation. Sara’s family did not approve of Steve and Steve’s family did not approve of Sara.
Although most people knew they were together, even the parents had a subliminal inkling; they could never meet, declare their love or talk about one another in public. It was a secret relationship that most people knew existed but only through rumour, suspicion and common sense.
Knowing that he could not be too long, but not knowing about the party, he ran to her house and within moments he had arrived at her front door. Steve stood sheepishly at the door hoping that know one had seen him, a few beads of sweat crawled their way down his face and rolled around his jaw.
“Alright?!” said Sara who placed her hands around his eyes as she was standing behind him in the “Guess Who?” position that is more familiar with over flirty, immature sluts one might encounter in sixth form…hmm.
“Urrm Sara?” replied Steve in an accommodating voice, joining in with the game but only really thinking about what all boys do at his age…food.
“Yeah, hehe, come in quick before anyone sees you!”
“Ok, is that a cheese toasty I smell?”
They scuttled into the house round the backdoor to find that Steve’s nose had let him down, Sara was in fact cooking a steak; being about as Hindu as the pope she would secretly cook beef, destroy her liver and do many other things that would send her to Hindu hell! Steve, like Sara, was about as religious as a toothpick and was only labelled a catholic as his parents were. Like Sara, he also took part in all those unholy activities (drinking, gambling, fornication et cetera) that made him about as catholic as a Jew. If Mr and Mrs Patel came into house to see Sara cooking beef with her boyfriend, who was a catholic, then they would not be best pleased. In fact, the only way they could be less happy was if an elephant came and shat in their car, pissed in the porch and then ate their entire supply of Chapattis.
The 8oz steak that Sara was frying was perfectly cooked and Steve looked on with jealousy coming out of his ears like steam out of a locomotive’s funnel. Sara ate and spoke at the same time so he had no idea what she was saying so just nodded his head in approval of everything she said. Eyes still locked on what was left of the flawlessly cooked steak, Steve just sat there nodding and occasionally saying yes like some sort of robot. Although she spoke at the same time as eating, the steak went quickly and unfortunately for Steve, there was nothing left. Sara patted her belly in gratification for the meal she had just eaten, and Steve dropped his head.
“Wanna go upstairs?” asked Sara who was clearly quite horny and had probably just cooked the steak in front of Steve in order to turn him on some more.
“Yeah go on then.” He replied, trying to sound cool.
Unfortunately they never made it upstairs. Steve wrapped his arms around her waste and she replied by doing the same, he leant forward and kissed her on the lips and once again she replied mutually. Tonsil hockey then ensued and Steve became more and more aroused with his trouser snake getting harder and harder by the second. Sara started to feel goosepimply. Steve slid his hand down her back and began to kiss her neck. She leant back in approval and let out a slight grown. She leant against the work surface and let Steve slide his hands further. Sara began to undo her buttons on her trousers and Steve pulled them down slowly, revealing her Gorilla skin for all to see. With Steve’s man servant now standing to attention, Sara grabbed at his crotch which in turn caused Steve to shiver uncontrollably. Like she had done with hers, he undid the buttons on his trousers and she duly pulled them down. She leant back on the work surface again as Steve began to go to his knees, stroking her supple skin as he went down. He kissed the inside of her leg as he slowly eeked down her underwear and then began to kiss the area they had once concealed. Once again Sara let out a groan but this one louder and higher pitched than before.
Steve busied himself with pleasuring his girlfriend for the next couple of minutes and as he did he got harder and more excited in anticipation of what was to come. As the groans got more ferocious, Steve stood up in order to tease the one he loved. But still wanting to excite her he left his hand below. As soon as he came up to kiss her once more, she pulled at his boxer shorts to reveal his throbbing erection. Sara began to play with it and as she did Steve kissed her neck. More shivers ran round her body. Steve became even more unstable. Sara’s Gorilla-vagina was wet with excitement and she grabbed Steve’s Gorilla-willy and inserted it in herself. Bent back on the kitchen work surface she once again wrapped her arms around Steve, pulling him closer to her and making his hard Gorilla-penis penetrate her further. Both Steve and Sara groaned with severe excitement and were unaware of the world around them.
