Short Stories · Twisted Tales

That’s Me Dead

That’s me dead.

At least, I should be dead – there’s a heck of a lot of blood gushing from my guts. Or from the gaping wound which used to be my guts.

It’s funny, isn’t it, you think some dread disease’ll carry you off, or you’ll be bored to death by Saturday night telly, and then you’re stabbed by two blokes down a side street in Staines.

I was out for a short stroll because I miss the walks since Buddy died and I didn’t want to fall into a coma in front of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Dancing. I’d just stopped to admire a nice necklace in the window of H Samuel and was thinking how my Mavis would have liked it, when the alarm goes off and out pop these two lads. They clocked straight away I’d had a good butchers at them. Silly prats weren’t wearing balaclavas or anything – very amateur – haven’t they even seen The Sweeney? One of them had a pitted face with hair the colour of lager puke and the other one obviously lived on Pot Noodles.

So I suppose they had to kill me, really. Which isn’t to say it didn’t hurt, because it bloody did, pardon my language. It hurt worse than the time I spilled cup-a-soup over my legs and it stuck like Napalm. Even worse than that summer I caught myself on the Black and Decker and had to spend the next three months on my back on a sun lounger.

Yet after a few seconds I got this detached, floaty feeling, sleepy-like, and sort of… drifted off. And then found myself here. Or just over there. Well, both, really. I’m finally in two places at once, something I always wanted when the car needed washing and you could lose a giraffe on the back lawn. Finally I’ve got my life-long wish – except I’m dead.

I really am dead, aren’t I? I’d no idea my eyes could look that bulbous.

Those sirens are getting louder – I reckon they’re coming for me. I’m finally important enough to stop traffic. Here they are. Watch yourselves, lads, don’t slip in the blood – ah, too late. Well, yer missus’ll get that out tomorrow. Mavis was always good with that sort of thing. A magician in the laundry, I used to say. And everywhere else heh heh. But if she was here she’d tell me off. “I can’t abide coarseness, Albert,” she’d say.

In fact, that lady over there walking a dog looks a bit like her. And the dog reminds me of Buddy as well.

Blimey – is she waving at me?

No point waving back, seeing as I’m dead.

But she’s still waving. And coming towards me. She really does look like Mavis.


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