I was going to do a Christmas-themed story last week, but circumstances got in the way (i.e. I broke my glasses and spent most of the day slogging from Essex to London and back to retrieve the spares). Shame, as I had a half-drafted story and everything.

But never mind, maybe next year. I have managed a longer-than-usual effort for today on a New Year theme, despite being slightly ill yesterday. But if it’s rubbish, that’s my excuse.

So, belated Merry Christmas to any and all who’ve stuck with me through these things, and a Happy New Year as well. Hopefully 2011 will be a good one, writing-wise. I have at least one confirmed good thing coming, at least.

Anyway. Let’s get on with it. As ever, more short-ish stories are available if the New Year depresses you.

Operation 2011: A Survival Exercise

By Nick Bryan

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It is early on New Year’s Eve, my name is Alf. Every year, my friend Simon and I have tried to attend the free fireworks in London at the turn of the year. We arrive in the evening and find ourselves crushed, abused and stuck behind tall drunks.

However, we are fireworks lovers and will not be refused. After drawing up complex diagrams, we have come to the north bank of the Thames at six in the morning with several books and thick layers of clothing.

Our plan is to claim a bench and sit here until the fireworks start, in seventeen hours time, and I will document this undertaking in journal form. So far, we have chosen a bench. It has a good view of the river, and there are no bridges in the way, making it the best of the available candidates.

So we have taken our position. It is getting light now.

0852

Some conflict over breakfast. Simon was not sure where to go, although I kept telling him it didn’t matter. Really, I was hoping he would make a decision. It was hard enough getting him to settle on a bench.

Anyway, we eventually agreed on McDonalds, as it was nearby and neither of us have had one of their Big Breakfasts for some time. And all my other suggestions were “too weird”. I hope he’s not going to be like this all day.

0947

It appears McDonalds coffee is even less pleasant than the instant in my thermos. Otherwise, breakfast was pleasant, even with the aftertaste of grease.

However, we did experience a few issues. It appears there are very few public bins in Central London, due to the risk of terrorists dropping parcel bombs. Since I didn’t want to sit on a pile of McDonalds packaging all day, I sent Simon to find an exposed disposal area, since one of us has to guard the bench.

And also a free toilet, since he needs to pee and refuses to pay. I think he’s hoping the “restaurant” will let him use the facilities.

1135

Thankfully we brought a lot of books with us, or we might have had to converse. Obviously, myself and Simon have been friends for years, but sitting on a bench for seventeen hours would strain things between even a long-standing married couple.

I suppose we should start thinking about lunch, but I’m fearful of another squabble, so am going without for now. If only I’d thought to bring sandwiches.

1315

Simon’s stomach rumblings became audible to pedestrians, who began to mutter about our being tramps. Yes, even though our wives had ironed all our layers of clothing for this adventure.

Still, it became clear that Simon was unlikely to suggest food of his own accord. One day, we shall beat decisiveness into him, but until then I’ll do it myself. Sandwiches seemed the most logical option, as there are outlets nearby, but the range caused problems.

I offered to let Simon stay on the bench and direct me by phone, but he still would not trust me to pick the correct option. So we are taking turns.

1500

Thanks to multiple visits to Subway, lunch took some time. Have at least got a hot sandwich, with meatballs and spicy sauce. This should come in handy, as my thermos has run out.

Simon took a while to return, as he was unable to decide on a Subway sandwich, or anything they had in Pret. He ran back and forth between the two for a while, before settling on Pret’s Soup Of The Day, which seems to contain mushrooms. And then we ate for a while, before Simon pleasantly agreed to do the rubbish run again. Feet starting to go numb, maybe I should’ve volunteered for the walk.

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It has been a quiet spell, but we are now experiencing difficulties. Firstly, it is now too dark for us to read easily. London street lighting is simply inadequate.

More importantly, others are starting to turn up for the fireworks. It seemed a slow trickle at first, but now the pavement is starting to look well dawdled. I imagine they wish they had turned up at six this morning, as all the benches are long gone.

Someone has sat in the remaining third of our bench. How awkward.