Only able to transfix their minds to one another, they continued pulsate their bodies into an explosion of love. But soon there would be an explosion of a less delightful emotion.
The front door swung open and in stepped the one figure that neither wanted to see. (No not Phil Collins). It was Sara’s dad, the impressively large (in the muscular and daunting sense, not his penis) Mr Patel back early from his weekend break with Mrs Patel. He was a former Gorilla body builder and generally not a nice Gorilla. Rude, aggressive and unwilling to listen to others were all personality traits that could be pinned upon him. Some say that success can mellow people; the fact that he had become a very successful builder and was equally as successful in his body building career had done exactly the opposite.
For a creature of this calibre, (i.e. a complete twat) to see your supposedly Hindu daughter having sex with a supposedly catholic boy…in your kitchen…which smells of beef, even after you have forbidden it, is like washing yourself in a bath made of francium.
The front door led straight into the hall way which sequentially led into the kitchen where as plain as day, Mr Patel could see his daughter engaging in naughtiness with the one person she was not allowed to be naughty with.
“What the fuck is going on?” bellowed the angry Mr Patel, punching the wall and imposingly striding down the hall.
“Oh shit!” spat Steve who stretched his mouth horizontally in horror. Grabbing his bits with one hand and collecting the floor stricken attire with the other he began to back away.
“Dad, calm down! Please!” begged Sara but Mr Patel drew ever closer.
“Look Mr Patel, I’m sorry urrm but…
“Don’t you fuckin walk away from me you little shit, I’m gunna rip your head off!”
“Dad…”
“Shut up you!” screamed Sara’s father who was now right in front of her. He pointed at her menacingly and breathed heavily; at the same time she backed away sheepishly, trying to pull up her trousers. All the while Mrs Patel stood in the hall way silent, almost waiting for permission to speak, hanging her head in embarrassment perhaps? Or maybe scared of her husband and what he could do in this angry state? “You’d better keep quiet or I’ll sling you out of this house forever!”
Whilst Mr Patel’s attention was somewhere else, Steve took the opportunity to properly dress himself, bar his trainers (a lovely pair of Green Flash) and run out of the back door. Mr Patel began to chase him; he barged past his wife with the intention of cutting off the “little shit” that he had caught copulating with his daughter. But Steve was younger, fitter and consequently, a whole lot quicker. By the time Mr Patel had got to the apex of the driveway, Steve was long gone.
Still angry, he went inside, slamming the door behind him; the force almost unhinged the door. Several minutes later he came outside with tears forming in his eyes, bright red knuckles and a face that did not know what emotion to convey.
A gust of wind blew past the house, picking up a leaf and taking it down the road. With each small step that it took one could hear a whimper from inside the house, a call of sadness, asking for the leaf to return so things could be the way they were.
Steve ran through the streets of his humble little village with his belt still flapping around like a snake that has just seen Steve Irwin’s ghost appear in front of him. After a while he knew that he reached safety so stopped and gathered his breath. He staggered down an alley way steadying his tried frame by stretching out his left arm and leaning against the fence. He dropped his head and as he did realised that his belt was undone so quickly tightened it, hoping that no one in this gossiping village had noticed him; one thinks this is rather unlikely as it is not every day you see a gorilla running at a frenetic pace through the streets of such a humble village. Let alone a gorilla that is clearly distressed and clutching at his trousers so they do not fall and cause further embarrassment. Steve was not bothered about the embarrassment to himself (in fact running away in such a fashion was something to brag about to his friends) but he was concerned about the damage it would do to his parent’s social standing; his parents were already not the most popular villagers. The reason for this is simple: nearly three quarters of people in Great Glen read the Daily Mail and as a result were (and are today) unfriendly, unpleasant and un…nice to them. But like any small village, this animosity was never in their face or in the open but always behind the shady curtains of white middle class snobbery.
