A day just like any other...for John. |
The hard gray of the above clouds caught John’s attention as he stepped out of his less than modern house, one of many secreted along the road in an endless row of brick and mortar reproductions - eggs lovingly laid by the local council. He closed the door behind him and negotiated his way through the minefield of loose paving slabs that waited to trip the unsure and naive. The planted borders that ran either side of the path were filled with struggling and diseased plants upon which fat insects dined noisily, while weeds grew healthy and unhindered among them. “The gates going to creak,” he unwisely pondered, “ cities and nations will fall, the stock market will boom or crash, Arnold Schwarzenegger might pronounce a sentence coherently, but the one thing in the whole universe you can be certain of is that gate is going to creak.” Sure enough with its ear shattering, bone juddering crescendo of white noise the gate swung open to emit John onto the rough, cracked, slightly tacky surface of tarmacadam walkway. The asphalt was smeared with liver-spots of chewing gum, which if any man were foolish enough to step on they would be sucked unmercifully into its bottomless depths. John had died twelve years ago and had been in hell ever since. “But I couldn’t go to your normal everyday hell,” he thought bitterly, “with your fire and brimstone; your devilish imps, their impossibly sharp pitch forks and your everlasting damnation. Oh no not your old John, I had to end up in this place, wandering up and down this bloody street, spending eternity looking for a way out.” He tired of walking after a few hours and paused in the street to pick a house to rest in. He knew this to be futile because all the houses were identical in exterior and interior. “Pick a card, pick any card,” he mumbled and walked towards his chosen house. He lifted the stiff front latch on the gate and winced at the accompanying fortissimo of screeching hinges. He stepped on to the see-sawing path and made his way to the front door, stumbled and received a grazed knee as always before he reached the threshold of the house. The door was unlocked and swung open to reveal a horribly conservative hallway adorned with floral wallpaper and a clashing carpet. The hall was inhabited with a hat-stand whose pegs fell out at the slightest pressure and an elephants foot which looked as though it had been stabbed to death by angry umbrellas. He put his coat on the hat-stand which predictively made its way quickly to the floor and laid there in a sad looking heap. He limped into the living room which was embellished with the same nasty decor as the hall, also added to this room was a slumped (for slumped was the only word to describe it ) sofa. John knew from experience that this sofa would be the most uncomfortable item on gods earth. In front of the sofa was a portable television that sported on top of it an incredibly thick layer of dust. The telly rested precariously on a thin tripod that looked like it could not take its own weight let alone support something. John sat on the floor ( which was a damn sight more comfortable that the sofa) and prepared to begin another daily ordeal of unspeakable horror. He reached for the television remote control, as he had done day in and day out for the last twelve years, and tried to stop himself touching the on button. It was useless, he knew whatever force that controlled his hand could not be stopped and he realised the worse part of hell had begun. His finger came down and the television sparked into life. The screen began to show endless repeats of the Jerry Springer show and John's wailing scream echoed down the street. |