1712

1850

I was concerned this might become awkward, but Simon and I are busying ourselves spotting embarrassing fashion trends. Someone appears to be carrying a skateboard; I don’t pretend to keep up, but I thought that was ten years ago.

Pleasantly, the skies remain clear. I had studied the forecasts extensively, as it would have been woeful to agree to this amazing exercise, then spend the whole day getting pissed on.

2000

Problems are springing up. A need is emerging among us both for both further refreshments and perhaps a trip to the toilet. However, the surrounding people are becoming denser still, and I don’t have much faith in only one of us being able to hold the bench.

Not sure what to do about this. Perhaps I could slip one of the teenagers a few pounds to stand guard while we go? With four hours to go until the display starts, I imagine the situation will get worse before it gets better.

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I was right, matters have gone downhill. Simon is now discussing whether we could hold our urine in my thermos. I am uncertain, slightly because we might be arrested, but mostly because I would never feel comfortable drinking from it again, even after repeat bleaching.

For the first time, I regret throwing away cheap McDonalds cups. They could have finally come into their own.

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A shade over two hours remain until the midnight moment. The crowd is bumper-to-bumper, police have already blocked off many routes to the riverbank, leaving most spectators to filter through one tiny entrance.

So, with this packing, Simon thinks there might be sufficient cover to get away with emptying our bladders into the thermos. I reply that I’m not sure its cutting edge insulation technology was designed to keep our piss at post-expulsion warmth.

I also worry he may next suggest we drink it as a solution to our hunger.

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I considered not recording this low point, but having committed to this journaling, it seemed rude not to. So: it saddens me to report that we have both gone to the toilet in my thermos flask. Must remember not to absent-mindedly sip.

Having taken so long to negotiate this toilet solution, we have agreed we shall have do without further food. And now we shall do our best to put this indignity behind us, as fireworks are a mere hundred minutes away!

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Disappointingly, Simon has fallen asleep. Passing crowd members are laughing. I nudged him awake a couple of times, but he grunted and ignored me. A little concerned that police will mistake him for a homeless man and move us both on, since the mutters of “tramps” have only become more frequent in the last few hours.

I suspect the slight smell of urine isn’t helping, even if no-one noticed at the time.

2330

The hour is coming. I finally woke Simon after ten minutes by punching him in the face. Desperate measures, perhaps, but it has been a long seventeen-ish hours of isolation, and I found this to be strangely lonely without a friend or a book.

In our modern society, I think we take our luxuries for granted, it’s easy to forget how difficult it can be when all is stripped away, and I think we’ve proven something here. Even if we are escorted out by security now, it was not all in vain.

(N.B. Obviously, I’d still rather we were not.)

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A mixture of hope and heartbreak in recent minutes. As the time of explosions drew near, we rose from our seats, because the standing spectators in front threatened to impede our view. And no sooner had we stepped forward from the bench, a gang of nearby drunks leapt onto it and started stamping and chanting.

For a moment, I felt sentimental; after all, that bench had sustained us for all that time. And then I swiftly forgot about it, because the fireworks were about to start, and it was going to be gorgeous and loud. Immediately, I knew the New Year would be amazing.

If nothing else, it started with myself and my best friend wetting ourselves on a public bench after eating a McDonald’s breakfast, so couldn’t get much worse. And I hope you appreciate this last journal entry, as writing it whilst standing up was a right pain in the arse.

This exercise in mild satire and silly whimsy brought to you by me, copyright also me, if you link all your friends to it or re-tweet or something I will be forever grateful. If you somehow steal it, I will be less so. Email me to ask what I mean by stealing. This story dedicated to anyone who’s ever been to the London New Year’s fireworks. It’s a lovely display, but also one hell of a crowd control exercise.

After a break whilst I did NaNoWriMo (more about that here), I thought I’d do another (very) short story for a Friday. I was posting these quite regularly for a while, you can read the previous efforts here, and maybe I’ll finally be able to get into some rhythm again now.

