by Limmy
‘Look,’ said Normal Brian. ‘Maybe we should forget about the past and future and think about the present.’
Future Brian didn’t know what he meant.
‘Like, what can we do right now, me and you?’ Normal Brian continued.
They wondered.
‘What can me and you do,’ said Normal Brian, ‘that’s only possible because there’s two of us? Something we maybe couldn’t or wouldn’t do with somebody else.’
They wondered. And then wondered some more. Normal Brian looked out the window, as if he’d find the answer out there.
Then he felt Future Brian hold his hand.
Normal Brian looked at Future Brian’s hand, and then his face. Future Brian’s cheeks were slightly flushed, his mouth was parted and he had a hard-on. To Normal Brian’s surprise, it started to give him a hard-on as well. Normal Brian began to squeeze Future Brian’s knob through his tight jeans, as Future Brian went in for the kill, unzipping Normal Brian’s jeans and gently coaxing out Normal Brian’s stiff, veiny prick.
Just as things were about to get hot and nasty, another man from the future appeared and broke it up. It was another Brian. This one was from a slightly more distant future than Future Brian, about another five minutes.
‘Stop it, stop that right now,’ said Distant Future Brian, shoving Normal Brian’s cock back into his jeans. If anybody else did that, thought Normal Brian, if anybody else grabbed his cock and shoved it back in his jeans like that, they’d get their jaw cracked. But somehow this other Brian doing it made it all right. It was all their cock after all.
‘You better have a good reason for this, mate,’ said Future Brian to Distant Future Brian, his hard-on losing steam.
‘It didn’t work out,’ said Distant Future Brian. ‘Let’s just leave it there.’ Future Brian was about to ask Distant Future Brian to go into more detail, but there was a certain look in his eyes, a certain experience, that told him all he needed to know.
‘Anyway, we had a better idea,’ said Distant Future Brian. ‘Listen up.’
And he went on to describe an elaborate plan to get rich. Filthy rich.
‘A casino!’ said Normal Brian. ‘Of course! Why did I not—’
‘Fucking shut up and listen,’ said Distant Future Brian. Normal Brian noted that Distant Future Brian was even less patient than Future Brian. It looked like his theory was right, whatever that was. He thought he’d better fucking shut up and listen before he had the pair of them at him.
The idea involved one of them playing roulette, another one of them standing nearby and taking note of the numbers as they came in, and then that one telling those numbers to the third one. That third one would be ready to do the magnet-boiling thing in the toilet cubicle, and he’d do that by using one of those wee gas camping stove things that he’d have to smuggle into the casino under a big raincoat along with a pot of water and a magnet. Simple as that.
‘Simple as that,’ said Normal Brian sarcastically. ‘Fucking what?’
They argued. Their argument led to a fight. And their fight, inevitably, led to more hard-ons.
Just then a man from the future appeared. Another Brian. Fuck this. Seriously, fuck this. There would be no stopping the cocks this time around, just let him try. But then the three Brians saw what was in the hands of this last and Final Brian. Poly bags, stuffed full of notes. £353,890 worth of notes, to be precise.
‘It worked!’ cried Normal Brian, clawing at the bags. ‘It worked!’
‘Hold on,’ said Future Brian, pushing Normal Brian back. ‘It’s not all yours, mate.’
‘He never said it was,’ said Distant Future Brian. ‘It belongs to all of us.’
‘Aye,’ said Normal Brian, reaching for the bags again. ‘In fact, I should get most of it. Yous wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.’
‘Don’t talk shite,’ said Future Brian, slapping Normal Brian’s hand out the way. ‘It was me that told you about boiling the magnet, I should get the most. Half, at least.’
‘Sorry, whose fucking idea was the casino?’ asked Distant Future Brian, barging between them both.
‘You said “we” had the idea,’ replied Future Brian. ‘You said “we”. Why are you making out it was just you? Why are you lying? Why are you lying? Why are you—’
Final Brian raised his hands slowly and smiled.
