Reading Time: 3 minutes
Some rude fat pot suggested she was fat. Such a strong blunt grunt of rude. He was just as fat and shaped like a pot. She wasn’t black and was not like a kettle. She did have some voluptuous spouts though. The fat pot couldn’t find his minuscule spout even with a contortionist’s view. This outburst caused yet more mayhem.
Ross sat, in fact, most of the character’s in Owen’s stories sat at some stage or another. Maybe it was because Owen was always sitting, plotting, dreaming, concocting, imagining a real life. One that others always seemed to have. One that had obviously passed him by. Time to be maudlin, soulful and reminiscent ? maybe. Time to get out of the sitting department and into the fuck-else-where department.
Owen had a story to write today and not much of an idea as to what it would be. The Ross pot and kettle thing was something, the range of jokes that could be blended or rolled into a story were endless but all totally inappropriate. It was not the done thing to poke fun at anyone nowadays, no fun at all but perfectly understandable. Fat or not fat, yo momma, female, male, blonde, physically impaired, any skin colour, fit or not fit, any nationality or even just you being you.
It wasn’t the done thing anymore.
“Anyhow fuck that” … thought Owen, “I’ve got to write something.”
Ross is up to something different….. something more than sitting.
The train at that time of day was always heaving, rolling, jumping and pumping along full of office workers and those who’d gone to rip them off during the day, all these saddened folks were heading to where they went. To their home, local pub or club, partners house or whorehouse, all sorts of outlets and pleasures were sought and quite often satisfied. Mothers with pride expecting their offspring and offspring without, hiding from their mothers. The train was an anthropological minefield of excess, oddness and excitement. Ross sat, waited and watched as the crowd went about their way. Past him as it always was. Racing past and not noticing his ever so subtle increasing unease. The day would come he thought that they couldn’t help but notice. Or know about it.
Ross was planning on killing a few hundred of those workers and those that ripped them off types as they caught the train to their next location. Ross had no location he could call his own. His GPS had no home location, it roamed as did Ross, roamed in the real world, via train, bus, tram and uber and of course within his frighteningly violent imaginary one. Ross had a few deep disturbing views on modern living and struggled to find someone to share these outlandishly repugnant views. He would write them down.
He’d read an innocent blog called tbaoo seeking co-writers or guest writers. Somehow he connected with the weird ramblings on this blog and sent in a 20-page manifesto style rambling document. The blog’s owner rang the local Police as soon as he read the first page, but Ross had failed to provide any traceable address or links that would locate this raving lunatic. The huge amounts of strange adult male dribble provided DNA but with none to compare, the Police were flummoxed. The dribble was pretty flummoxed itself.
DS Jackson of Chatswood Police would later admit well after the tragic human slaughter onboard the 5.30pm Wynyard to Hornsby train that the manifesto should have been sent to mental health professionals or even a code breaker. It turned out that Ross was a clever fucker and had laced the document with abundant clues, not just remnants of his adult pleasure.
The toll of human tragedy was 187 passengers and a bus load of pensioners and their driver that happened to be on an overpass as the train exploded beneath it. The multiple explosions tore the carriages apart like a gorilla opening can of beer, they were spread out like a soft flower. The luckless innocents traveling home were spread about what was left of the train and out into the environment, it was speeding through.
It took 2 sets of forensic crews 3 days to collect the parts and less than solid remains of the passengers. The pensioners and driver were contained within the bus as it had simply flown off the overpass and smashed onto to the tracks amazingly intact but it trapped all those on board. All dead.
Days later Ross was again sitting at Wynyard and watched the news on his phone and smiled. He laughed to himself each time he thought about the dumb arsed fun stoppers trying to understand the gibberish that was filtered through every second paragraph. He wondered if the next large explosive device was on its way to Manly yet. The bus was due to leave anytime now.
Owen sat. Again sitting, again writing about death and destruction, what the fuck was his problem ?
He needed to get out more, “some-fuck-else-where”
An increasingly grumpy old fart posting rants, observations and trying to write somewhat twisted short stories for adults. All rights reserved unless otherwise credited © Alan Crawford - 2024