And yes, today’s story is a bit angry. Sorry. I’m calm, honest. It was loosely inspired by a prompt I found on the internet.

The Exploding Teapot Battles Suburbia

By Nick Bryan

One day, in a square house, Mrs Bailey took her teapot from the kitchen cupboard and clattered it down onto a surface, jarring it painfully in the process. Before it had time to recover, she had plucked again, ripping the lid from its top hole, and filled it with boiling water.

The strange sensation of being irrigated was one it had gotten used to, but there was still that unpleasant sloshing sensation, especially when it was tugged back from the sink and left on the side again.

Remember the talking, dancing teapot for Beauty And The Beast? Well, imagine that, only worse. In reality, sentient crockery would not gain the ability to sing in harmony, or grow a curiously human-looking face, would it?

Obviously, if a teapot were to one day spring to life, it would only be able to do one thing, and that was spontaneous self-destruction. And whether you buy the logic or not, that was the only thing this teapot was capable of doing.

All the intelligence of a human, all the self-determination of a low-ranking Mario enemy. It could shatter itself into shards, or it could sit there indefinitely, working up an increasingly steamy head of frustration through boredom. Like any sentient being that finds itself literally unable to do anything, it eventually turned to thoughts of suicide.

Unfortunately, the teapot didn’t merely grow depressed as its enslavement progressed, it also grew bitter. And it was often filled with boiling water, so if it timed the sudden explosion perfectly, it could burn someone’s arm, perhaps even drive a shard of itself deep into their eye.

Its excitement was almost unbearable. After weeks of observing and re-observing the morning routine of the Baileys, it had spotted the perfect opening to detonate and cause maximum devastation. These people would rue the day they left the teapot on the coffee table during that film about suicide bombers. Had they not learnt anything from raising two (doomed) children?

Finally, it was lifted from its position on the sideboard. The water swished around again, steam vented through the spout and it was carried into the dining room, where a bunch of them sat around. The two kids, picking at their cereal, and the two adults, ready for tea.

It could probably take at least half of them out, it thought. Explode as she reached the table, then both adults would get a face full. That’d be fun. The kids might even rush to the other side of the room, in time to stick their foolishly bare feet into a hot puddle.

But the time wasn’t right. It hadn’t spent months biding its time to play its only card too early. So it waited patiently in the middle of the tabletop as it was allowed to cool. It wasn’t sensitive to temperature, but after all this time, it had ascertained how long they would wait before drinking it. And as ever, the teapot was right.

The water spouted forth into the cups, and the teapot was a few ounces lighter. Christ, it thought, this was bloody boring. He’s still talking about his job. It was a wonder his wife hadn’t smashed the teapot over his head years ago. In fact, said teapot had spent a fortnight at the start of its time here waiting for that very event, before concluding that the woman either hadn’t the guts or was too stupid to realise how dull it all was.

So the teapot would have to do the job itself.

Eventually, they drank their tea, and the pot readied itself for another dignity-free yank back towards the kitchen. They would make another cup of tea, it knew, and sip it whilst the kids put on their ties and did up their shoes.

However, his transport had barely made it halfway from chair to doorway when her son leapt up early. The teapot’s heart would have leapt. This was not on schedule; the brat had to stay there for another couple of minutes.

Fortunately, his mother agreed, and ordered him to be good and finish his cereal. Whatever stupid thing he had to show her, it could wait. So he dug his spoon back into the brown mush and sat back down sulkily, whereas the teapot was allowed to swan out of the room. It did feel smug about that.

And in the kitchen, it was put down and re-filled. This was the crucial moment, the teapot told itself. This was do-and-die.

With a scuttle of little feet, the kids finally rushed through to hand back their cereal bowls and claim their lunches, whilst their mother would wave them through, before taking the next pot of tea back into the dining room. It was as nauseatingly regular. So she lifted the teapot, as the kids dashed underfoot.

Now, the teapot had been watching the kettle for a while. It was hard to tell whether the electrical appliance suffered the same desperate, pouring hopelessness, but it certainly hoped so. Because it had already decided they were going together.

