Waking up and finding they'd run out of coffee. Then the puddle of dog-piss in the kitchen. Then Jacko, the eldest of their three changelings, refusing to get dressed. Then the picnic stuff refusing to fit into the trunk. Then the car refusing to start.
"Let it rest for a spell, sweetie, you'll flood the engine," said his wife, Miriam.
Quigley allowed his irritation to get the better of him. (As usual.)
"Why don't you do your job and let me do mine," he snapped at her.
Family outings, he thought, why's everything so fucking hard.
Eventually they got going, and after seven trouble-free minutes Quigley allowed himself to believe it was going to be not too bad. Then Miriam remembered she'd forgotten to pack the meat for the BBQ.
"Oh fer Chrissake," snarled Quigley, "Can't you do anything properly."
"I'm sorry," she said, a tremble in her voice. "So much to do it just flew out my head. I'll run into the supermarket and grab something on the way."
But when they got there, they couldn't find parking.
"Wouldn't you just know it," whined Quigley, slapping the dashboard.
"There's one, Dad," said Jacko pointing to a car backing out of a space.
"Can't you see it's too small," said Quigley, "anyway I don't pay no mind to brats who can't dress themselves. Just shaddup and let me do my job OK!"
Quigley took the wrong exit from the parking lot and they found themselves heading down a street he wasn't familiar with. Which was another black mark against the world.
And then he saw the sign:
"Your friendly family butcher. Free parking." On the sign was painted a plump and cheerful man wearing a striped apron and a walrus moustache.
"There we go," said Miriam, "someone up there's watching out for us after all."
Quigley steered the car into one of the spaces in the parking lot.
"I'll run in with the kids," said Miriam, "need to stretch their legs for a bit."
And off they went. Quigley settled back and lit a cigarette. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty, and still no sign of them.
Quigley got out the car, slammed the door shut, and stomped off to retrieve his family.
He entered the store. Behind the counter was a plump and cheerful man wearing a striped apron and a walrus moustache. Miriam and the kids were nowhere to be seen.
"Good morning sir, how may I help you?"
Quigley was at a loss for words. Then he realised Miriam must have asked to use the toilet. Or something.
"Uh, my wife was in here a while back," said Quigley.
"Of course, sir," said the plump and cheerful man, turning to open the large metal door behind the counter, "step this way please."
Quigley screamed to see the bleeding carcasses of his family hanging on metal hooks attached to the rods of the Cool Room.
"You've done your job, sir, now let me do mine," said the family butcher, a large and bloody cleaver in his hand.
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13 comments.
So far, 2010 has been one of those years that really just gets on your tits. Hopefully the next ten months of it will be some sort of an improvement.
CM, Thanks for your comment. Not much longer to go before the next great extinction event. That's something to look forward to, isn't it? ;)
You never know what you've got 'til it's gone. Well played.
I'm going to start using that phrase, "really just gets on your tits."
Purdie Pyrate
That reminds me of the Cheesmesiter's story about the restaurant for zombies.
wicked story. love how you pieced it together around that phrase...nice.
Hi Brian, it's a technique I picked up from Stephen King's writing. Repeating a phrase in different contexts to help build suspense and keep the whole narrative together. Of course, I can only hope that one day my writing will be even one hundredth as powerful and efficient at story telling as SK's. Thanks for stopping by.
Restaurant for zombies -- excellent concept on which to hang a story. I must look out for CM's: I find her work invariably grabs me by the throat and rattles my brain! Tom, thanks for stopping by.
Hi Nessa, it does kind of punch you in the head, the phrase you mention. But I have to admit that in hindsight I wonder if it's not perhaps too crass, even for me! Thanks for your comment.
Great last line.
Actually, Steak Through the Heart is sort of a coinvention between me and the Cheesemeister. Certainly its co-proprietor, Hamster Brittney, is mine, and its name. I did think of that Bistro/Grocery's friendly Rotten Ralph, the butcher/chef, when I read this.
Hi Weirsdo, thanks for stopping by. Although not explicitly named in the above, the friendly family butcher yclept Putrid Paul.
Weirdso did invent Steak Thru the Heart. I just took it and ran with it! I also generally run from Steak Thru the Heart very quickly after buying my week's supply of Whoop Ass there.
Cheesemeister, I think it was Newton who said words to the effect that if he had seen further, it was because he had stood on the shoulders of giants. Making Weirsdo a giant!
Something to say? Come on... gimme your best shot!