The Manager, Joke

 

EUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHFT.

*Exhales*

EUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHFT.

*Exhales*

EUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHFT.

*Exhales*

 

Yer man John’s out in the hut, giving it big licks on the weights again – pure new lease on life since Tesco bumped him up to manager. That warehouse doesn’t know what’s hit it.

Every bicep curl and grunt of air complimented by a wee image of John in a suit, standing tall, proud; Shiny as fuck name tag: “Manager”.

 

“Joke yer teas out!”

 

Now, not even 3 months ago, the sound of Mary’s voice would’ve made John’s baws re-tract into his lower intestine, but with this new confidence, authority and adrenaline coursing through his 54 year old veins, he very nearly even had a semi. Honestly, there is nothing this man couldn’t tackle right now.

 

John doesn’t step into the house, he practically fucking glides. Big heavy plate of mince and tatties feels light as a ping pong ball after that weight sesh. Mary has provided John with his favourite spoon to eat his dinner (you can still faintly read the numbers 1690 on the handle). She’s some wummin!

 

Every spoonful regenerates his muscles, every bite restores his managerial mind for another hard shift, and every half breathe between gulps re-balances his –

FUCK. Eughhhhhhhhhhhhhh. FUCK. Eughhhhhhhhhlp. F. U. C. K.

 

A perfectly circular, almost ironic ping pong ball sized mince portion has wedged itself in John’s throat – the speed he was shoveling it in at has got it pretty deep. His lungs instantly gasping like a fancy new Dyson Hoover. Ye know the thin ones with the handle at the end? Just ask yer maw, she’s probably pure eyeing one up.

 

“So ah said tae her Joke, ah said, if you cannae read the numbers, why do you even come tae the bingo?!” Mary had been telling this story since before John was even properly back in the house – but now, more than ever, he wished she would shut the fuck up – and de-lodge this mince grenade.

 

HIS FACE GROWING PURPLE, HIS EYES ROLLING INTO THE BACK OF HIS HEAD –

“and kin ye believe this, she says to me, she says I dinnae gee a flying fuck about the numbers, ahm here fur the banter wae mah pals!”… “Kin ye believe that Joke?!? The banter wae her pals?!

The cow doesnae even have a good word tae say aboot herself, nevermind aebody else! And she’s never aff her phone the whole time!”

 

John’s arms were now waving like a couple of helium balloons caught in a abso raging hurricane. Mary proceeds to walk in and out of the room – completely unaware John is one mince fist away from ascending to another plain.

“I’ve been looking for mah glasses and they’ve been oan mah heid the whole time! Am a daft auld bastard so am ur” – “but what would you dae Joke?”

Mary was more than used to John not listening to her, so instantly started repeating herself, “What would you dae – “

John’s limp body finally left his favorite gravy stained, faded, floral recliner and slowly slid all the way to the ground, with all the grace of a pillowcase, full of pool balls and custard.

 

Mary stood silent, shocked, slightly curled lip…

 

“This a wind up?! You taking the piss?!”

 

His body motionless, a slight low frequency gargle on loop.

 

“Right that’s enough Joke, very good!!

Joke…

Joke…”

Mary shakes his arse with her foot, slipper shooting off with the speed of it.

“John for fucksake, my heart is racing!”.

 

Mary looked at the dinner plate: Half eaten.

Now John liked a wind up as much as anybody, but no way he’s getting one in without finishing his scran first!

“Johnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!”

Mary’s leg now fully extends back, cocked n loaded like rural Scotland’s answer to Shawn Michaels coiling into a Sweet Chin Music.

 

WHACK.

 

Expertly executed.

Some folk can lift motors when their weans are trapped under them, some folk can tackle huge life ending flames to save strangers trapped in collapsing buildings. John’s on death’s door and Mary turns into a tasty black belt in karate.

 

The shock of the kick reverberates from his arse to the souls of his feet, back up to the crown of his head, in a pendulum like motion. His whole body shifts upwards, into a limp limbed down dog. His breast pocket curls up into his throat, pushing his unlatched manager’s pin right into his adams apple.

The pin pierces John’s throat with a tiny hole… More air gets in, than mince gets out.

His eyes rolls back into focus, he pukes up the better part of his Sunday dinner, stares Mary in her tear filled eyes and grasps at the god send of a pin hole in his throat…

 

EUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHFT.

*Exhales*

 

This Tesco promotion had truly given him a new lease on life.

 

 

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