With a crash, the teapot exploded mere inches above the kitchen surface, sending a splash of boiling water downwards and sideways. It detected some very satisfactory screams as the kids were scalded and spattered with shards of itself, but that wasn’t its primary focus. It was far more interested in the liquid dripping over the kettle and accompanying plug socket.

Finally, it sparked, igniting a kitchen roll and setting the kitchen aflame as the occupants continued to roll around and scream. On that pleasing note, the teapot finally died.

As ever, please don’t steal, if you should want to use it for anything, I imagine I’ll let you. Just email me and ask or something.

Last week, I did not manage to post a story, as I was trying to rattle through a draft of my long-in-progress novel. (If it makes it any better, I did succeed.) This week, I am back, with a story not at all inspired by both a library tour I went on earlier this week and an incident when my phone battery died overnight and I therefore slept in late.

Oh, and I could claim it’s a Halloween edition , there’s a bit of a horror vibe in there somewhere. If you squint and really look for it. If you want more stories, you’re in luck.

All Quiet

by Nick Bryan

Everyone knows you shouldn’t talk in the library. But, it turns out, if you find a big enough library, the rules can lapse a little. And this one was so huge that you could always find a corner to have a chat.

On the third floor, north block, fifth turning, second left, there was a row of small rooms with tiny windows. Or, as Louise put it one day, ‘does this library remind you of a repurposed prison? Or is it just me?’

Anne didn’t look up from her books for a second. Yes, you could have a conversation here, but she hadn’t been right then. ‘Come again?’

‘The library. Doesn’t it remind you of a prison?’

So, Anne looked around. Tiny, rectangular room, one door, alongside a row of similar rooms. If not for the array of books on one wall, this would be a convincing cell, right down to the blackening stains. The door, though, was reassuringly cheap wood. In the event that someone did try and slam them inside, she would like to think they could kick their way out.

However, she didn’t want to have that in-depth a conversation about it with Louise. So all she said was ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ before returning to her book.

And she was still looking at her book when she woke up face down a few hours later. In fact, her lips were stuck to it, which was disgusting. Pulling herself free, she looked around. It was ten o’clock, so the library had been closed for an hour. The lights were off, it was dark and bloody Louise was nowhere to be seen.

The rickety door was closed. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed a small note next to her hand.

‘Hi Annie, you were asleep,’ it began, helpfully, ‘so I let you rest, I’ll call you when they’re about to close so you have time to get out.’

Her trust in her friend taking a shameful ebb, she pulled out her phone. The battery was dead, as it often was. Since upgrading to a ridiculous touchscreen smartphone, Anne hadn’t quite grasped that it might need to be charged every night. So not only had this wake-up call failed to reach her, there was no easy way to call for help.

So she was alone, in a library that seemed bigger than any other building, late at night. She pulled the door open, relieved to find it wasn’t locked. Louise must have pulled it shut to make sure she wasn’t disturbed, she thought, reminding herself to give her good friend a firm slap to the head later.

However, once out in the corridor, it was cold. The heating probably went off at night, she thought. Hopefully there was a security guard, or someone to let her out. If not, surely she could sue? Because shouldn’t they check the silly little rooms for sleeping students before locking them inside?

Litigate later, she thought. Escape now. This was becoming terrifying, after all.

Would the lifts be turned on, this late? Did she know how to get out without them?

Bloody hell. Was there a light switch? How about power?

She took another tentative step down the hall. There was a crashing noise from somewhere, a few walls away, but she didn’t scream. Just because she was alone in an empty building, late at night, that was no reason to turn into a stupid teenager from a horror film. Even if she did visibly twitch instead.

So Anne rounded a corner and faced row after row of shelved books and rolling ladders. The smell of old volumes, at least, had gone nowhere. The windows were bigger here, so the darkness was less oppressive. She advanced, trying not to think bad thoughts.

Suddenly, a book leapt at her. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it.

Abandoning all her scholarly awareness of the cliché, Anne screamed like a girl. And ran. It was dark, but she saw another volume hurl itself into her path. Suddenly, she was in some kind of hallway. It was huge, but familiar.