Steve’s parents had told the party to go home as they had waited for over an hour and it was quite clear that Steve had gone somewhere else; for reasons they said they didn’t know; “perhaps he fell over and hurt himself. Should we go and look?” they said, “or maybe he went round to that old lady’s house he sometimes visits? Such a caring young boy our Steven.” They added. But as the disappointed crowd slowly dispersed they knew, internally at least, that he was with Sara but they were too proud to admit it. The class mates and friends of Steve knew exactly where he was but unlike Steve’s parents, they said what they thought outwardly which discomfited Mrs Puciato (Steve’s mother); a feeling which Mr Pucaito met with an unjustified swagger towards the door in order to help people out.
One person, a woman in a leather jacket who wore too much makeup and had bad skin, muttered to her husband, “What do you expect they are Gorillas?” This was indeed a shrewd observation as Mr and Mrs Puciato were Gorillas: she must have just been eager to let them know in case they had forgotten, developed split personalities and believed they were gay cross dressing ducks called Leonard and Karl. But seeing as she was leaving neither me nor the Puciatos could be bothered to ask.
Several hours past until there was a knock at the door; it was firm and sounded as if it was a knock formed in panic. Mr Puciato immediately stood up and said to himself, “He’s got some explaining to do!” Which was a remark that lead his wife to plead, “Don’t be too hard Gerald, you were young once remember?”
“That’s not the point Julie. We have forbid him to go near her and what does he do? Go off and fuck her brains on when we organise a party for him!”
“Gerald!” shrieked Julie who was wearing a face that could only be more shocked if someone stuck a Sour Kraut up her arse.
“Well, I was going to give him that…” the banging on the door got louder, much to the annoyance of Gerald who stopped his argument with his wife (who was in the kitchen) and began his Neanderthal trudge over to the front door.
He reached for the door and was ready to scream at his son, for the embarrassment, inconvenience and bad feeling his actions had caused. Steve’s parents had forbidden him to go near Sara on several occasions because of their beliefs but he had disobeyed them and with that, he had hung a canapé of shame over their heads.
Gerald grabbed the handle and pulled the door open to a sight he thought impossible; a nightmare buried, a dream non existent, a man, from Tycross Zoo! The man threw the net and as he did two other humans, one with a net one with a tranquilising gun rain in. Gerald felt a sharp pain in his side and as he struggled he reached out and growled in his mother tongue. This was met by the ignorant humans as a sign of aggression so the one who first threw the net (lovingly) jumped on him and pressed his head into the floor. Whilst restrained, Gerald saw something go into Julie’s bum and as she dropped to the floor in pain, letting go of the tray of tea and biscuits that she had prepared for Steve’s arrival, a net smothered her. Both lay on the floor, calling to one another and reaching out for each other but only thinking about one thing: their darling Steven. From the day he came into the world they loved him and even with his supposed “shortcomings” they did not wish for him to be anyone else.
The light began to fade and the figure of a small bald man with buck teeth (The Zoo-man) began to dissipate into the distance. With their last ounce of energy, Gerald and Julie looked at each other and said, with their tongues dangling…out something that even the best English to Gorilla translator could not decipher, but I am sure it was nice.
The van sped away, within its depths, two sedated Gorillas who were guilty of nothing more than loving their son. They loved him more than any material good; more than any song or dance, more than any sunrise or rolling hill and their only crime was that they never told him.
Suddenly the enormity of his cowardice hit Steve and his eyes bulged. Clutching the sweaty, formerly styled, hair on his head, he began to panic. Leaving the one you love in that fashion was not the actions befitting a mature adult, worthy of enough respect to be able to choose his own providence. To gain the approval of Mr Patel may have been an impossible task, but to show him he was serious was not. Running away and hiding in an alley way for an hour was not something that demanded honour and reverence, it was something low and weak and Steve wanted to put this right.
He stood up right from his slumped position and rolled his shoulders; he pulled up his trousers and began to stride back to the place where he had fled so hastily before. Determined to put things right and win back his darling Sara, he marched on through the streets that he had taken for granted all these years. With each step he realised how lucky he was to have had this marvellous upbringing but if he had to forfeit that for true happiness then he would.
