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Must End Monday: Shortbread's Light Bites

Published 10 months ago

With the Summer sales in full swing, today's Light Bite explores the dangers of bargain hunting! 

Must End Monday by Mandy James

An advertising tidal wave crashes down, submerging Veronica under an assault of brash slogans insisting she wants, no, she needs a real leather three- piece suite.

Under her skin, burrowing hungrily, relentlessly, a carnivorous worm seeks sustenance. A nano second's thought, ‘Mmm, that’s quite a good offer,’ is all the nourishment this worm needs to grow, to develop and to morph into a fully-fledged idea. The idea’s only mission is to launch her feverishly hurrying down to a sale while stocks last!

Don’t forget… MUST END MONDAY!

A flick of a button squashes the worm, allowing silence to creep back with its tail between its legs. She wishes she’d spent more time with silence five years ago instead of excavating a smooth worm path into David’s brain.

If she had, he would still be alive.

“Oh but it looks such good quality David, and the terms are reasonable.” The memory of her wheedling tone cause nauseas gases to surface on her shame. He hadn’t wanted to buy the dining table and chairs, they couldn’t afford it.

They did though, because he wanted to make her happy – that had been the beginning, a snowball to start an avalanche. Soon to follow were new carpets, beds, and a fitted kitchen.

We want it David, no, we need it David.

A landslide of must have gadgets, holidays and cars buried them under the weight of debt, crushing the breath from their marriage. Arguments replaced kisses, recrimination and blame became their new bedfellows. The weight was temporarily lifted the day David returned home with the flame of hope rekindled in his eyes. Champagne and flowers cradled like infants - a gift to her.

“What are these for? You know we are up to our eyes in…”

“Debt? Well that’s where you’re wrong Ronnie; I’ve made a killing on the horses!”

That had been the beginning, a snowball to start an avalanche. The landslide weight of a gambling addiction eventually crushed the breath from her husband.

It was the age old story, he could stop any time, gambling was just a tool he would wield until they had cleared the debt. He was wrong.

It got under his skin soaking through his pores poisoning his mind - his sense of reality. Luck walked with him in the first six months, holding is hand at the track, the betting office, and sat alongside him at the gaming tables. The debt dwindled to almost nothing, enabling their marriage to take a few deep gasps of air.

Luck apparently had other fish to fry during the latter part of the year, leaving David alone, bereft -desperate.

“Look, I think it’s time to stop this gambling lark, we don’t need the money now we’ve almost paid the debts…we’ll be in the clear in a month or so,” Veronica had said as David looked at the racing pages.

“We always need money Ronnie, and I’m good at it. I know lately I lost a bit, but I feel luck is on my side today.”

“I’m just scared you’ll not be able to stop. The longer you do it the worse it becomes, I read an article ab…,”

“Oh well, if you read an article about it then it must be true,” David snapped and made a swift exit to the bookies.

The weight increased ten fold falling so hard it flattened them. Debts towered above them once more, this time in the shape of loans to facilitate David’s addiction. Veronica no longer recognised her husband .He became shrunken, twisted, gnarled as old driftwood floating in an ocean of anxiety. Under his skin, desire to win drained him of humanity. It was as if the real David had been consumed. He’d been replaced by a creature unable to satisfy its need, like a starving man mouthless at a banquet. She couldn’t live like this any more. Neither could he.

Gently twisting, turned by an invisible breeze she found him - suspended. He was wearing odd socks. She noticed this insignificant detail from the far abstract world she’d suddenly been catapulted into. Veronica realised that what she should have been doing was screaming hysterically and ringing 999, babbling incoherently that she’d returned from work to find her husband had hanged himself in the garage. She could only observe him quietly however, like some critic at a modern art gallery.

He’d pissed himself and he’d gouged lumps from his neck in a futile attempt to reverse his decision. His arms dangled feebly, arms that had once held her with strength and passion.

“David?”

Reality crashed back into her like a jungle full of elephants. Screams of anguish rent the calm summer evening, bringing the neighbours, pity and sorrow. Everything was taken from her. Even the house went in the end.

“We really hate to do this Mrs. Johnson especially in these circumstances… but we have no choice,” rasped the creature from the Building Society, trying to look sympathetic whilst glancing surreptitiously at its watch.

Veronica looks around her bed-sit, dark, dreary, soulless. What it wants, no, what it needs is new wallpaper, carpet, and of course a real leather three-piece suite. She yelps with laughter flinging back her head like a Coyote howling at the moon. She thinks the laughter sounds like hysteria; she knows it sounds like hysteria. She stops laughing, slips on a hat and coat, and heads out into the night.

The cold grabs her arm and escorts her through the park. She should be afraid at this hour a woman alone.

She’s not afraid though, she doesn’t care what happens any more. For the last twelve months she’s blamed herself for David’s death, even tonight under bombardment from the adverts, she imagined that she’d triggered the whole thing. It was she who’d insisted they bought most of the crap, so she had driven him to gamble to pay for it all - ergo she had killed him.

