The Tyme Wayster

Good Morning East Kent

.....Daniela grabbed a sheet of paper furiously from the printer on her desk and began to etch. All the office staff gathered round her desk and looked on in awe. Their shirts soaked in sweat and undone three buttons low with ties pulled open around their necks and hairs pulled back, tied free from the faces of female management with shirts pulled from the waistband of their skirts, all fretful and burning calories like there was no tomorrow with worry at meeting a deadline.
  Daniela held the finished diagram high above her head and a silence fell heavy across the mumbling group as they looked on with opened jaws at her chamberlain stance.
"This is it. This is the program for the Darwinian SPX 4000". She cried.
Daniela slammed the paper down hard onto her desk top as the rest of the office shuffled together to lean over and take in this moment of excellence. The deadline for the finished software was now only an hour away and if it wasn't met then Tokenpuff Cyberworld would be out of business and lost forever.
  Darren Talbot the shadowing office manager, leaned through the crowd and took the paper to study it more diligently. A gasp of breath was drawn in by each and every member in the room as they waited for the great mans verdict, a deliberation that would forecast the future for each and every one of them.
  "This Daniela, this roughly sketched transcript of a plan that was instantaneously formed within that vacuum contained cranium that you have, stuffed beneath your bouffant that you wear so well, is beyond a shadow of a doubt, the greatest, most incredibly translucent, mindnumbingly, twisted, pile of bullshit that I have ever witnessed". Darren smiled smugly as his head did that bobble head rocking from side to side thing that everyone found so annoying. Daniela dropped her head in racked disappointment as her inflated enthusiasm seeped from every. pore of her physical frame and soaked into the grey flecked carpet.
  Darren grinned at the effect of his power. He could crush the last hope and dreams of anyone with just one sentence, or maybe two. Sometimes he may have to repeat himself, doubling the total amount of sentences used to deflate the meek minions that scuttled before him and maybe also having to raise his voice so that he could be heard above the garbled exchange of wearisome chat that sometimes would prestige itself over his floundering presence, but none the less he had the POWER! Apparently.
  "I'll be the judge of that, Talbot"!
  Everyone in the room turned round to face the swaggering, toothpick chewing hulk of Bradford Barrington Bayliss' (who should have been made shadow office manager but was pushed aside of his post by Darren Talbot who was at the time dating the boss' buck toothed goggle eyed daughter) and suave burlesque frame that men wanted to emulate and women wanted to climb.
Darren seethed at his adversary as Bradford strode menacingly across the office floor. He snatched the screwed up sheet of paper from Darren's hand, walked around to Daniela's side and drew his vision across the hurriedly linked boxes filled with algebra and symbols in chaotic random slants and angles. His eyes went from side to side, from top to bottom and from corner to corner. Then with a face as cold as stone, Brad turned to Daniela and nodded, slowly.
  "This is perfect. I can have this printed up in the next forty five minutes and sent over to Hypercox And Blox Software Distributors in no time at all. Tokenpuff Cyberworld is saved"!
  The entire office erupted in jubilant cries of salvation. Daniela squealed with delight, threw her arms around Brad's neck, kissed him and did that raised leg thing behind her; you know, that thing that all leading ladies did on the silver screen back in the fifties. The only person that didn't respond accordingly, was Darren. He's just stood there seething, his face as red as a beetroot and with a trail of nose mucus hanging from his left nostril, swaying like a pendulum.
  "Bradford, you incompetent arse! How dare you undermine my authority in my office. You publish that sheet of goats dribble and you'll ruin this company for sure"!
  "That's it. Show everyone how shallow you really are by your envy of my popularity with all the staff and my ability to be able to spot a brilliant thing before it even is and the fact that you couldn't even spot a dayglow elephant pissing in your soup bowl, if there.........was".
  "Why, you......". Darren ran at Brad with pure hatred pumping through his veins and jumped at him , throwing them both to the floor and rolling around with their arms entwined around each other, grunting and panting. Darren finally found an anchor and was able to position himself on top, now sitting on Brad's chest. Brad tried to struggle free but it was useless, he was trapped within Darren's thighs. Ughh!
