Paper, Wait. [fiction]
I have a temporary job at the moment. And too much work to do. Why is it that people expect you to do mountains of work all the time? Do I look like an Intel Quad-core processor? I guess it’s no surprise they expect me to do so much, I do have deity-like status thanks to living in this defunct town; my IQ allowing for occasional compliments, jewellery, and child sacrifices.
‘Magic me some filed reports,’ my hilarious co-colleague ushered.
Sadly people like this still considered Peter Kay’s Live at the Top of the Tower material under-used. I was a magician as well you see; only semi-professional, but I considered myself very proficient, and able to give David Blaine a run for his money. Sadly I didn’t have enough funds in my current account to out-do Criss Angel. Extras and stooges cost money you know.
‘Sure,’ I offered, pretending never to have heard her tireless attempt at humour before.
My reports were in a particularly bad way, but thankfully I’d not put any labels on them: so they’d be a cinch to reorganise.
I could almost hear the sirens; almost.
I hadn’t meant to, but I’d murdered a snake. Well it wasn’t really a snake, it was a slow worm. And as luck would unfortunately have it, is a protected creature under the Wildlife and Cruelty Act of 1981; I prayed news of this had not reached my inhospitable surroundings of a hometown.
‘Squelch’ went the limbless reptile, as the spade came down like an elevator devoid of brakes; or rather, an elevator in Walsall. The last thing the poor Anguis fragilis (to give it its Latin name) saw before it met its maker, was the glint of the previously polished (don’t ask) blade (is this Sparta!?) of the garden implement that was hastily selected for its demise.
‘Would it really go squelch?’ you may hark.
‘Probably not, but this is fiction after all; the hasty abandonment of the truth never hurt nobody, someone once said,’ is my retort.
A few Google searches later, and I found my harmless reptile. Well I say a few, it was slightly mangled by the time I’d finished with it. You can never be too sure when dealing with potentially venomous reptiles, and the down side is always reptile identification. I sought desperately to find out if his name was Clive or Carlos, all to no avail. Retrieving the national reptile dental records you see, was troublesome, so I had to settle for simply identifying the species. Type, type, type. Click, click, click.
After I satisfied my curiosity, I popped it in the bin.
With Big Brother becoming more and more a reality, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the government searched my bins and demanded some sort of fine. Sure, they’ve slowly phased in speed cameras as they look to ban smoking, but you can never have too many Millennium Domes. It was with this in mind that my heart skipped a beat when I heard the faint sound of sirens. The men in the white coats were coming for me. Plus the RSPCA would be pissed at the snake. Uh, I mean slow worm.
I moved my paper-weight from atop my awkward filing system. Loosely attached to one file was a yellow post-it with details of a party the following night. I prepared for a panic attack, but quickly remembered that I had agreed to go. Wait. Yes. I did. Damn.
