by Peter Marks
Serepax was determined to get Wright for his repugnant feet wraps and crept silently under the bed to lie in wait for the opportunity to repay the gas attacker.
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Half an hour later, whirling around in the chair, Wright rolled himself back from the desk to get up to fetch a coffee. It was three steps forward, one on the cat as the ground came to meet him, leaving Wright to fracture and the floor in painful union. Serepax grinned. Thought, that’ll teach you for not washing your socks you filthy slob, retreating satisfied with the punishment.
‘Fuck you Serepax,’ Wright yelled. ‘I’ll get you for this, you overgrown mop. I’ll be washing the car with you come Sunday,’ he screamed at a brush tail that, raised high in victory, was leaving the room.
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Serepax was unrepentant. Nor was he worried, knowing the threat was as idle as Wright was. The cat knew Nathan only washed the car at Christmas and that Christmas was months away so didn’t give a shit. Serepax also knew Nathan didn’t know what day it was, none-the-less when Christmas occurred so, totally unconcerned with the threat, strolled casually off down the hall.
Wright meanwhile, lying prone on the floor, was swearing and cursing. And wondering how long it was until Christmas. What date Christ’s birthday was. Scratching his head as if such activity would some-how help his powers of recall, he thought hard. He knew it was sometime in December. But he wasn’t certain what month this current one was, so he couldn’t begin to calculate how long it would be before he could make Serepax suffer.
‘What are you doing down there?,’ a voice suddenly enquired, also telling Wright that the cat was getting incredibly fat.
‘Serepax is getting vast isn’t he,’ it informed the counting Wright. Who was still trying to figure out when Christmas was.
‘Yeah tell me about....’ Wright said annoyedly, temporarily giving up the mathematics. Bloody Simon, he thought, suddenly recognising the voice.
Simon was six foot two of stretched flesh.
Simon. S. Hambles, a tall man Wright called Shambles for short, who just stood there not offering to help Wright arise from the carpet. Or call for a crane. Instead, he hovered like a hungry vulture, his massive hands firmly on jean clad hips, obviously enjoying Wright’s discomfort. With the look of a man who’d just won the lottery, Simon found himself curiously amused watching the embarrassed and horizontal Wright, clapping in mock applause when Nathan at last got off his bum. To get to his knees.
‘Mecca’s not that way,’ Shambles pointed out. Wright pointed out he was Christian. And that Shambles was a turd.
‘Jenny’s after you. She told me to tell you she’d get you,’ Simon said, smiling broadly, watching with glee as Wright squirmed for Nathan was in no doubt she would.
Would gain her revenge for him placing an ad for her in the personal columns of the local paper that read:
“...Desperate seeks anyone, or any thing, willing to mate with a she devil. Animal, vegetable or bottle of mineral water. Beauty, beast or Alsatian. Looks, species or planet of origin not important.
Must be non-smoker and non-fussy”.
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Wright, still on his knees, wondered what she’d do to him this time. Last time her juvenile vendetta had come in the form of one of her favourites: Glad Wrapping the Bog.
In an exceedingly grotesque reminder for Wright to behave, what she did was wrap a thin film of clear plastic taught over the bowl of the toilet. Invisible, it formed a barrier which saw to it that nothing abluted got past the seat. So instead of being disposed of in the accepted fashion, all the waste exhaled instead adhered to its host bum in exceptionally putrid revenge.
Also, last time round, Jenny had exacerbated the problem by confiscating the toilet paper. So Wright had then had to stagger to the nearest towel to wipe himself. (Which was no easy task with his jeans wrapped around pink socked ankles).
Clean, he’d been tempted to donate the soiled beach blanket to his persecutor. Shove it in her bed like the horse’s head in ‘The Godfather’. But he didn’t, knowing Jenny. Knowing that Jenny would only do something worse to him in demonic reply. Nathan knew that this trick was bad enough and just what her warped mind would come up with next was beyond even Wright’s fevered imagination. She was a hard woman when crossed.
