Dave The Lobster Boy

It was a cold winter evening, a pivotal evening, the kind of evening that can make or break lives. The flat was littered with beer cans, empty shells full of nothing but lost promise; the air was thick with the heavy-set lingering fog of marijuana - a fog which threatened to ensconce and entomb them all. The occupants sat, slumped against the walls and sofas, eyelids heavy with an unnatural waking sleep. In one corner, a gaudy televisual nightmare glared out towards their transient non-receptive brains… Teletubbies were indeed the shit, and well they knew it.

Slowly, a head stirred, and a slurred and dull voice rang out through the dirty, weighty mists. “Dave, man, I’m half-starved. Ring for pizza, dude.”

Dave opened his eyes. Pizza. Good idea. Perhaps chips, too… chips seemed good. He had the munchies, by god he had the munchies. He motivated himself into action… and then stopped, stopped entirely still. His brain tried to compute, but failed. Something was wrong.

Geoffry looked over at Dave. He’d been standing by the phone for the last two minutes, simply staring, in deep contemplation. He nearly didn’t like to say anything - but now was the time, here was the place, and pizza was the required foodstuff. “Dave, what the hell’s up? Ring for pizza, dude, ring for pizza.”

“I can’t,” said, said Dave, in a small and strangulated voice. “The lobster says I mustn’t.”

-=Two years on=-

Dave smiled over his coffee cup. The coffee in the canteen was good, better than it should be. The lobster was wrong about that.

The lobster wasn’t wrong about many things, though. The lobster had guided him well through life. Given, his friends had deserted him - granted, his family had given up as well. But he had the lobster. The lobster was all he needed. The lobster helped him talk to god. He knew that, without his telephonic lobster, he was nothing. For the lobster had told him so.

“Up we get, David my love, it’s time for your medication.” Dave looked up at Deirdre, as she leant low to speak to him, her cleavage in his face. She was quite sexy for a 50-year-old overweight psychiatric nurse. She had these slightly large, claw-like hands, and beautifully deep, shiny, reddened cheeks.

But that wasn’t the best part. David shuddered with the beauty of it. She had glorious deep red hair. He knew it was unnatural, but then how natural was it to be friends with lobsters?

She would be his. The lobster had told him. And the lobster was nearly always right.