  Darren leaned over, grinning malevolently and whispered into his face.
  "Your going down Brad. I'm going to make sure of it. The MD's position is coming up next month so how does it feel to look into the face of a....."POSTMAN".
  "What"!
  "POSTMAN"!
  Darren started to lick Brad's face. His tongue, long and dexterous, licked and wiped its way around Brad's lips and nose before washing the sleep from his eyes.
  "Get off, you twisted retard. Help, HELP ME"!
  "POSTMAN"!
  The licking became more intense. The tongue now shot into Brad's right ear and slurped and sucked into its cavity.
  "BRAD"!
  "Piss off you tosser"!
  "Brad! For gods sake, get up the postman has been and your gonna be late for your meeting".
  "Uh, what"? Brad woke from a deep sleep with his dog Pavlov licking his face and his fiancé, Jayne lying next to him in a Meteors T-shirt shaking the living shit out of an R2D2 alarm clock and mumbling her frustration as to why it didn't go off again.
  "Pavlov, get off you bleeding nob end. Agghh"!
  "If only you'd play with me like you play with that dog, I might think that you actually find me attractive".
  "Well fetch me a ball and I'll throw it for you. I do find you attractive, who wouldn't".
  "Well, prove it. No, prove that you still love me. Ask me to marry you".
Brad's face agonised. He sat bolt upright in bed causing Pavlov to fall off onto the floor and to become entangled within the ungainly pile of last nights party clothes.
  "I'll go and put the kettle on".
  Brad tore back the duvet and kicked his legs out onto the floor as Pavlov's head drew up between them with Brads Y-fronts over the top of his Cavalier tri-coloured bonce with both of his ears sticking out through the leg holes. In his Breaking Bad pyjamas, Brad shot out onto the dimly lit landing and charged down the steps with that  'marriage' word still alarming inside his head. Four steps down and Brad was suddenly thrown into the air after skidding bare footed through a pile of something cold, solid but very, very moist. He landed on his back as the doorbell rang. With the wind now forcibly knocked out of him, Brad sat up on the stairs and examined his foot.
  He had trod in a pile of cat poop. His cry of anguish reverberated back up the stairs into the bedroom.
  "You okay"? Jayne called through the opened door upon the landing.
  "Your bloody, shitty cat"!
  The doorbell rang again.
  "Are you going to get that"? Jayne couldn't quite make out the spittle fuelled garble of a response that bounced back up the stairs, so she thought it best to tarry a while before making her way down.
  Brad tried to find something to wipe his foot and as luck would have it there, three steps further down in the early morning shadows he could see what appeared to be a pair of rolled up black socks, discarded late last night. Sliding down on his sore and most probably bruised behind, Brad reached out and retrieved the life saver. The doorbell rang again.
  "All right, all right. I'm coming, I'm coming"! Brad used the rolled up foot ware to scrape off the worst of the feline filth that he could get. He would have to walk gingerly to the bathroom to clean up as he could feel it squelching between his toes. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Brad hopped to the door, opened it and was greeted by Stan, the courier. He was wearing his usual attire, of a black leather jacket covered in studs, pin badges and Iron Maiden patches, a pair of black leather trousers topped off with a pair of criss crossed studded belts and a pair of biker boots. He really looked the hard biker type, apart from the open faced white helmet and a Miss Piggy bandanna pulled up over his nose. A bit of a contrast you may say but fitting with the 50cc pedal scooter parked at the base of Brad's drive.
  " YES"? Brad snapped.
  "And good morning to you Brad, you ginger haired tosser". Stan squeaked.
  "What is it"?
  "I got a letter. It needs to be signed for".
  "Well, can I have it"?
  "Uh, yeah".
  They both stood facing each other motionless and in silence. Brad let out a breath of exaggerated frustration whilst leaning up against the door frame with the soiled sock still held in his fist.
  "Do we have to go through this every time I get a delivery"?
  "Yep".
  "Oh Jeezus. All right. Is it in the hydrangea"?   "No".
  "The forsythia"?
  "Ah, no".
  "The bloody escallonia"?
  "Close".
  "The berberis"?
