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Simon Says - Everyday Murder

 

 

 

Everyday Murder

 

by

Andrew Hiscock

 

 

 

Shakespir Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Hiscock

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Table of Contents

 

Title Page

Copyright

Everyday Murder

 

 

 

[]Everyday Murder

(Extracts from a true account)

 

 

I slowly unwrap my eyes from cigarette paper lids, then blink them shut. The light is far too bright, 60-watt plastic sun far too intense, like an arthouse movie it burns a hole through my cling wrap skin.

Vision isn’t easy; my steps are slow and deliberate with Cuckoo Waltz accuracy as I negotiate my way through pop culture memorabilia and masturbation stimuli—Burger King nutrition, 90s TV gore, joy. My stomach winces at the thought. Like a B-movie maiden, it screams with terror. I take a slow James Dean drag from a dog-end roll-up; my maiden stomach recoils at the taste, the smoke adding more stench to the grave-yard shift abode. Liquid headache containers scatter the plasma-stained carpet, like Apocalypse Now extras, fake golden blood oozing from metal gaping mouths. As I stagger through the bodies my werewolf toe clips a Chippendale reject armchair and I stumble and fall, Shake n’ Vac nose dive, head first into the alcohol-perfumed carpet. I inhale Heineken and exhale Export; I breathe Brew and sniff Stella. I feel like a social outcast in an alcoholic psychopath’s nightmare, with no chance of waking up.

I open the refrigerator door; the Blue Velvet light dully reflects off my marble eyeballs. I search for an edible object among the cast of The Living Dead. I shyly reach for a Freddy mutated rasher of rabid bacon, quickly retracting my hand as the meat suddenly develops Jaws 3D teeth and tries to devour my pinkie. An Attack of the Killer Tomatoes laughs hysterically, while a slice of Button Moon cheese merely stares at me maniacally with Jack Nicholson eyes.

Fuck this; food can wait; I’m going to be late! I grab my winter woolly coat and leave the house; the cold air smacks my face with Ali force; sting like a butterfly, sting like a bee. I wish I could Wizard of Oz click my heels together and appear magically at the station.

 

***

 

I sit Buddha cross-legged on the chewing-gum infested, ghost-train railway platform. With half-open ears I listen to the insect click of the white time digits as they tick away my privatised Virgin delay. An old man with Grand Canyon wrinkles whistles a soap opera tune, Coronation Street symphony or is it the EastEnders concerto. Like a Great Escape veteran, he keeps impatiently checking and re-checking his leather-strapped watch, as if he’s waiting for death to ease his pain with a Hitchcock swipe of his oversized hook. My alcohol-soaked head thuds a Heavy Metal drum solo. Steve Tyler screeches Love in an Elevator down my Sahara dry throat and I feel sick, Titanic iceberg seasick. This sensation ratchets up a notch as an Atlantic sized snot droplet appears on Steve McQueen’s nose. He hasn’t noticed and continues to anticipate the Grim Reaper’s arrival. The globule grows and my fragile stomach almost shatters. I thank Jehovah for the vicious bacon, for had it not shown its porky teeth it would now be decorating the concrete like a Picasso original. Then it falls; I see its slow-motion drop; instant replay; “play it again Sam”. It falls for an age and then explodes in a fountain of rainbow-coloured brilliance just inches from my feet. I wonder if anyone else’s ear drums rip like a penetrated virgin’s hymen when this nuclear explosion occurs. I stare intensely at the old fart; he glances up and catches my eye and gives me an “I fought in the war for you, you ungrateful scum” look. My look says, “Have you seen the tramp beating scene in A Clockwork Orange you disgusting old bastard?” He looks away. A voice crackles from the loudspeaker announcing yet another change in our proceedings.

Windscreen wiper faces uniformly cattle herd us from one platform to the other. Directed by a Blade Runner voice with no face. I imagine it to look like a charred Terminator smiling a Wicked Witch of the West smile as it realises the power it has over these powerless cartoon sheep. I follow involuntarily; trying to stay as far away from the boogey-afflicted Cooler King as humanly possible. We all stop as one, one automated mass, individually recently deceased, RIP Self. I am Humphrey Bogart leaning against a once-was-white concrete pillar, and wait. I seem to spend my whole life waiting. Waiting for trains, waiting for buses, waiting to be served, waiting for that Wish You Were Here Judith Palmer holiday, waiting for God (or was it Godot?). I take a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of my Mad About the Boy Levis, release a victim and place it in my mouth. I remove my lighter from the opposite pocket and ignite the cancer stick, knowing that as soon as the end’s alight and I’ve inhaled the first lungful, the train will pull into the platform. I begin to relax as the nicotine enters my blood stream; life’s not so bad, modern life isn’t all that rubbish. I take another long Smoking Kills drag and just as I first suspected, in lumbers the train. It stares at me, its metallic features Willo the Wisp whisper, “Modern life IS rubbish and don’t you forget it.” I stamp out my cigarette.

I manage to find a window seat in the Marlboro Cowboy misty smoking carriage; I remove my winter woolly, ignite another malignant messenger and stare lazily out of the window. I’ve made it; I’ve survived another Krypton Factor assault course journey; 20 minutes on the train and I’m there; destination work. I exhale and watch the smoke climb to the heavens like Jacob’s Ladder.