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‘She’s a hard woman,’ Shambles advised. ‘You better go downstairs and grovel for a while. Buy her some flowers or something. Or she’ll Glad Wrap the bog again!’
Simon was staggered at how often Nathan seemed put his life in danger.
‘Buggar it Nathan, I’m not game to shit here anymore! Hell, last week I was desperate. But I wasn’t about to risk crapping here! I had to stop on the way home and do it in a paddock. I had bites on my backside for weeks and Deb nearly killed me when she saw the state of my undies,’ he frowned.
Wright showed teeth, smiling rabidly.
‘Anyone who saw the state of your undies would die screaming anyway. Besides, what’s wrong with soiled grundies. They’re a status symbol. Shows you’ve lived. Shows what you ate for dinner last night ....’ Wright said, looking Simon straight in the kneecap, still semi floor bound. ‘Or are you still a mummy’s boy? Does your wife still force you to change them every day just in case you get run over by some drunk on his way home from the pub just so that when the crowds gather to admire the mess they’ll all step back and turn to each other and applaud admiringly because your neck’s broken but your undies are clean? ....forget it.’ Wright suggested, at last getting to his feet.
‘You’d probably shit yourself when you saw the car coming anyway,’ he proposed, making sure the bloody cat wasn’t about. ‘And you’ve got shit for brains so does that mean your wife also forces you to change your hat daily?’ Wright asked, still trying to figure out when to wash the car with the cat. (He decided on December 22nd and Jesus, sitting on the throne at God’s right hand, decided to cull the stupid bastard).
Simon, kicking some clothes out of the way, just laughed. ‘I never wear hats,’ he said, a faint smile contracting to a thin sneer. ‘Anyway, it’s you who’s in trouble, not me. Jenny’s probably downstairs at this very moment ringing the Mormons for you.’
Simon’s smile returned at the thought of the hideous punishment which awaited his errant friend.
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Ringing the Mormons and inviting them around to harass a wayward Wright was another of the standard household procedures when Wright transgressed. Nathan had received more visits from the Mormons than any other living agnostic possibly because Nathan transgressed more than any other living non-believer.
But he didn’t think so.
Nathan was convinced there were more deserving devils than him, believing politicians and public servants were more in need of help (..more in need of extermination actually) than he was, Wright being firmly convinced that these verbal dancers were better specimens of evil incarnate than he was. Wright knew too many public servants to be convinced otherwise and he’d been forced to deal with politicians more than he’d have wished (wished with all his might that the lot of ‘em would contract terminal lock-jaw. And shut-up. Then ship out).
Wright, prejudiced by bitter experience, had always found them to be about as valuable to humanity as a bed pan to an Egyptian mummy. (Though in that case, at least the bed pans remained free of shit....which was more than can be said for politicians. Or public servants. Wright also believed mummies worked harder).
But he couldn’t convince the Mormons.
Strangely, they didn’t seem care about comparisons and bothered every-one equally in true egalitarian style. As far as their door chime religion was concerned, no-one was beyond redemption (shows how much they know). As far as they were concerned, Wright was the ultimate sinner. So he was a true test of their faith in humanity and they moved heaven and earth to save him. They needn’t have bothered.
W
right didn’t want to be saved; he wanted women; and sin and debauchery.
And his socks washed for him.
(Unbeknowns to the Mormons, they could have succeeded with Nathan had they only realised the sort of cretin they were dealing with. If only they’d changed their tactics and arrived one day with a bar of Sard Wonder soap tucked under an arm instead of the obligatory Bible. Cleanliness, after-all, was next to godliness).
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Wright understood the implied threat and wailing, dropped to his knees. Again.
‘Oh god no, anything but the Mormons. Where are your Baptists, your poor and huddled Anglicans, your moon dancing Druids. Where are your Micks...’ He paused as he thought about it. And decided. ‘Stupid bloody question ...they’re all at home too busy searching for a loophole in the latest Papal proclamation to bother with me. Silly buggars, can’t use contraception, won’t use sheep, so they’ll all get AIDS and perish and all we sinners will be left with are....’ he looked up, cleared his throat. Cue Simon.