  "Ta da! You win".
  "Great. Now go and get it".
  "Piss off. I'm not sticking my hand in there. Its bloody spikey. Now sign here".
  Brad snatched the clip board from Stan and signed his name aggressively through the lines. Stan went to retrieve the clip board and froze. Both his and Brad's eyes focused on the dark scruffy item held in Brad's hand.
  Brads stomach turned as the realisation that he was not holding a pair of socks which he had used to wipe his foot with but the headless corpse of a freshly killed sparrow. A present left for them by Jayne's cat, Schroedinger. Brad looked at Stan who stared back with a look of blatant disgust.
  "We use toilet paper in our house, because we're normal". Stan turned and walked back down the drive in the new Fifield Grove estate to his scooter, not turning back to look at the shouting pyjama wearing buffoon, even when the shit clad ornithological projectile bounced off his helmet, ricocheting onto the neatly cut lawn.
  Brad had made his way into the downstairs bathroom, leaving as little mess behind as was humanly possible for a tosser with a shit laden foot. When he came back out he was dressed and shaven and mumbling like a claustrophobic hermit with a bad case of innate arse ache. Jayne had made coffee and was leaning against the kitchen work surface still in her T-shirt drinking her brew when Brad entered. He grabbed his mug from the table and gulped down the Luke warm fluid before picking through the pile of mail in front of him.
  "Who was at the door"?
Brad, finding nothing of immediate interest within the now strewn pile of letters picked up the large brown A4 envelope that he had earlier signed for.
  "Hmm? Oh, it was our friendly special needs courier, Stan. He had a letter to sign for".
  "Oh. Where did you find it this time"?
  "In the berberis".
  "Why does he keep doing that"?
  "You know why. He thinks he's enigmatic".
  "What is it"?
  Brad gave a careless shrug of his shoulders as he studied the envelope. He started to pick at the gummed flap that had been sealed with a security stamp as Jayne placed her mug down on the drainer in order to compose herself for her preplanned attack. She drew in a deep, slow breath and closed her eyes as she exhaled and then asked.
  "Brad, do you want to be with me"?
  "Hmmm"?
  "Its just that you don't seem to care anymore. You spend all your time at work chasing a perpetually elusive promotion, then when you do get home your either on line tracking the latest office wanker gadgetry or your in the garage polishing that bloody car of yours. When we do go out you tell me to dress up to the nines, then after you've flaunted me around your moronic work mates you take me home and toss me into the corner along with all your other dirty washing".
  "Hmmm"? Brad had taken the half a dozen stapled A4 printed sheets out from the envelope and was now studying them in great interest.
  "I've really had enough of being treated like nothing more than an accessory to your life style. If you don't start showing me that there is more to our relationship than trapped wind and self obsessed stagnation, then its over. Do you hear me? Over, we're finished. Brad? Hello, are you listening to me, you ginger haired tosser? I said we're through"!
  "Hmmm"? YES! YES! Gods teeth, YES"!
  "Brad"?
  Brad emptied a key from out of the envelope in to his opened palm, raised it to his lips and kissed it.
" Are you listening to me Brad"?
  Brad looked at Jayne with a half formed expression of confused elation and squealed.
  "What"?
  "I said we're through! Have you heard a word that I've said"?
  "She's dead. Now its all mine. The house, the money, all those wonderful treasures and that big beautiful mirror. Its all mine".
  "What"?
  Brad, still in a state of zombified euphoria, handed Jayne the letter and brushed past her to stand, staring out across the rear garden through the kitchen window and tried to imagine what the consequences of this surprising gift of great fortune was going to hold for him.
  Jayne scanned hurriedly through the typed pages and found that it was from Brads grandmothers lawyers informing him of her sudden demise in a nursing home in Chelsea. His gran had raised him since he was an infant after her daughter, his mother, took herself off with her lover, Brad's father, on a year out, travelling the South American coastline, sampling every high, mind altering substance that nature could offer them, only never to be seen or heard of again. There was a rumour that Brad's mother, Odette, had been forced to turn to cannibalism after eating the roots of a hybrid Daturra plant and then becoming lost within a vast cave system, deep within the Peruvian jungle. It was just a rumour though, no substantial evidence ever surfacing to legitimate the source; but Brad would use it as an attention grabber at group gatherings.