Then he arrives, interrupting my lethargy like a Hussein invasion. By day he’s a mild-mannered janitor but when he whispers the magic words he becomes, hold the front page, the incredible Boogeyman. I try to avoid eye contact, this does not deter him and he plonks his Sheriff Fatman frame directly opposite me, mucus still hanging from his shrivelled snout like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Why me? Thankfully he doesn’t speak, unless you count the low monotonous mummy moans that exit his larynx as communication. Twice and thrice, why me?

 

***

 

The countryside slides past like a Saturday matinee feature, Julie Andrews waves at the train from her Hills are Alive mountain, while the Egyptian mummy moans on. I try to shut it out; engaging my brain to old git overdrive and thinking floral Songs of Praise thoughts, but it’s no good; the Karloff monster is persistent.

My mind begins to replay old Hitchcock thrillers, re-write Hammer horrors; I have to devise a Dick Dastardly device to dispose of this disgusting degenerate. Was it Dastardly or was it the Hooded Claw. No matter, “I’ll get you Penelope Pitstop, so Mutley let’s catch the pigeon”. How, my brain Magnus Magnusson questions, how can I stop this Chinese torture? Just move seats, comes the reply. Simply stand, flick him the Top Gun Tom Cruise bird and casually walk to another seat; problem solved. No, why should I? answers the adolescent stubborn area of my mind, I was here first, he’s invading my space, he should move.

I Officer and a Gentleman eyeball him, hate and resentment swimming in my eyes like a Jack the Ripper carving knife. He doesn’t take the hint and continues grunting. Grunt all you can old man because tomorrow you’ll grunt no more.

 

***

 

The train pulls into the station. With a sigh of relief I pick up my coat, give the old git one last Hannibal Lector stare and make my way to the exit. At last I am free. I jump onto the platform with newfound Lucozade energy—I’ve escaped the Steve McQueen Mummy Moaning Boogeyman; today is going to be just fine and dandy. I Mary Poppins skip to the exit, much to the surprise of the other cattle-herded cyborgs. My heart feels as light as a Cadbury’s Wispa; I want to do a Saturday Night Fever dance, to disco queen sing, to, to…

No. There he is just in front of me, giving his ticket to the Richard Branson slave. Is there no escaping this creature? Paranoia washes over me like acid rain. Perhaps he’s following me; perhaps he’s been sent to persecute me, what if he’s not human? What if he’s some sort of intergalactic misery messenger and I’m his next victim? What if he’s one of Satan’s servants sent on a mission to obtain my soul? What if? What if? What if?

I have him in my December sights, I’ve decided that the only way to relieve myself of this Domestos germ is to dispose of him before he has a chance to exterminate me. I follow him with ease as he Long John Silver limps along the Singin’ in the Rain pavement. He looks harmless, to any passer-by he is just another inoffensive, innocent pensioner, someone to pity; a victim of our materialistic supermodel facelift stay-young society, but I know better. I know it’s just an act, a Pimpernel disguise, I know his secret, I know his mission and I am the only one who can stop him, the world is depending on me.

 

***

 

I follow him down a back alley and he stops in front of a green wooden door. He begins to fumble clumsily for his keys. Now’s my chance; this is my Danger Mouse destiny; my duty to save the world. I approach with 007 sophistication; don’t want to arouse suspicion, coolly does it, shaken not stirred. He turns and looks me directly in the face; the Atlantic still dangles from his nose. He opens his mouth and begins to speak.

“Can I help you young man?” The words are forced out like a Blitz evacuation.

“Why have you been following me?” My words attack like a V2 missile.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’ve never seen you before.”

I know he’s lying, I can see it all over his face, you can’t fool me old man, this is the end. I pounce on him knocking him to the ground; a pathetic Percy Sugden moan exits his throat. I grab the back of his head and begin to pound his Punch and Judy face into the crack-infested concrete. At first he screams and I fear I’ll be discovered, but they don’t last long and soon give way to dull Pampers baby cries. His skull collapses like a paper mache model, his face disintegrates into an unrecognisable Tarantino pulp. This is for Bruce Lee, this is for B-movie maidens, this is for Steve Tyler and this is for Killer Tomatoes. The cries stop about the same time as his breathing. I have stopped him; my mission is complete.

I let his head drop, it thuds dully as it hits the crimson pavement. I stand and admire my work. I’m disappointed that his evil body does not erupt into a ball of Hellraiser flames, that the ground doesn’t open and swallow him, returning him to eternal biblical damnation. Instead he just lies there, motionless, tomato sauce oozing from his mashed potato head like a spilled can of Brew. I turn and leave him.

 

***

 

I rejoin the busy morning madness and casually look at my Swatch watch; 8.47; shit I’m going to be late. I increase my pace. Today is going to be just fine, I think as I bounce along whistling I’m Singin’ in the Rain.


Simon Says - Everyday Murder

Simon is a normal guy, he grew up in a small town, in the heart of middle England. He has a loving mother and a loving father. Simon was a better than average student, he was popular with his piers and his teachers. Simon travellelled, like many Middle Class kids, maybe he took too many drugs, but that was too unusual. Simon was no different to many kids who grew up Middle England in the 80s and 90s. Oh, and one other thing, Simon liked to kill people, Simon really liked killing people. This is the Post modern world of the 1990s, when Thatchers kids got loved on Ecstasy and rebelled. This is the Middle Class world you will not read about in the Daily Mail, this is the world of drugs, paranoia and Murder.

  • Author: Andrew Hiscock
  • Published: 2017-06-03 11:20:09
  • Words: 1933
Simon Says - Everyday Murder Simon Says - Everyday Murder