Spiked

My Job is shit. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. I push my cleaning trolley along the grey carpet in the corridor. Actually it's not quite grey, there are speckles of beige and black in there too. Why am I telling you that? It's perfectly apparent that you don't give a quint. I bump over one of the metal ridges that join the carpet and all the cock-and-balls on the trolley — the blue and pink refuse bags hung from the back, the assortment of brushes and basins, the big round vacuum cleaner, the sprays for glass and other surfaces, the cloths, sponges, et cetera — all that shi'ite rattles about like a chain on a prisoner's leg.

First up, 00.07.01. That means floor zero, wing seven, office one. I'm too good for this job, were you aware? I should be putting books away in a fucking library. The woman in this office is rarely to be observed. And she keeps her room so bull minge clean the police couldn't convict her of working there. Just a quick once over with the vacuum, then wipe the desk down and give the spike a little polish. They like it when it gleams.

Quick rap on the door. One two with the second knuckles of the index and middle fingers. Middle first, index second. I like to think of it as my signature. Jesus Selassie I'm such a fucking loser. No answer. My dirty white hand's already on the doorhandle when I hear, Yes?

"Cleaner," I say, spraying out my shittitude in two short syllables, 'er' tucked into 'clean' like a gay turtle's head.

"Come in," she says.

I harrumph my way through the door, stumping it open with one foot while I persuade the giant orange vacuum cleaner to take a little trundle in.

"Sorry Ma'am… won't be a minute Ma'am…"

Gruff apologetic doggy bollock sounds. I unspool the cable from the top of the hoover and plug it into the wall. I'd make a good dog. I already got the vocab and I'm working on the stench. If only I could suck my own cock. I'd like to get my caucasian paws on this ebon bitch's back. I'd give her a good jigga jig, a gooood ruff ruff chowp chowp all hunched up quiverin' against her back with the string o' slobber coming down from the chops and that stinky dog madness in the eyes, that drooly mad dog physog that says, fuck off, don't encroach, I have my shiny pink in this ethiop's cloaca.

Lucky she can't hear what I'm thinking. She can't hear much, 'cause the hoover's like a fukeing plane taking off. I part the grey fibres of the carpet like I'm blowdrying hair. Only the other way round, if you know what I entail. I look up as I'm circumcisin' one of the desklegs and clock her watching me. As much as she can watch me that is, impaled on a fucking spike and so forth. I trundle on a bit and glance back. She's still watching me, eyes swivelled over to one side.

"I just can't seem to concentrate today," she says.

"Sorry Ma'am… one minute…"

"Oh don't worry — it's nothing to do with you. I'm suffering from stress. Actually I quite like watching you work. It helps me relax."

So I go on pushing the vacuum, bumping round the desk and chairs and rammin' into whore corners.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Gary."

"Gary? That's a lovely name. Ga-ry."

If I had a tail I'd wag it. But I just got this pewbulous little pisstail in front, pink and cheesecaked with the kaiserflap still attached and a short and curly most probably gunged in the gumeye. Hell, if she'd scratch my belly I'd lie on my back and squirm about, fourlegs wide as a teenslut with the fur tufted up around old pink shiny, pink like guts and twice as smelly. And so small, so fucking atrociously small — that's correct, the jests you've heard are all true.

"Tell me Gary, do you like living here?"

"Oh yes Ma'am… smashing country…smashing…"

"And did you come here alone, or did you bring your family with you?"

"Wife Ma'am… two sons…"

"Lovely. That's lovely"

My wife, I should declaim, is fucking ugly. I could shit a better looking woman. Better smelling too. Thighs like a walrus in a Gulag. Breath like a faeced in ashtray.

"I imagine your wife cooks delicious chip boutties for you. I love chip boutties. So much better than the muck we eat here."

I sink my big ponytailed head even further than usual into my shoulders. I don't want to look at her in case she asks me to dance the hornpipe or similar. I've done most of the room now. Just the bit around her chair left. Hehhehheh save the best for last.

"I bet she sings for you too. That wonderful sad music they make in your country. So heartfelt and… nasal. I wish I had someone to sing for me!"

She is bellowing over the hoover, but her voice still has that weird careful tone, like a daddyslut walking with a book on her head. I peek at her profile as I butt the hooverhead against her computer. Glossy black skin, rich soft lips, blade rising from her afro like the pick on a Prussian helmet. I'm getting the Benny and Bjorn.

"Pardon Ma'am… hem… just got to…"

"You want me to lift my legs up? There, I'll hold them straight out till you're done. We do an exercise like this in yoga. Very good for firming the thigh muscles."

I vacuum the same patch of floor about twentyten times. Her legs start to tremble in her clingy black trousers. Firming my splunge muscle, I mutter, under cover of the hoovroar.

"What's that? Firming your… Oh ha ha, you people have such a funny way with words… ha, ha, ha… oh dear, I'm afraid I won't be able to stop laughing… ha, ha ahh!"

I jitterstep back and look at her face. A drop of blood trickles down her forehead. The colour drains from her cheeks. I am being metawhorical: she still looks fucking black to me.

I finish off quick smart and lowp across the room to unplug the hoover. I'd better get a hard on. I've got the whole wing to finish before lunch if I don't want the old sizzlers attached to my lovebag. I wind the cord around the two orange feet that flip up from the hoover and meantime her fingers start clackin' on the keyboard. They pause as I'm defecating my way out the door.

"It's terrible how stress affects you," she says, still facing the screen. "The more worried you are about what you have to do, the more you put off doing it. And then it just gets worse and worse."