DVD players, SKY Television, a comfy bed, a warm bed, the novelty of having a pub to grow up in, a big garden, a nice kitchen and double glazing; fornication, copulation, masturbation, a car, shorts, trousers, t-shirts and socks; rice, pasta, jaffa cakes, jam, a computer, a laptop, a mobile phone, a house phone, a car phone, education, driving lessons, swimming lessons, guitar lessons, teacher training days, scribbling things on walls, the innocence of youth and the bliss of ignorance; Cricket, football, tennis, sport, left leg, right leg, movement and grace; love, hate, not having anything to do but being busy; no 9 to five, no pattern, no work, just freedom. All taken for granted.
In perhaps the most difficult situation he had ever been in (apart from the time his rectum prolapsed when appealing for an lbw) Steve had come of age. He had become a man…gorilla (perhaps an adult is a better phrase).
The newly titled “Adult Steve” reached the bottom of the road and gazed up at the sky, some birds whirled over him and there was a glint of light through a thick cloud. Setting his eyes up the road, he began to slowly walk, muttering to himself as he did. The further he got up the street the slower his stride became, subconsciously done in a bid to procrastinate his display of power and passion; hoping that something amazing would happen, like a large heron coming down and eating Mr Patel’s head (?).
Finally Steve approached the front of the driveway which seemed to stretch endlessly to the front door. The house was identical to any of the other on the street except the front door. All the other houses had a lifeless PVC entrance with a “Super Security Six Lock Mechanism”; this house had a beautifully natural and untreated piece of wood with a homemade sign. The wood taken from the jungle from which they once came and then transformed with care and affection. It was flawed in life and now in death, as a door, it still carries those imperfections that make it unique. The unchangeable groove, the irremovable stain and the perpetual splinters that punish any uncaring human, gorilla or other animal that happens to touch it all create a real sense of identity; for the house and for the door itself. Made by the rough hands of Mr Patel, it was unable to fight back and say no when having nails banged into it to hang things, or unable to cry out when a whole was forged in it for post and alike. The door obeyed him and unlike his other beautifully imperfect creation, the door did not change without his say so.
Before Steve got to the door, it opened and out stepped Mrs Patel, a woman who he did not mind. Her timid nature was clearly born out of her relationship with her husband which consequently lead Steve to the belief that any feeling, comment or action from her was created by Mr Patel and therefore not true.
Mrs Patel had not always been a believer of Hinduism; she only took up the religion when she married Mr Patel. Before meeting him – at a Gorilla Disco – she worked full time and was a success. Unlike most she actually enjoyed her work, looking after the mentally retarded (sorry I really should say disadvantaged in this day and age) was a rewarding thing and she was twice the winner of, “The Award for Magnificent Achievement in the field of Treating, Caring and Being There for the Mentally Underprivileged people of Britain”. In the world of mental care she was a bit of a pinup and featured in several magazines; in “Help Your Patient” she was twice on the front page, holding a book from the early learning centre entitled “Go Dog Go” in one, and feeding an elderly man some mashed up banana in the other.
At first her love for her fiancé was honest and not forced upon her but as the relationship got more serious and more involved, she started to feel undermined and wanted to get out. She still felt some love for her fiancé but it was the love that merits friendship not marriage. But it was too late, the wheels were in motion and the future groom would not let her back out or run away; she had said yes to his proposal and to him that was a bond that could not be broken.
“Hi Steven,” said Mrs Patel who was not making eye contact with Steve or even looking in his general direction. Instead she looked at her left foot which, unlike her personality, was disgusting and even had a veruca that Mr Patel had nick named Adolf
“Hi Mrs Patel, I want to talk to your husband, is he still in?” asked Steve in his “gruff” voice.
“No I’m afraid he has gone out.”
“Oh, oh yeah his car isn’t here. Any idea when he will be back?”
“No, no I don’t.”
“Ok, can I speak to Sara?”
“I don’t think so Steven, I think it’s best you don’t see her anymore don’t you? I think you have upset her enough.”
“Urrm Ok thanks.”
Steve walked away and realised the magnitude of what he had; the damage seemed irreparable, irreconcilable and from now on his and her love would be incompatible. He had lost Sara forever, it was not the sex, or indeed the beef, or in fact that both dastardly deeds took place in the kitchen (yum hygienic)! It was the fact that he ran without a thought or care for anyone else but himself. The innocence of youth had evaporated; in its place laid the puddle that he would step into every day for the rest of his life.