‘.... THE BLOODY MORMONS’ Both chorused, collapsing laughing onto the clothes strewn carpet.
‘Yes, the bloody Mormons. YOU MORONS!’ An echo.
Fangs bared, hands on hips, Jenny stood just inside the door, obviously not amused by the laughing cavaliers who were rolling about on the floor in the middle of the room.
Wright climbed cautiously to his feet. Simon leapt to his, brushing a large piece of hamburger meat from his jeans that had been previously been part of Nathan’s floor, also noticing that all the rolling about had made his jeans ride up toward his nob knees. Simon, peered at his naked ankles.
So did Nathan who laughed, and pointing, told him that either his pants were one foot too short. Or his legs were twelve inches too long. So Simon told Nathan to shut up. Then Jenny told Nathan to shut up. So Nathan told Nathan to shut up.
Jenny and Simon looked at each other. Then shook their heads in mutual disbelief that such a man wasn’t locked up.
Jenny, unusually restrained, walked toward the two of them. Wright steeled himself for incoming violence, ready for the mad dash into the wardrobe. But she ignored him and instead turned to Simon. Placing a small, immaculately manicured paw on a broad shoulder and looking him straight in the eye, she spoke softly.
‘Run Simon. Flee from this lunatic before he perverts you completely. Grab your wife and children and emigrate to Jamaica. It’s nice there.... Nathan’s not there so it must be,’ she advised the giant with the trousers up to his knees.
‘Leave before they plug you into the same outlet as him,’ she said, glancing toward the grinning Wright who, provoked by the outburst, proceeded to act out her theory by sticking his finger in the nearest socket.
‘Turd!’ She swore.
‘Electrified turd,’ Nathan corrected. When he wasn’t depressed he was utterly manic and behaved like a ten year old. Like a retarded ten year old.
‘I certainly hope so,’ she concurred, two erect buds protruding from the skin tight costume. She was off to the gym.
‘Next time, stick your finger in your mouth first, coat it with saliva and try again. Then if you don’t manage to barbecue yourself try this,’ she said handing him a hairpin. Which Wright attached to his nose.
She was breathing quickly, speaking slowly and stood there for a moment looking grim and determined before raising a mown eyebrow and weighted fist. Wright decided to disarm her so he told her that her tits were sticking out.
Without hesitation, she grabbed a thick volume from the shelf by the television and threw it at Wright’s head before she and her breasts stormed from the room in dismissive disgust. Simon ducked, Nathan caught. Dexterously stopped the collection of flying, flapping pages before it hit anything. Or did any damage. Then he read the title and realised he was too late for it had already done more damage than it had meant to.
Stepping forward, he handed Simon the caught Bible.
‘What’ll I do with this?’ Simon asked as if he’d never seen one before.
‘Read it or perish,’ Wright suggested before repossessing it. Then showed Simon what the Good Book was good for (it was great for correcting the tilt of the desk).
‘Come on, let’s go get a coffee. If the Mormons come I’ll tell them you’re me and leave you to them. They’ll give you advice and redemption, and a Bible for your desk, probably one of those illustrated ones with a silk bookmark and smiling apostles. They gave me one once but it self immolated ...suicided rather than let me read its wisdom’.
‘So whose Bible is that?’ Simon asked, watching Nathan put the book under the leg of the desk.
‘Christians,’ Wright replied, pleased that his desk would now stop wobbling. ‘Go on ask the Mormon’s about the Bible they gave me’s suicide. They’d tell you. They even put it in an urn for me and now its a vase,’ he said, pointing to the dead flower receptacle on the shelf by his bed. ‘They’ll give you one. You even look like one of them. I’ll introduce you to them if you like. I’m on first name terms with the whole tribe. They know me by reputation,’ Wright smirked, pausing for breath, ‘and the identikit photo down at the church.’ he added. ‘If you can survive them, you can survive anything.......maybe even your wife when she discovers you’ve haven’t changed your Y-fronts in days.’