  His grandmother, Nanny Charlotte as he would call her, brought him up as if he was her own. She sent him to private schools and steered him through collage before paying for his first down payment on a flat in Pimlico with his girlfriend, Angelina. Charlotte liked Angelina, she was a real lady, a devout Christian who believed in no sex before marriage; much to Brads grave disappointment. Though this did prove to be in Brads favour as he found out one evening when arriving home early to surprise her with a bond of proposal. After sneaking upstairs to surprise her, he caught Angelina in the bathroom sat on the toilet shaving her scrotum.
  Oh, the look on his face.
  Angelina, previously known as Derrek, was saving up for the full conversion and was hopping that the nuptials would allow her to afford the last stage of the operation, by which time Brad would have fallen madly in love with her and see through her dark secret with unbiased approach.
  But bollocks did he.
He grabbed Angelina, dragged her out of the bathroom, down the stairs and out through the front door whilst singing the Transformers theme tune with a slight deviation to the lyrics.
  "Transvestites, perverts in disguise"!
  Brad has no scruples. When he first met up with Jayne three years ago, the partnership wasn't going to formulate until he had given her a quick fumble around the beef curtains, turning her ham sandwich into a dropped kebab, an action which seemed to titillate Jayne, no end. Jayne took pity on Brad when they first met, she wasn't sure whether it was because of his naivety to his surrounding colleagues jabs and snide banter or the fact that she saw him as a cross between  Chris Evens and Rick Astley, with his glasses, wild red hair and very expensive sharp suits that he would always wear, even if it would be to just go down to the town to get a Chinese or Italian take away.
  He finished his last year at university six months after they first began courting. He passed with many distinctions in his IT course and was soon taken on by Tokenpuff Cyberworld, a new IT production company in Canterbury that specialised in office and administrative programming. He soon worked his way up to the head of his own department, be it only a small gathering of half a dozen staff, three being part time workers and two on 0 hour contracts. The sixth being Sheila Stains, his personal secretary who was otherwise known as Shitstain Sheila by various members of staff in other departments due to her shabby, greasy and unkempt appearance. But she was happy to make the tea when asked to do so. This could at times be a hard act to swallow as no matter what it was that she made, be it tea, coffee, juice or just a glass of milk, it always looked like a cappuccino hybrid. Brad was holding his own at the office, he was comfortable and confident in his position but for the past two months it had been announced that the position of office manager was now up for grabs in September as Gregg Norbitt would be retiring after holding that position for the past six years. The battle for pole position had been raging ever since the flag fell, allowing the only two viable contenders to hack and slash their way to the finish line while taking no prisoners on the way. It was a war of attrition, a geek version of The Wacky Racers, pathetic nihilism on a grand scale. Unfortunately the war would often be brought home, making Jayne an unnecessary casualty during every conflict. But now the constant barrage of Brads verbal arsenal of insults and impassable defensive front that he had now acquired, separating his true vulnerable self from Jaynes affection and the rest of humanity. Their relationship was now a crumbling relic of the once fruitful institute that it had been. It had to be salvaged now before it was too late, a guarantee of unilateral security had to be drawn up between them and the Eastern front, a mutual non aggression pact that would settle the dust and bring peace back to this war torn Eden. Well, either that or a swift knee to the bollocks if she didn't get any satisfaction. Jayne was now sick of waving the white flag of truce and surrendering her self esteem to his selfish needs. The time of forgiveness was now over and the sword of Damocles was now suspended over the fickle hand of fate that would deal the cards of..........(sorry, the euphemisms are just pouring out of my pen like an infectious puss seeping from a festering sore. Shit! There it goes again. Back to the kitchen sink)!
  "What"!
  "She's gone".
  "Who"?
  "Nanny. Shit, Charlotte"!
  "Charlotte? Shit, sorry".
  "Yeah, whatever. Haha. Its all mine now, all mine".
  Jayne stepped back as Brad lunged forward waving the stapled sheets of paper in front of her face and grinning like a duck with teeth.