Like before he began to run. All he wanted was to jump into his mothers arms and let her make the pain go away, (a pain that was almost physical as a hasty road crossing almost resulted in him being mowed down by a fast moving van that was transporting some sort of animal(s)!)
Puffing, panting and in need of a hug; he finally got home. It was empty. He was alone. He was a boy no more.
Terrence looked at Steve, who appeared to be as happy as someone who had just listened to Radiohead’s entire back catalogue, and then shot up. Steve was surprised by this sudden eruption as for the last few minutes they had sat in silence with their heads hung low. Terrence thinking about to help his friend and Steve thinking about what is the best side dish for deep fried rabbit. (Personally I would suggest some Spam).
“Argggggggh, you know what you be needing? To lose that weight! Then you can win back your family, get some more friends and be happy once more!” screamed Terrence who had a face of caring anger, the veins in his neck popping out and his eyes bulging.
“You think I can do it?” asked Steve with the usual level of confidence similar to that of what might be felt by a disabled Salmon trying to make his way up a river.
“Yarrgh, and once more, I’ll help you do it!
“Yeah!” said Steve this time with a bit more gusto.
“Let’s start now, give me that pint!”
“Urrm, can I finish this one?
“No.”
“Please?” plead Steve, pleating his hands perpendicularly in some sort of petitioning prayer.
“NO!” shouted Terrence who punched Steve in the face, grabbed the drink and threw it to the floor (actions that seemed rather over the top, but oh well!)
“Ouch, you fucking bastard! What you do that for?”
“It be tough love. Can’t be having my best mate sad now can I? So you gunna do it?”
Steve felt touched, since his 18th birthday not a single person had shown him any care, sign of real friendship or love. It had all been bad feeling for the fate of his parents and jealously their wealth that tragically became his. Even though this form of friendship, care and love had come in the form of a punch in the face, he began to feel happy, like he had on his 18th birthday. He was speechless.
“Well?” asked Terrence who raised his voice with a final stretch of desperation.
“Yes, I’ll do it!” replied Steve who, if not morbidly obese, would have surely stood up in a sign of determination.
“Tomorrow we shall be starting your exercise, I’ll be at yours at 6, no 8, actually better make it 10 that way I can have a wank before I leave.” Said Terrence, who was becoming more and more excited about his and helping his friend and also he was becoming slightly aroused at the thought of some good old masturbation.
“Ok, I’ll set my alarm and I will cut down my breakfast! Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life!”
Steve leant back again, but this time the chair did not mind as he felt lighter somehow. The weight was still superfluous to a Gorilla but the chair’s creaks were of happiness and joy in the fact that soon the girders can come away and youth can be regained. Like Steve, the chair was free…well almost.
Kamma Niyama
Steve’s alarm clock (his microwave, in which he had a rather tasty Owl) went “bing”. This did very little to Steve’s state of sleep and he continued to snore like a wild bore with his mouth wide open and drool making its way down his face and onto the pillow. His bed was a delicately arranged selection of pillows, cushions and planks of wood. All placed on the floor, they amalgamated into something that acted as a resting place. Commercially, there was no demand for a bed that could sleep a morbidly obese gorilla so this sort of ingenuity was needed in order to avoid further bad health. He had once purchased a bed from the mighty Ikea but after putting it up (following the ever so easy instruction (despite what the countless BBC “Grumpy Old Men” programmes think)) he sat on it and like the Hindenburg it crashed to the ground (without the fire).
Steve’s sleep was disturbed approximately ten minutes after his “alarm” was supposed to. The clock struck ten and as he had promised the evening before, Terrence was at the door.
“Get up Steve!” shouted Terrence poking his head though the letterbox, and crashing his fist against the door.
“Take me Rick Stein!” was the rather strange reply that came from Steve’s chunky lips as he shot up to become awake. He was in the middle of a dream about Seabass which was being rather nicely cooked by Rick Stein but where and why he would like to be taken is another story. “Sorry mate I overslept, hang on I’ll let you in.” declared Steve who rubbed his eyes and then stretched in a bid to prepare his massive body for the stresses of the day.