‘Easy, lads, easy,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to worry about any of that. Not one bit.’
‘How come?’ asked Normal Brian. Then he noticed something. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Aye,’ said Future Brian. ‘Where are they? How come you’ve got all the money?’
‘Maybe that isn’t all the money,’ wondered Distant Future Brian. ‘Am I right?’
Final Brian reached down into one of the cupboards.
‘The answer, boys,’ he said, ‘is right here.’
He brought out a large cast-iron pot.
‘Iron,’ said Normal Brian, starting to get it. ‘Magnets are attracted to iron. Whereas the other pot …’
‘Is just steel,’ said Future Brian.
The three Brians turned to look into the steel pot on the gas and the boiling magnet within, as Final Brian carried the iron pot over from the cupboard.
‘I see, so if we were to boil a magnet in an iron pot,’ theorised Distant Future Brian, before going blank. ‘Em … what would that do? Sorry.’
‘Aye,’ said Future Brian. ‘What can an iron pot do that this one can’t?’
‘It can do this,’ said Final Brian behind them, before bashing in their skulls.
As they lay there with the tops of their heads cracked open, Final Brian was reminded of something. The egg! The egg, of course, oh my God, he nearly forgot.
He fished it out the water and stuck it in an egg cup next to some toast and a cup of tea. He sliced the top off with his teaspoon and looked inside.
It was perfect.
Absolutely perfect!
THE TIGHT LACES
He was to put together this pitch. They asked him last week. He was to put together this pitch, this presentation, type the thing up, get it rehearsed and present the thing to the client tomorrow. He asked his bosses if he could work from home; it just helped him be more creative. They preferred it if he did it in the office, so they could see how it was going, but he insisted, and they said OK. That was a week now, that was a week he’d been working on it. He was to send it off to his bosses by 5 p.m. today, and then, pending their approval, he’d present the thing tomorrow. A big job. A big, big job. Very important. And he hadn’t written a thing.
It was just the pressure. It was a lot of pressure, and that sort of thing got in the way of creativity, it got in the way of ideas. So he took it easy for the first few days. In other words, he did nothing. When he finally got started, he just couldn’t do it, he just wasn’t feeling it. It was that blank screen staring back at you, so many options, it was like looking at a menu with too many things on it, it made it so hard just to go for it. He felt he needed to loosen up, so last night he got hammered.
He woke up at 11 a.m. this morning. Only six hours left. There were emails waiting for him, missed calls. He texted back to assure his bosses he was on it, he’d have it to them by 5 p.m., as promised. He switched on his laptop and stared at the screen, that big white screen, until 1 p.m. He’d had no breakfast, no shower. He decided to head to a cafe, he’d take the laptop, he just needed out the house, that was it. A change of scenery.
He sat in the cafe, staring at the screen. He checked the time – it was just after two. Less than three hours left. He put his hands on the keyboard. He was going to get started. He was just about to get started. Any time now, he’d start typing and get started. There was just one problem.
His laces were too tight.
It sounds like a trivial problem, but it was quite annoying. It was a niggling wee thing, like a pea under a hundred mattresses. It was the lace on his right shoe; he’d tied it
too tight when he rushed to get out the house. It felt like the tongue of his shoe was pressed against the veins in his foot, like it was cutting off the blood flow, he wasn’t sure, but it was just this wee nuisance that he really didn’t want right now. He wasn’t blaming it for the fact that he hadn’t typed anything, he’d had all week to do that, but he thought he should sort them out before he got cracking.
He bent over and poked his head under the cafe table, and untied the lace on his right shoe. He gave the rest of the lace a tug here and there to loosen it all up. Ahhh, that felt better. Much better. He could get started now.