Wasn’t the staircase around here somewhere? Her memory was hazy, but this must be the way out. A huge ladder crashed to the floor, and a spray of books rolled out towards her. Completely on reflex, Anne leapt backwards.

Unfortunately, she was closer to the stairs than she had anticipated. Seconds later, she was tumbling into freefall, shortly before knocking her head sharply on the bottom step.

The security guard had only just emerged into the hallway, so he didn’t have a great view, but that looked a lot like blood trickling out from behind her ear. Shit. Shoving those books out of their place at her didn’t seem as funny now. How was he supposed to know she’d panic like that?

Story copyright me, there’s no point in stealing it when I’ll probably let you use it for free if you email me and ask nicely. Or just post a nice link on your website/Twitter, I like those.

This week, a new story about over-reactions and animals and stuff. I like this one, so will spare you the pre-amble/excuses. Click the ‘More’-type link below to read it.

If you like this too and want some other stories, there are a few online here now, surely there must be at least one you haven’t read. Thank you to everyone who has read previous efforts and left nice comments, I do read and appreciate all.

If You Build It

By Nick Bryan

‘Careful… I said careful!’

Wilf leapt backwards, hands still pointing at the middle of his lawn.

Still kneeling down next to that very spot, his daughter Becky tutted.

In the indicated location was a bear trap, two jaws splayed apart on the floor, ready to clamp over anything that strayed into its path. It was spring loaded, razor sharp and could easily sever a man’s foot if he stood on it by accident. But both of them were so hyper-aware of its exact location that this would be impossible.

Finally, she finished playing with the mechanism, and there was a clinking sound as she let it rest. Wilf flinched, which only made her tut again.

‘Okay,’ she stood back up to join him, ‘I think we’re finished.’

The sun was beginning to set, and the trap was already nestling down, disguising itself in the grass. Overhead, a bird squawked, as if warning his friends to stay far, far away.

‘And you’re sure this isn’t an over-reaction?’

Wilf seemed unable to hold back his reservations, and Becky tried to seem reassuring rather than impatient. ‘Look, Dad, you said the seagulls keep flying in and eating the breadcrumbs from your bird-feeder, don’t they?’

‘Yes. I did try buying a cat to scare them off, but it just lies there all day waiting to be fed.’

‘So we set this trap up, with some breadcrumbs on the middle, that’ll stop them.’

Wilf remembered the breadcrumbs all too well. Becky had waited until after she’d loaded the trap to sprinkle the bait onto the centre, and he’d had to watch through his fingers, convinced it would go off any moment.

‘Couldn’t we have…’ He searched for the correct phrase. ‘Wasn’t there any simpler way than a bear trap?’

‘I had this lying around in my shed,’ Becky informed him matter-of-factly, as if that alone made it sensible. Presumably, had she found an atom bomb in there, both his garden and the seagulls would be dust by now. Wilf sighed. He knew he was old now, but he didn’t think he was so out of touch that he didn’t know when something was a stupid idea.

‘Isn’t it a bit… jagged?’ By which he meant, didn’t it appear downright evil? With huge spikes and slight rust, not to mention the way the mechanism quivered hungrily.

‘Well, it’s a cheap one. Newer models have padded edges and stuff.’

But not this one, he thought. This was a special, extra nasty edition.

‘If a seagull lands on that thing, won’t it be bitten in half?’ He nodded towards the trap, hairs floating loose across his head. ‘Or just pulped.’

‘Dad,’ she cooed, ‘didn’t you want them to stop?’

‘Yes, but not by serial murder. Can’t we install a nice scarecrow?’ He perked up visibly at this concept. ‘Scarecrows are great. I have some old clothes upstairs I could dress it in.’

‘This will be much more efficient.’

‘And you’re sure it’s not illegal?’

‘Don’t worry Dad, we’ll burn the bodies.’

‘Lovely.’ With another deep sigh from Wilf, they both began to trudge back towards the house.

‘Say,’ he added, ‘have you seen Wilson anywhere?’

