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Friday’s Short Story

storytellerDCI Allinson surveyed the crime scene. It was a living room like any other in Britain. Magnolia walls, IKEA coffee table, a ridiculously bulky widescreen plasma TV burbling in the corner. And on the sofa, Mr McCarthy, a middle-aged man in decent shape, lying sprawled with a large wooden stake through his heart.

I should get one of those TVs, thought Allinson.

His gaze fell on the man’s wife, sitting on the tastefully-upholstered armchair. She appeared distraught, hands shaking as she drew hungrily on a cigarette.

Allinson’s partner, DCI Welsh, was taking notes in his little pad.

“And you admit you stabbed your husband through the heart?” said Allinson.

“Yes. I… I had to. It was self defence. He was a vampire.” said Mrs McCarthy.

Welsh looked up from his pad.

“He was a… I’m sorry, what?” asked Allinson.

“A vampire. Nosferatu.”

“Um…” He glanced over at Welsh. Welsh looked confused.

“How many eff’s in Nosferatu?” asked Welsh.

Allinson looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Nice cornicing.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, eyes returning to the suspect, “what led you to believe that your husband was a… a vampire?”

“Well… he wore a lot of black”

“Go on.”

“And he… he didn’t like garlic,” she added.

“What? Oh for… you’re telling me you killed your husband because… Jesus Christ. Look, I’m wearing black and I don’t like garlic. Are you going to..?”

With a scream DCI Welsh leapt to the sofa, wrenched the stake from Mr McCarthy’s body, turned and thrust it into DCI Allinson’s chest.

As Allinson sank to the carpet, gurgling, Welsh knelt by Mrs McCarthy and laid a calming hand on her shoulder.

“There there, it’s OK. I am so sorry,” said DCI Welsh. “I had no idea. Dirty vampires, they get everywhere.”

******
Vampyros Stupidos by Harris
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Friday’s Short Story

storytellerGazing up at the stars that cloudless summer night, I felt compelled to speak.

“Hi God,” I said.

I didn’t believe in God. I had no faith at all. Then again, nobody I knew had any faith in me, and I existed as far as I could tell, so I reasoned it was worth a try.

“God,” I said, “I’ve made a mess of things.”

I paused: no answer. I took this as a cue to continue.

“Really badly. So, I was just wondering. Could you maybe help me fix everything? Make it all better? Somehow?”

“No,” said God, “Not really. Sorry.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I am sorry,” said God.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I didn’t really… I mean, I just thought it was worth asking.”

There was an awkward pause. I wanted to leave but… How do you leave the presence of God? He’s omnipresent. You can’t walk away from Him, you’d just be walking towards Him at the same time. So I just stood there for a bit.

“I could give you some advice, if you’d like, ” said God, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth.”

“Right. Er… yeah, ok,” I said, “Why not?”

And he whispered in my ear. It was good advice.

It wasn’t really applicable to my current situation, but it was good to know that, if somewhere further down life’s winding path I was to get attacked by a grizzly bear, I’d know what to do.

“Thank you, God, ” I said. And he was gone.

Thinking about it, the last time God sorted out a big mess it involved carpenting a nice man to death over a long weekend, so I could see why he’d be reluctant to intervene in this case.

Me, I’d have considered it.

******
The Big Mess by Harris
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Friday’s Short Story

storytellerI had time to reflect, as I activated the footswitch that would open the trapdoor beneath the chair to which I had carefully strapped myself, that my self-destructive nature had arguably taken a turn for the worse.

And as I tumbled into the glass-walled tank I had constructed and filled with water, genetically-engineered killer sea bees and a giant robot octopus with a handgun in every tentacle, I knew I was no longer merely my own worst enemy.

I was my own arch-enemy. This was a troubling development.

******
An Epiphany by Harris
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Friday’s Short Story

storytellerGentlemen. Domestos. It’s not performing.