It was quite nice down there, he thought. It was a wee booth he was in, not a lot of light getting under the table. It was quite nice, nice and dark. Not like up there, up there on the table where the laptop was, with that screen. That big, bright white screen, that big, bright white light shining in your face. It was better down below. It was a welcome break. You needed a break, a break from that light, it’s bad for your eyes, that. Looking into screens for too long can be bad for you.
Maybe he should stay down there for a wee bit longer. What’s the rush? Can a man not duck under a table to loosen his laces and then maybe stay a while? Does everything have to be done on time and done with determination, must you always do what you say you were going to do? Why must we rush to get something done if it’s only to move onto something else immediately after? Can a man not just linger in the gaps between?
Two hours he stayed under there.
They had to phone the police.
THE SIZE OF SALLY
There was something up with Sally, she wasn’t feeling too well. She felt sluggish and stiff, she felt heavy, and that wasn’t right, not for somebody like her, somebody who kept herself fit and active. Yet she felt like an old woman. An old woman who smokes sixty a day and eats burgers for breakfast.
She went to the doctor, and right away he could tell something was up, so much so that when she walked into the room, he sprung out his chair to help her get to her seat. She was in a bad way. When she sat down, he asked her if she’d been getting enough exercise. She told him that wasn’t it. He asked if she smoked or liked a drink or whatever. She shook her head. He asked her if she’d been feeling down, if there had been a bereavement, if she was prone to mood swings. She said it was none of that, it was nothing she could explain; she’d looked it all up on the NHS site and forums and everything else, there was just no explanation, there weren’t any lumps, there wasn’t any pain, the stiffness wasn’t in any one place, it was all over. She was starting to lose her patience. And then she collapsed.
The doctor phoned an ambulance and she was rushed to hospital, where they prodded and poked and did some scans. There appeared to be something wrong with the scanning machine, it was giving some strange results, so they did another round. But it was the same thing. That couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be. They scanned somebody else; they were fine. Then another; they were fine as well. Then they scanned Sally once more, but there were those strange, strange results yet again. Sally’s heart monitor started going haywire. They were going to have to operate.
The surgeon started with one of her fingers, somewhere inconspicuous, a small cut at the end of her left thumb. He was reluctant to jump in head first with a slice right down her belly, regardless of what the scans said, because the scans defied belief. He just wanted a peek. He pulled the skin apart at the cut, and saw that the scans were right. Dear God! He cut open the rest of her fingers, then her arms, then everything. He cut her open like a teddy bear being torn apart at the seams, and revealed what was inside.
It was Sally!
Inside Sally was Sally, another Sally. It was like the inner Sally had been wearing an outside Sally as some kind of Sally suit. But now it was gone, and she woke up feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, back to her old self, albeit a wee bit smaller. They peeled away the rest of her skin, got her all cleaned up, and then they asked her what she wanted to be called. She couldn’t keep her old name; she was a new person in effect, the computer wouldn’t allow it. She liked her name, though, so she said, ‘I know. Call me Sally 2.’
Sally 2 walked out the hospital and right back into her life, feeling better than ever. Faster. Lighter. After a month or two, she began to slow down, but she put that down to her body just settling in. Then not long after that, she started to feel even slower. Sluggish and stiff, heavy, until she didn’t feel too well at all. Then she collapsed. An ambulance was phoned, and back to the hospital she came for some more prodding and poking and another few scans, only this time there was no hesitation. She was wheeled to the operating theatre as quick as a flash, where the surgeon cut her from head to toe with one big swoosh of the knife like she was a box of flat-pack furniture. And inside Sally 2 was, you guessed it, another Sally. Sally 3.
Sally 3 was smaller again, but identical in every other way. She woke up, refreshed and reinvigorated, before getting cleaned up, dressed, and walking right out of there, feeling even better than before. Two weeks later she was back, and out popped an even smaller Sally 4.
Sally 4 walked right out of there, before collapsing in the hospital car park. Back she came, and out popped Sally 5, who collapsed right there on the bed.