‘The cat? No.’ She snorted back a laugh. ‘Can’t believe you called the cat that; one day you’ll get confused who’s who.’

‘When I’m old and senile?’ Wilf laughed. ‘Thank you, Rebecca.’

The next morning

Blearing down the stairs, Wilf rubbed his eyes. He’d been troubled by strange nightmares, monsters and other growling things that didn’t usually come to mind.

But dreams are just pictures. He lurched into the kitchen to his fridge, seizing the normal carton of orange juice. A quick sharp drink, he thought, would set him right again.

As he poured it into a nearby glass, his mind finally reminded him of the existence of that damn bear trap in his garden. And that, he realised, there could easily be a partially dissected bird in there by now. Wilf groaned.

Perhaps, he thought, he would call Becky to come over and inspect it for him. He wasn’t sure he was in the mood to peel gull goo off vicious metal teeth.

Still, he now had to rinse out his orange juice glass, and the placement of the window gave him a clear view out over the back garden. He crept up to the sink, trying not to look forwards. Finally, though, a combination of neck cramps and morbid curiosity got the better of him.

After all, he reasoned, how would he get Becky over to hose it down if he didn’t at least look?

So, screwing up his courage, he gazed out over his garden.

Lying there, amidst the morning dew, was a huge dark shadow. Not a sea gull by any stretch of the imagination; a huge, brown mass of fur. Snout, claws, eyes, it was hard to doubt any longer. No, that was a genuine bear. He didn’t think they were that common in Portsmouth.

The trap was clamped around his foot, there appeared to be a few sticky wounds down there. At that, he finally looked away, too quickly to ascertain whether the thing was alive or not.

Well, he thought sadly, this gave him an idea what had happened to the cat.

This story copyright me, as I wrote it. One day, I should build this disclaimer into my blog template so I don’t have to keep typing it out, but I always forget. Want to use it in some way? Definitely email me.

This week’s Friday story is a dubious homage to the Saw movies (none of which I have seen in their entirity). It is also another example of the decline in taste and decency that seems to take place whenever I am left to plan these on my own. So it’s not big or clever, but hopefully it is amusing. (And don’t worry, this isn’t a sequel, you haven’t missed the original “Staw”.)

Staw II

By Nick Bryan

And Luke woke up chained to the bath. In fact, he was in the tub, chained to the tap.

His feet were knocking on the far end, which made it clear that his shoes had been removed. But at least he was otherwise fully dressed, as that’d be really disturbing.

On the off-chance, he tugged at his right arm, but those handcuffs were definitely attached, clipped underneath the spout and the stupid twisting knob. Proper metal cuffs too, he wasn’t getting out without either finding a hacksaw or dismantling the bath.

Which he didn’t want to do unless absolutely necessary, because this was his bloody bathroom. He’d know that brown-stained white tiling anywhere.

‘Joe! Joe!’

He thumped his foot on the bath, to signify his annoyance. He knew what was going on here.

Sure enough, there was a crackle, a kind of static buzz, and a slightly strange monotone began. Like a robot or broken politician. ‘Luke, hello, can you hear me?’

Finally, Luke peeked over the top of the bath. Next along, as he already knew, was the toilet. The lid was closed, and sitting atop it was a cheap looking walkie-talkie. On instinct, he went for his pocket, but the mobile was gone.

With a sigh, he reached over with his free hand and seized the black box. ‘Yes Joe?’

‘Hello there, Luke. What do you think of your stag night surprise?’

‘Yeah, Joe,’ Luke lay back in the bath with some resignation, ‘I thought you might kidnap me or something, but did you… drug me?’

‘We were downstairs, do you remember? And I offered you some vodka?’

‘No, Joe, I don’t remember. My memory seems to have been damaged by the drugs you gave me.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. This is your second wedding, I felt all this pressure to top the first stag night, so I thought…’

‘It’s fine, Joe, it’s fine,’ Luke tugged pointlessly at his chained wrist, ‘but can you unlock me so we can have some proper fun?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Over the course of their friendship, Luke had become aware that Joe had a slightly odd sense of the appropriate. So when he’d agreed to be best man, Luke had readied himself for a disproportionate stag prank.