  "What are you dribbling about, Brad"?
  "She's left me the entire estate, almost".
  Jayne suddenly froze and speculated over the looming situation.
  "Does that include the house"?
  "Unfortunately not. That was left to the victims of the Phil Collins comeback tour".
  "He wasn't that bad, was he"?
  "The stadium collapsed. She was a big Phil Collins fan. I've got the money and all property of the house collected there in. Including grampy's mirror. Ha ha".
  "Oh no Brad, your not bringing that thing back here. Its too big. There's nowhere to hang it".
  Still grinning inanely, Brad stopped in mid stance, arms hooked up either side of him still holding the paperwork like a secretarial mantis and ran the future prospects through his Catherine wheel of an imagination.
  "What do you mean? Its mine and I'm going to pick it up on the way back from today's instalation".
  "This is my house Brad. If I say it ain't coming in here, I mean.........., what do you mean pick it up? She lives in London. Your jobs in Canterbury, isn't it".
  "No, its in Cornwall. Remember"?
  Jaynes jaw dropped open in surprise. "Cornwall? You never said".
  "Yes, I did".
  "Damn Brad, you tosser! This is exactly what I'm talking about. You don't talk to me anymore. You don't seem to acknowledge the fact that  we're a couple".
  For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Brad looked hurt, even sorry, almost.
  "But look, we're talking now you silly cow. Of course I talk to you".
  "No Brad, you talk AT me. Ridicule, sarcasm and selfish demands. In fact, this trip down to Cornwall could be a good thing. It'll give you time to rethink what it is that you have or rather what you don't have and what's the best action you could undertake to keep hold of it. Its Monday today, you've got until Wednesday to decide how you want to spend the rest of your life and with who". Jayne stood with her arms folded across her chest and a look of stern uncertainty etched across her face.
  "You can't speak to me like that. I'm the bread earner in this house. Okay, so you've written a book, and sold nearly half a million copies, granted but I'm the bloke here and.......".
  "Your a tosser Brad and you've got till Wednesday to decide. Change your attitude or change your address. I do love you Brad but you are a complete, total and utter.........".
  "........ Tosser"?
  "For sure".

  Who the bloody hell does she think she's talking to!  Brad turned the handle at the base of the garage door and smoothly allowed it to rise into the open position. The light of day shot inside, highlighting and awakening everything within; including Brads pride and joy, an apple red Austin Martin DB9 that gleamed and sparkled in the early morning glow of the rising sun.
  It was his grandfathers but he hasn't driven it for the last fifteen years of his life due to I'll health and loss of sight, so it had stayed locked away in the garage to be polished and valeted by young Brad as a reward for his good school work and conformity. His grandfather died when Brad was only seven years old. He had only a few memories of this great man to cling to but Nanny Charlotte would fire him with tales of his grandfathers life as he had a very active and exciting catalogue of adventures, especially during his time in the war. He was involved in some top secret operation team that was active in the final two years of the group at conflict. She was very vague about the true history of the operations but she would lavish in some of the wild escapades that he had been involved in. She always said that one day he would find out the true facts of his grandfather's dealings in the war but now she had gone also, that now seemed highly unlikely.
  Brad opened the car door and placed his two cases carefully upon the red leather upholstery of the back seat. Sitting himself behind the wheel and feeling that flutter in his stomach as he always did when climbing into the vehicle, Brad leant across and opened the passenger door. Pavlov, who had been sitting and waiting on the other side of the car jumped in. The passenger seat was covered in a protective, clear, heavy duty dust sheet. Even Jayne would have to suffer the unpleasantness of the constant crinkling beneath her if she ever accompanied Brad on any of his outings. The car was immaculate and that was the way it was going to stay.
  What was she talking about, 'change my attitude', 'make my choice', 'stop treating her like a pile of dirty skanks' or whatever it was? She was having one of her blob moments. The decorators had been in and painted over the light switches again. Bloody women, thought Brad as he pulled the car out if the garage and slowly rolled down the short drive, they never know when they have a good thing. He was the perfect gentleman. Stupid cow!