Sally 6 was fine, though, for the best part of a year. But then she died. She was taken to the morgue, where they cut her open for a post-mortem, only to find Sally 7. Dead. They cut her open, only to find Sally 8, also dead. So was Sally 9. But when they cut her open, to their surprise, out popped Sally 10, refreshed and reinvigorated and all raring to go. All two foot of her.
But then she died.
They decided to bury Sally 10, to put her out the misery of this Russian doll carry-on, to let the woman have some peace, for heaven’s sake. Plus it was a nice round number. So they put her in a coffin and stuck her in the ground.
Some years passed, with no mention of Sally 1–10, but after a while, people began to talk. They began to wonder. Sally 10 was dead, yes, but what about Sally 11? Or Sally 12? What had they done? And what would they find? So out came the shovels, and the coffin was dug up. As curious as they were, nobody was in any rush to be the one to open it. The surgeon stepped forward, and quite rightly. He leaned down and pulled off the lid, then stood aghast at what was inside.
The coffin was full to the brim with layer upon layer of dried-up Sally skin. It was like puff pastry. It looked like all that crumpled paper you get inside a shoe box. Except there were no shoes. And no Sally.
Sally was gone.
They cleaned out the coffin carefully, looking for what might be a wee Sally 15, or a tiny Sally 30, or a minuscule Sally 100. They couldn’t find her. Not even with a microscope. Not even with the best microscope in the world.
But she was there.
Sally 1,000? Higher.
Sally 1,000,000? Much higher.
Sally a billion billion?
Even higher than that. And, therefore, even smaller.
So small that she had slipped between the fibres of the coffin. Then she slipped into the space between the atoms. And then she slipped between space itself.
So small that she slipped between hours, minutes and seconds. She slipped between the smallest definition of a moment. She slipped between time.
She was so small that she slipped between knowledge. Infinitesimally small. She slipped between and beyond understanding itself.
Now, think for a moment about how small that is. Try and wrap your head around something so small, can you do it?
Well, see that size?
That’s yer da’s cock.
A SIMPLE MISTAKE
It was a simple mistake, but a deadly one. He knew the rules.
If you gave them any reason to believe you weren’t cut out for the job, they had to let you go. If you gave them any indication that you were a liability rather than an asset, they had to let you go. With immediate effect.
It really was such a simple mistake, but he could understand their concerns. He had his
finger on the big red button, after all. He knew the launch codes. If communication was lost or the General was incapacitated in some way and a decision had to be made, then he’d be the one to make it. You couldn’t have somebody in that position making mistakes like this. Not just on the field, but here at home. Not even right here in his own home. And they were watching. He knew the rules. They had to let him go. That’s how they put it when he took the position. If anything like this should arise, ‘we’d have to let you go’. He knew what that meant.
It was understandable. He wasn’t just some pencil-pushing office worker. They couldn’t just ask him to clear his desk and show him the door. Not with his knowledge. Not with what he knew. Why, he’d walk right out and right into the wrong hands.
And they couldn’t just place him on an island somewhere to live out the rest of his days. The other side would stop at nothing to find him and promise him the world. Promise him a bigger island. And all he would have to do is tell them a secret or two.
No, they couldn’t do that, but neither could they keep him. Not after a mistake like this. Such a simple mistake, but so revealing. Repeat a mistake like that on the field and, well, it would cost the lives of billions. Perhaps the world entire.
He took a moment to reflect upon his life, in the remaining few moments before it would come to an end. He looked at the box of cereal in his hand, the one he got up for in the middle of the night, the contents of which he’d just poured into a bowl because he was feeling peckish.
And as the sniper bullet pinged through his kitchen window towards his head, he couldn’t help feeling a bit silly. Well, it was silly, taking the cereal out the cupboard and the milk out the fridge, then, when done, walking to the fridge to put the milk back, opening the door, wondering for a moment why the milk won’t fit back in, then realising it’s because you’re not holding the milk, you’re holding the box of fucking cereal instead. That was silly.