History lesson: When I was a kid, when you were a kid, Domestos had the famous slogan “Kills 99 percent of all known germs… Dead”, which was quite a boast even in those days, when there were actually only three known germs. (In fact, as it later turned out, one of those germs, the deadliest of the three, wasn’t even a germ at all. It was a midget with a gun.) Still, 99 percent of three is a lot of germs, proportionally speaking.

But where could they go from there? All its competitors could come back, year on year, advertising that they were now 50 percent improved, 39 percent stickier, 76 percent more blue. Domestos, no matter how hard it tried, could only ever be 1 percent better.

Oh, they got there. When I joined the company Domestos was marching under the slogan: “Kills Germs Dead”. Great slogan. Brutal. Definitive. You can’t get better than that. That is job done, for a bleach. We had achieved bleach perfection. We’d reached the top, and had to stop, and that’s what’s bothering me. Unless…

Gentlemen. I have a modest proposal. The time has come to broaden our remit. I’ve been doing some research and I think that if we are to remain vital and competitive in the 21st century we need to move into areas in which progress is once again a possibility.

In my experience Domestos will kill most things smaller than a rabbit… Dead. No, no. I’m not suggesting that this is an appropriate fact to hang an advertising campaign off. People are not scared of rabbits. In fact a lot of people quite like rabbits, so even if Joe Blow was to find a rabbit in his toilet his first reaction would probably be “Aww, there’s a rabbit in the toilet”, not “Mrs Blow! Get the bleach! And not that cheap own-brand shit, either. We’re going nuclear. Get the Domestos.”

If next year we announced that Domestos would definitely kill even quite large rabbits I can’t see sales improving too much.

But what about this: “Domestos! Kills a good 3 percent of tigers… Dead. If you aim it right and use enough of it. (Your face and body may be at risk. If you get even a small amount of tiger in your eye flush with water and await help.)”

People are scared of tigers. I know I am. I’d be comforted to know that if a domestic tiger event was to occur my chances of survival would be upped even marginally.

And then the following year we, the fine folks at Domestos, could announce that our product, still one hundred percent germ-killy remember, was now 6 per cent more deadly to tigers, and also had a more lemony fragrance, why gentlemen! We could sit back and watch sales grow and I could look forward to the day when I can release myself from this anti-tiger cage and rejoin society.

And then? Gentlemen, then we go after the fucking polar bears. Who’s with me?

******
Domestos by Harris
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Friday’s Short Story

storytellerNo, I won’t be coming out tonight. You know why. Don’t make me… It’s the sharks, all right? There. I am frightened of sharks. I worry about shark attacks.

Oh fine, yes, statistics. I know that statistically you are more likely to be attacked by a shark when you’re in, like, the sea or whatever, but think about this: it is when you least expect an attack that you are at your most vulnerable.

Well it’s easy to say, isn’t it? Oh, don’t be scared. People tell me not to be scared, that it would be quite astonishing if a shark were to attack me here, sitting as I am in a room some twenty-five metres above sea level. Yes, but then the attacking shark would be able to turn my amazement to its advantage, swiftly overpowering me before I regained my composure.

Oh God. Sharks are prehistoric killing machines. They practice. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I can’t deal with sneaky dinosaurs at my age. They can shed up to fifty thousand teeth in their lifetime. I have, like, thirty-two, tops. You do the maths.

Also, also, I cut my finger this morning. If there is a shark even on the outskirts of town it knows where I am. Sharks can smell blood a mile away. I don’t know how you can stand there and not be frightened of sharks. They can smell blood. They can smell fear.

What, that smell? Listen: shark meat tastes of piss. This is why nothing eats sharks. Well, it’s one reason. Anyway. I just figured if my meat tasted of piss I could be safer. But then they might just chew me and spit me out. Like salty, wet chewing tobacco. I don’t know. It’s not a watertight theory but it’s all I’ve got.

These are the thoughts that will keep me awake tonight, as I lie in the dark listening for the warning signs of an imminent land-based shark attack.

I wish I knew what the warning signs of an imminent land-based shark attack might sound like.

******
Shark Attack by Harris
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