However, nerves were starting to flutter in his stomach. ‘Why?’

‘You need to get the key yourself. Then you can unlock the cuffs.’

‘And,’ Luke could feel his heart sinking as he uttered these words, ‘where is the key?’

‘The key is in the toilet.’

‘Is there any chance you haven’t taken a shit in said toilet?’

‘I’m afraid not. And I ate a curry beforehand.’

For a second, Luke almost considered lifting the lid of the lavatory; in fact his hand snaked out as far as the rim before being quickly retracted.

‘Look, this is insane. Get in here with some rubber gloves and fucking fish it out.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll need to hurry, Luke. Look at the flushing handle on the toilet.’

Suddenly, that crackling walkie-talkie voice carried an air of menace. Luke’s eyes travelled to the handle, and he saw a knot of thin fishing wire wrapped tightly around it. He doubted it could be unpicked if he wanted his fingers usable for the wedding.

The line then travelled downwards, around the bottom of the cistern to get the necessary downward pull, then out of the open window. Suddenly, without provocation, it quivered.

‘Joe,’ Luke began with no enthusiasm, ‘what in hell is that attached to?’

‘The wire is attached to a dog’s collar.’

‘I don’t have to have sex with it to get the wedding rings back do I?’

‘No, Luke.’ Worryingly, the best man showed no glee or emotion in unveiling his plot. ‘But I’m about to place some tasty meat in front of it. And when the dog runs for its dinner, it will cause the toilet to flush.’

‘Wait, seriously?’

‘Yes, Luke. And the flush will lose the key forever. So you had best hurry.’

Well, Luke thought, this was just fucking great. He always knew he’d regret getting Joe that complete DVD set of Saw movies for Christmas.

From outside, there was a noise best described as a plop or slap. It was quiet, but Luke thought it sounded a lot like someone throwing meat onto pavement. In case there was any doubt, Joe’s buzzing voice came back: ‘I have laid the steak. The beast is stirring.’

And he was right; the wire was trembling even more. Was that a small tug? For Christ’s sake, Luke thought, this can’t be happening. What was Joe planning to do if the key did flush away?

On that thought, Luke finally reached for the toilet. Wondering if there was a camera trained on him, perhaps streaming it on the internet, he flipped the top.

Immediately, he recoiled, as a smell assailed his nostrils, savage and fresh; clearly it had been bottling up nicely under that lid. So great was its potency that he was flung back into the bath. A batch of vomit surged up his throat, before being swallowed again; sitting in a tub of his own stomach juice was more than he could stand. He may have dribbled a little.

Swearing to make Joe pay, and trying not to breathe in, he leaned forward over the toilet again. Even without inhaling, it was pretty vile. And he hadn’t even looked inside yet, because…

He paused. And sat back down again, grabbing the walkie-talkie.

‘Joe.’

‘Yes, Luke?’

‘There’s no faeces in there. Just the key taped to the bowl and about twenty stink bombs.’

Joe didn’t exactly laugh, but there was an air of definite satisfaction. ‘Yes, Luke. Did you really think I’d make you do that?’

‘I… well… maybe.’ And Luke chuckled out loud. ‘Good effort though.’

‘Thanks. I set up the fishing wire and dog up properly though, for the authenticity.’

No sooner had those words escaped his speaker, there was a growl, a thud and the sound of a hungry dog tearing down the road. Followed immediately afterwards by the unmistakable roar of a toilet flushing.
After staring back into the bowl for a long moment, Luke gritted his teeth and raised the walkie-talkie to his face again.

‘Okay, Joe?’

‘Yes, Luke? Sorry, the dog saw a cat.’

‘The key’s gone. You should’ve used more tape.’

‘I see. Could you wait there while I get the hacksaw?’

And Luke hurled the walkie-talkie against the bathroom wall, smashing it into a hundred plastic parts.

There we go. Another week down. The above is written by me, please email me first if you want to “borrow” it or anything like that.