He pulled himself up using the disabled handle one would expect to see in a toilet; fitted after he did not get (and could not) up for 3 days, it provided easier entry and exit to and from the bed. The floor boards creaked under the weight of Steve and like the chair they sounded tired but relieved.
The door opened and there was Steve in his pinstriped pyjamas, the bottom button being stretched to its limits by his bulging belly. He took a step back and gestured for Terrence to come in, to say it would exert too much energy.
Terrence had only been in his house a few times, the first time was just after his turn in fortune; on the opening night of the Lemon and Hand-Grenade, Steve stayed for drinks after closing time. Along with the Bjorn Borg look-alike and Grant, they played a few hands of strip poker and drank way too much. Steve, who at this point weighed a couple of stone less, became incredibly inebriated and Terrence, Bjorn and Grant took him home. Terrence and Grant took the left arm and the much stronger Bjorn – who had the advantage of owning his own gym – took the right. Together the trio took Steve back to his house and used the key they found in his gorilla wallet to open the door.
Bjorn and Grant, who are rarely seen apart both went immediately after chucking Steve on the floor, but like the true friend that he was, Terrence stayed and helped him into bed; undressing him and tucking him in. Although he had known Steve for only a short time he knew that that there was something special between them; a bond of unbreakable solidarity had been forged. Through good times and bad they would both help each other, even if it meant that bad things happened to themselves.
Intrigued as to what a Gorilla kept in his house, Terrence looked around quite nosily, knowing that the only thing that could wake Steve was a blow to the crotch with a sledgehammer by a muscley German. There was a wonderful array of rather obscure and outlandish ornaments; ranging from an antique fridge to a diamond incrusted ladle they all had a certain link to gastronomy in some way, except one.
After serving customers all evening and carrying a colossus mammal across the village, Terrence felt tired so he slouched down in a sofa formed from bean bags. As he spread himself across the bag, stretching his body out like a starfish, he looked forward. In front of him was a picture of a young Steve with two adults, Terrence assumed they were his parents but his tired eyes and very little lighting could not clarify this for him. He stood up, unable to rest with this cloud of curiosity hanging over his head. As he walked towards the picture he realised that the two adults in the picture did not have faces, they had been cut out. Terrence came to the decision that it was time to leave and as he did he took one last glance at the picture, bewildered as to why it was in that state.
Several hours past until Steve woke up, clutching his stomach he rushed to the toilet, and after an eruption of ridiculous proportions he appeared. Like Terrence had done before him, he made his way to the lunge and drooped over the bean bags. However unlike his friend, he held his head in hands and began to cry. The belief that he was alone overcame Steve and as he cried he looked up at the mutated picture. Turning away in self disgust he held himself in a bid to become warm. With each tear that fell, the pang of guilt that had lead to his obesity became more and more overwhelming. Daylight began to draw in and hope began to fade.
Taking a step into the house Terrence looked around him to see if the ornaments and knick-knacks that hung on the wall the last time he “visited” were still here. Unsurprisingly, the walls and shelves were still home to the same clothes as the last time Terrence was in the house as for Steve to take them down or even clean them would be too much effort. Actually the entire house was filthy. It had clearly not be cleaned or tidied in months and as a result become less hygienic that the inside of a homeless person’s underpants. All over the floor there lay empty pot noodles; bits of mouldy pizza that had somehow managed to escape from the clutches of Steve’s stomach; but perhaps most disgusting of all, there was what appeared to be a pile of cat poo sitting in the corner and smearing the curtains with its excremental goodness.
“Arrggh, this be a sty not even fit for the lowest of pirates, namely that scally, Richard Yellowbeard, the scummiest pirate of all of Guernsey!” shouted Terrence.
“Meh, got no reason to clean up,” replied Steve with all the enthusiasm of a piece of wet cloth.
“So you ready to exercise then?”
“Urrr yeah, go on then.”
Terrence was beginning to feel concerned. Steve’s passionate proclamations of last night appeared be a distant memory. However what Terrence had quite stupidly failed to realise is that Steve was a morbidly obese and rather depr