By Matthew Bearman, Mark Cantrell &; John Salkeld
Copyright (C) March 1994
LOUISE walked into the office, picked up her gun and shot Bleys dead.
Then she picked up her nailfile and began a complex manicure.
Catherine walked in. "Well done," she said.
"Well done." The sneer was evident again.
Louise took her gun and loaded it. She smiled. "By the way Cathy, how's
"None of your business," Cath said hotly.
"What do you mean?" Louise asked aghast.
"I mean fuck off."
Louise was beginning to get annoyed, and fingered the grip of the
Kalashnikov meaningfully. Cath was always a bitch she thought. What had
she ever seen in her?
It was the legs. That's what it was. As she drove home she realised
that it had only ever been lust, and her ability to balance an entire
set of Star Wars figures on the sole of her left foot.
When she entered the house she found an ansaphone.
"Antiques," she muttered, "always bloody antiques."
She placed her message (after some time fiddling with the buttons) and
then looked around. Bleys was sitting in the corner with a sword on his
knees. He looked up from telling it a bedtime story. "Antiques. Yes,
this has been in the family for millennia. It's an antique firearm," he
said, passing the sword to Louise.
"It looks more like a phallic object, you sad bastard," Louise snapped
"God! You're always so damn feminist! Where's your dungarees
Louise set her face in a grim line and raised the rifle. Her finger
curled around the trigger and loosed off a round. She smiled in glee as
Bleys' head exploded like a pustule on the body of an anthrax
"Ow! That bloody hurt," he cried in distress.
"Hold on," said Louise. "I thought I shot you dead in the
"You did," Bleys replied. "But it was a Tuesday."
"That explains it. Why is the fruitfly watering the dustbin?"
"Stupid sod," exclaimed Bleys, still looking for the pieces of his
head. "It was the LSD I put in your tea. That would also explain the
parthogenesis of the kettle."
"Oh fine. Do us a tea then will you?" was the reply.