That howl of hysteria has somehow cleared her senses however. She now realises who the real murderer is. It is the colossal worm in all its hideous glory, burying its way into hearts and minds, destroying lives, hopes, and dreams. Its clarion call…

MUST END MONDAY!

The late night garage has what she seeks, a petrol-can and spray paint. From a car-park desert spring two stout legs, an Ozymandias of modern times, though not trunkless. The legs support a vast sign shouting,

Hurry in to Sofa Universe sale!

Prizes slashed by 50!

Buy now whilst stocks last - MUST END MONDAY!

Veronica touches the legs. They are rigid and cold, not urine stained and twisting, but strong, tall, and proud. The sign mocks her, challenges her, vomits on her powerlessness. She flips the top from her purple spray paint and blots out the word Monday – her rage fuels the eclipse.

One small triumph.

Veronica feels tiny yelps of hysteria scurrying up from her depths, so coughs to mask them. She glances around to ensure she’s still alone. The only sound is from the motorway in the distance. Lorries hauling late night loads across the sleeping land, so in the early hours, warehouses can be replenished with the treasures that we want, no, that we need.

She admires her work again, “Damn right it must end!” she shouts, her voice sounds big, powerful. She creeps closer to the store now. Across the huge plate-glass windows more of the same slogans remind people of their offers. Would people have forgotten them between the car-park and store front? ‘They treat us like imbeciles,’ she thinks, repeating her handy-work on all surfaces.

Purple clouds blot out Mondays everywhere. The yelps are unleashed in abundance as she reads the destroyed slogans. Some shout, MUST END! Most shout, EXPLOITATION MUST END!

Watchful eyes peer at her from dark corners. Pulling her hat lower she blinds them with paint. “CCTV, can’t deal with me!” she yells doing a crazy little dance. She feels good - ready for anything.

In the dark store, the hulking shapes of three-piece suites loom like sleeping dragons in a fairy tale forest.

‘So you think you are protected by fire retardant chemicals? Think again dragons.’ Veronica is slightly worried by the surreal nature of her thoughts as she slips over a wall round the back of the store.

Ah good, no plate glass here. An unkempt yard leads to a small wooden door probably leading to a grotty staff- room. Can’t shell out good money on staff can we? No, that would eat into our enormous profits and we can’t have that can we?

Veronica’s hands shake as she fumbles for her lighter. What a bit of luck I took up smoking again after David died. A manic giggle threatens. She suppresses it not because she is afraid someone will hear, but because she can’t allow herself the luxury of madness. She figures she owes David that much. She finds old cardboard strewn across the yard – perfect. This is thrust under the door and doused with petrol. She is careful to make sure none is spilled; she’s read an article about a drip trail that set a person alight like a Roman Candle. She knew what David’s response would be to that, but she couldn’t take any chances.

Yet another piece of cardboard is found, lit, and applied to the doused material.

Veronica can’t believe how fast it goes up. The voracious appetite of the flames reduces the door to nothing in seconds. She scampers off to watch at a safe distance behind bushes in the car park. At first there is just a warm glow haloing the store, then a tremendous roar shatters the quiet, as flames of gold dance a frantic tango with billowing smoke. High into the night air the inferno leaps after stars. Veronica has never seen anything so beautiful, powerful, and utterly breathtaking. The smell of burning leather is all pervading, how delicious!

She feels a sudden sadness – how she wishes David could share this with her.

The wail of sirens claim her attention. Bloody hell, they were quick, it’s only half burned, damn their efficiency! Reluctant to leave, but having no choice, she runs from the fire-ball into the dark.

The early morning news reveals a shell of a store. Half eaten dragons dot the ruined landscape, and smoke soiled slogans flutter feebly. Veronica is elated to see that lots of her handy-work is still legible and it is to this that the reporter now addresses his comments.

“The manager believes it is probably an anti-capitalist terrorist organisation given the political comments on the adverts. He also said that these people are only hurting the man and woman in the street. They have ruined the January sale which everyone looks forward to.”

“Ruined the sale? You ruin our lives!” Veronica shrieks at the screen.

“We have also reason to believe that the arsonist may be a woman. A garage sales assistant is helping police with their enquiries.”

The reporter is extinguished. She doesn’t like that label – arsonist. Arsonists are criminals, nutters… well; perhaps that’s what she has become, mad.

Sorry David. Oh, but it felt so good. It got under your skin. She was distraught the night before when she had to leave mid-blaze. She had really wanted, no, needed to see her creation reduce that vile place to ash. She knows that burning one store down won’t stop others suffocating under the weight of the worm, but at least it slowed its progress. Fire is an early bird. A nano seconds thought morphs into a fully- fledged idea. She ponders on it, daring to run with it, relishing the thrill.

Now Veronica, it would be different if all the stores were burned down…

Late that night, she howls at the moon, slips into a hat and coat and heads out into the night.

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