Wright, speech almost over, wandered to the desk and, opening a drawer, extracted his diary.
‘In fact, you’d better tell her to start starching them ‘cos they’re sagging,’ he suggested, skimming the first few pages trying to locate the calendar.
‘Yep, they’re more U than Y-fronts these days,’ Wright decided, finding the calendar, searching for December and the date of Christ’s birthday.
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Naturally Wright only remembered one birthday; HIS. Mr. Self Absorbed could never remember his mother’s or sisters or Kelly’s or Christ’s so he was always in trouble for not delivering cards and presents on the appropriate day.
Such oversights were a burden for he usually ended up having to spend twice as much as would have been date correct necessary in mute apology for having forgotten the occasion. So Nathan was always having to deliver some costly peace offering weeks, or months, or occasionally years after the event. Needless to say this was not an endearing habit.
Just an expensive one.
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Listening to Nathan’s usual convoluted babble, Simon had paid scant attention to the diatribe until his underwear was mentioned. He looked at his crutch and wondered if Wright’s assertion was true. Then he figured he didn’t care, no-one was going to starch his fronts, not while he was wearing them anyway. Why fronts? Why his underwear? Why didn’t Wright keep his soiled thoughts to himself. Simon headed for the door.
Wright wasn’t finished. Wright never was.
‘Hang on, before you go read this,’ he ordered wrenching a page from the typewriter and collating it with the rest of his wild rantings, handing the lot to Simon who was still involved in checking his underwear.
‘Read it!’ Wright ordered, thrusting the neatly typed pages at him. Simon stopped assaulting his U-fronts to grasp the bundle and began reading them. Then stopped. Started looking out the window instead, busy admiring the collection of footwear that was wedged amongst various branches of the shoe tree growing tall in the front yard. Simon had the sudden urge to decorate it with Wright’s ego but realised the tree would surely collapse under such an enormous weight.
‘About time you removed the shoes from the tree,’ he suggested, pointing out the window. ‘Why don’t you reclaim your footwear? Hell, that brown one there, the one with the bird’s nest in it, that’s been stuck in there since Christmas...’
‘I know, since December twenty-fifth last year,’ Wright said emphatically, reading from the calendar in the diary, grateful for the opportunity to be a smart-arse and relate such recently gleaned knowledge, ‘......when Jenny separated it from its sole mate and forced it to become
a home for delinquent starlings. Hell, you should hear the racket they make when they party. They drink, they jive, they play music so loudly it makes the roof tiles disco...’
‘What music do they dance to?’ Simon queried.
‘Charlie Bird, Wings...Flying Pickets....um.’
‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull,’ Simon said, trying to be helpful.
‘Demis Rooster.. ‘
‘Sky...’ Simon added, clearing his throat. ‘Anyway, what do you wear on your feet these days?’ he enquired, curious.
‘Mick Jogger,’ Wright answered, pointing to the Reeboks on his feet. ‘Don’t concern yourself. The bloody tree’s got a shoe fetish. The tree surgeon’s coming to amputate the fetish next week.’ Wright claimed.
Simon kept staring out the window intent on counting the shoes in the tree figuring out that there must have been at least twenty pair of far flung foot warmers amongst the leaves and branches. Certainly enough to stock an entire shoe shop, he guessed.
‘Stop gazing out the window and read,’ Nathan interrupted, ‘or I’ll cobble your face,’ he threatened.
Simon thought this less threatening than being bored to death so he resigned from reading. One paragraph had been enough. More than enough. He stood silently, carefully considering how he could tell Wright exactly what he thought about his writings without hurting his feelings.
He said it sucked and instantly regretted such honesty.
‘It what!’ Wright hissed, serpent like, sucking air in through an infinitesimal gap between fang front teeth. ‘It sucks eh? Well, well, a scathing critique. You know the London Times could use a brain like yours....mind you so could a parrot.....not that it’d be any the wiser for the transplant.’
