A Volkswagen full of wasps

You find yourself lying upon a urine soaked mattress in a Stalinist style bed-sit on the outskirts of Wisbech St Slurry, sporting an ‘Ian Rush’ moustache and going bald, you have reached rock bottom. At thirty two years of age you can safely say you’ve achieved nothing that modern consumerist society would deem acceptable. The bed sit is fitted out with a 9 inch black and white television that can just about pick up repeats of old news programmes and free view porn channels, you have an old ‘wind up’ wireless radio but refuse to listen to the only channel available which is BBC world service for obvious reasons. What can only be described as a frugal cooking appliance resides in the kitchen, however it’s in complete disrepair and is only capable of cooking a tin of kidney beans on its one good hob, a task which still takes best part of a day. The neighbours include a visually impaired fish monger who works from home, a heroin addict with taretts who suffers from paranoid delusions about your knees and a three year old Irish Wolf Hound that lives above you, and is most likely living off the decomposing remains of its former owner Mr Blitzkrieg; occasionally you stuff dog food through the letter box for the beast, it has been the only contact with another living entity since you can remember, less of course the bailiffs, burglars and sex pests that occasionally frequent your home.

A reoccurring dream has been haunting your slumber of late. It’s as if a Machiavellian clairvoyance of sorts has been levied upon your usually mundane and acute mind. The dreams main focal point is a large male, farther like figure dressed in military fatigues, the dream is taking place in the near future, as the man is pointing at a calendar depicting various months and weeks of the year 2009, whilst repeatedly shouting “you cant mortar me am Charles fucking Spitsworth!” time and time again. This whimsical dream finishes when you see the 8ft tall army type run of into the distance accompanied by massive explosions occurring either side of him, eventually when the barrage becomes too intensive he desperately tries to seek cover under a faceless woman’s skirt, she then turns to face you and begins to emit a terrifyingly high pitch whimpering sound from a mouth crudely sewn onto her neck. Why you think he is fatherly is beyond reckoning, maybe because he’s the polarised opposite of  your own dad who was a male prostitute, whom died as a result of contracting aids from an orgy with an African prince and a few members of the Saudi royal family back in the mental 1980’s.

Staring up at the mildew infested ceiling in deep thought you muse on the fungus, it has no doubt resulted from the bacterial build up caused by the rapid decomposition of the elderly man that used to take residence above your bed-sit, you haven’t seen him in weeks so it’s your conclusion he has defiantly died. Your thoughts are distracted on hearing the door bell sound, together with several kicks at the frail plastic door; you recoil in fear on the sullied mattress. Shit it’s the gas man here to take a reading; you haven’t paid a bill in nearly seventeen months, having been fired from your job as trainee wasp keeper at ‘Bitter sweet honey PLC’ money has become a thing of the past. If they cut the gas off now then how are you going to cook your year’s supply of Kidney beans that you won by the grace of god at Gala Bingo. Peering through the glass peep hole you spy what looks like a ‘bad bastard’ version of the fat bloke from ‘Hale and Pace’ dressed in a blue boiler suit carrying an array of kit in an old red tool box adorned with truck fest stickers, the gutsy gas thug delivers another blow to the door “cam on you faking junkies open up before I burn yez out” You undo the multitude of locks that offer only peace of mind at night and not any real security from the locals. The gas man storms past you and straight into the kitchen were he hooks up a reader to your partially destroyed meter. He looks round at you glaring intently, “people like you make me as sick as a Lincolnshire pig on heat” enquiring what the problem could be, you stall for time, knowing full well the gas geezer has discovered a discrepancy as large as Roy Castles lung tumour between the amount of gas used and the amount paid for. He turns to continue reading from the meter; you spot an old claw hammer sitting on top of the Television. The gas inspector is violently shaking his head and muttering obscenities to himself, he begins to thump and slap the meter, almost taking it clean of the wall, a smile erupts on his pie like face as he notices your frail arm covered in swallow tattoos grab his meaty shoulder the rusted hammer sits in your other hand tucked behind your back out of sight. “Go on son, am into a bit of man on man gas discount” the mistaken boiler suited sex-case begins to undo his fly zip thinking that your desperate appearance and equally appalling living conditions have forced you into delivering middle aged, working class bum sex in turn for utility bill mercy, holding in his hand a weathered example of the male genital organs for your imperial inspection, he again turns to face you, only this time he isn’t met with a confused look of forlorn gratefulness, but a massive hammer blow to the left eye socket, he feels his check bone shatter and his eye loose its vision. A second blow to the top of his crown fells the man. You keep hammering until his palpitations stop. You eventually collapse due to hammer fatigue. On awaking you begin to panic, the adrenaline has been replaced with a growing uncertainty over what you have just perpetrated; dread and anxiety are your only friends now. Then you hear scratching and whimpering from above, it’s the dog from upstairs, the scratching persists for the next few hours making your life a torrent of dog related annoyances and body disposing quandaries. Could it be that the animal has smelt the dead man in your hovel, has it acquired a carnal taste for man flesh? Then an idea hits you like an out of control Volvo full of German tourists.

You begin the unenviable task of dismembering the corpse in your kitchen with table spoons and frying pans. Once butchered you begin placing the crudely severed chunks of gas man guts into old empty tins of pedigree scrum dog food. It’s a blessing that you had just over one hundred tin cans littering the bed sit for it was the precise amount needed to house the body. Covering each tin with Cling film you store them in an old box freezer that is scarcely able to keep its self cool. The tins share the cramped dank space with an old Asda right price ‘Pigeon Tika Balti’ ready meal and a half empty can of special brew strong lager you were saving for next Christmas. Sun set arrives, sneaking up the stairwell past drugged up farmers in wax jackets and Albanian people smugglers you reach number thirty, an excited sniffing can be heard at the door, on opening the letter box you make eye contact with brown loving eyes, two cans of human meats are squeezed through the small gap, sitting by the door for the next few minutes you hear the dog lapping up every last morsel, you put your fingers through the letter box and the dog licks them clean, a quick stroke on its snout and your good byes are said. The smell wafting out of number thirty is a terrifyingly potent smell of dog foul and feted meat. On a hot day the stench can be as stomach churning as the time when Brian Blessed used Jennifer Saunders vulva as a face tent to avoid paying for a camping pitch in Norfolk, however the junkies and low life’s that inhabit this enclave of misery are not likely to alert the authorities of the old man's suspected demise. Deciding its time to sleep you head down to your abode, a sense of calm embraces you as you enter the squallier off the bed-sit. Laying in bed a smile of prelapsarian magnitude abounds on your façade. Moments later the ceiling above your head collapses delivering onto your fragile chest two tonnes of joists, wolf hounds decomposed OAP’s and wing backed chairs.

The End