Elephant Nest - chapter undecided.

Patterns on my wall paper drift, seeming to move and slide up and down, yet, somehow, remain static, unmoved.

Sometimes it can be calming, tranquil. Sometimes though it can cause a slight panic in my Jellyfish Brain; Have I lost grip?

But, mostly I just lay here in the loft watching the patterns move around as I try to ignore the pumping Bass lines vibrating up the walls.

I exhale, the smoke spreads out above me, mystifying; A metaphor for life thus so far?

I hear laughter, guffaws, tinkling glasses and the break of furniture. I just … want … to … sleep.

When I finally fade into oblivion, my eye lids lilting the dark mist closing around me.

I blink and reality bleeps back into existence.

Bleep!

That is the sound that signals in my ear the warning of the unavoidable, inescapable, truly vexatious and indignant British public.

My customers.

Bleep!

That modern day version of slave attire reluctantly strapped over my head and around my neck.

Bleep!

Good Morning, Mr. whatever the fuck your name is: first name last, post code please. Bear with me while the system deceives.

What kind of shit can I take from you today? Dog-shit, bull-shit, horse-shit, or that now mostly unseen rarity … White-shit!

You self-obsessed fuck-whits. You whining, screeching, obnoxious bunch of water based sound absorbers.

Bleep!

Break time comes and goes like a fart in the wind and …

Bleep, fucking bleep!

All day every day.

Nancy’s head plops over the desk partition, her eye balls dangling over it. She offers me something, her fist opens I miss the catch and a rock of Amphetamine crashes before me.

Bleep!

 The Speed kicks in, I feel the hairs on one side of my head tingle; fingers type faster, eyes expand and bulge through their sockets, the world is sharp, focused. I speak to a million and one wankers in the space of ten minutes.

Bleep!

Dinner time comes and goes quicker than the Queen can rub one off … (Unless Jeeves is doing it for her!)

Bleep!

Bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep … you get the point, right?

“Hello, I’m calling about my travel insurance-“

Fuck that, no more.

Dial tone.

Fuck you.

It’s time for a team huddle.

Stu’ flamboyantly, springs up from out of nowhere and begins rubbing ego’s crotches and snatches. At first pacing the outside of the circle our team has formed.

Today, we are inside Winston Churchill. 

Bespectacled, yet cool. Middle aged, yet sperm-like. Suited, booted and hair spiked. (He’s southern, but we can forgive that.) 

“Awight, you fackin’ lovely, lovely people?”

Signs of life are minimal.

“I said awight, you morose fackers!”

A few clones perk up and respond in vowelized grunts.

Stu, slips into the middle of the circle, pacing around. “You sorry, sorry buncha people. Look-at-cha! What’s-with-the-long-faces?”

“No one’s buying.” Some clone with ginger hair.

“Question!” Stu’s finger flashes above his head. “I’ll use my favourite analogy; if you’re a taxi driver, do you let the customer sit in the front seat or the back?” Fast as lightning he shoots a finger at, sweaty Pete, “You!”

“Huh?”

“Huh? Huh? They speak English in Huh?”

“Eh?”

“Oh, becheezuz, Joseph and doggy-style Mary. Do we have anymore takers?” Stu’, like he’s fucking physic, spins in the direction of the next contestant before they even speak, “Nancy, my love. Yes!”

“You sit ‘em in the back seat.”

“    Bobs-ya-uncles-a-paedophile. Give that lady a cigar!” He slaps his hands together, “You stick ‘em in the back. You don’t want Mr. Monty sitting in the front telling you which way to go, you stick him in the back and you take that customer in the direction you want him to go on the adventure of your choosing. Because if you’re not choosin’ you’re-” He holds a palm to his ear.

“Snoozin’” Everyone repeats, except me. 

“Now get back out there, look lively and let’s make loadsa-money!”

The next sound isn’t a bleep!

But a squeak and a screech.

The trolley wheels spin and slide as she pushes it down the aisle, stopping at each spine of desks and delivering insults with a smile.  

Gina, fat and full of life is handing out Blueberry Muffins. She’s a Redhead in a flowery dress, full of zest and zeal.

So nice you could slap her twice.

The trolley wheel stumps my toe, shaking me out of my stupor.

“Simon.” She holds up a muffin like it’s the crown fucking jewels, “Muffin?” She places it in front of me

“What’s this for?”

“I’ll have one, please. Gina, luv.” Sweaty Pete, says. Without looking I swipe the muffin across the desk to sweaty Pete.

“It’s just a, erm … little appreciation.” She says.

“Appreciation?”

“Yes!” She says; then gliding her palm across room, “For all our hard work.” She places another muffin on the desk before me. Then whispers “Profits are up this year, third time running. Two million … at least!”

I look at the muffin.

… Two million?

I look back up at Gina who is now stretching out a big tooth glistening smile. “Two million?” I ask.

“Ahunm.” She nods; merrily, then moves on.

I stare at the muffin, I hear sweaty Pete scoffing, lips squelching. His sweaty face in my periphery; I hear him say, “I Vuv this thob.”

Fuck.

My.

Life.

We log off and fuck off. Except me. I sit here while the office empties. Slouched, exhausted, staring into the black mirror that is my pc monitor.

I don’t recognise him.