.. the real deal ..

He stretched his arms over his back, a crunch in his bones telling him he had gone far enough. He cracked his knuckles. He leant forward and stretched the muscles in his legs. They became tight like a rubber band. He got up and jogged on the spot. He had to be ready. Today he had to get it right. He looked out over the street, the sun hovering over the horizon of houses, chimney pots denting into it like baby's teeth. Then he heard it. He wasn't going to mess it up today. He couldn't. He was prepared. Everything was in order. He laced his shoes quickly. He heard the signal. It was time. He ran out of his house. He only had a few minutes at best. As he ran, through his front door, he stepped and realised he'd left the money. He ran back to get it, and came out with it, more determined than ever not to screw this up. How could he? He ran. He fell. He hit the ground with a resounding thud, the bones crunched into their place earlier moving back out of them. Shit. He got up. He stood. He ran again. The lungs in his chest seem to tighten with the sheer force of the effort. If only he could have stretched them. His heart pounded against his rib cage. Every breath he took didn't seem enough to fill his need of oxygen. His eyes streamed water down his cheekbones as he ran into the face of the wind, fixated on his goal. He fell again. He had to get up. He had to do this. This was too important. He rose again like Jesus from the grave, except he had grazes on his hands and cramp in his feet. He ran again. The vehicle was still there. Thank god. He approached it. The low chugging noise of the engine growling at him like a cautious dog. He stopped adjacent to it, staring at his own reflection in the glass window, heaving and panting, trying to regain his breath and his composure. He had got there in time. He had the money. Everything was OK. But he felt small. The vehicle seemed to tower over him for some unknown reason. Strange markings at the side he couldn't quite make out made him feel uneasy. The reflection he was staring at evaporated as the window of the vehicle slid open. An icy breeze wafted from within, smacking him in the face. A mans head protruded, carried on wide shoulders. From his neck you could see he was wearing a white suit. He had a moustache trimmed with clinical precision.
"Yes?" he said. It was an Italian accent that sent a shudder down his spine. He couldn't fluff his lines. He had to get it right. He'd be fine. He had practiced.
"Il have a 99p cone, and a screwball please"
"That with a flake" said the stranger in white. He checked his money.
"Yeah, go on then"
"Nuts? Sauce?"
"Erm…" He hadn't practiced for this. Shit. He was starting to panic.
"They're free"
"Yeah, ok then"
As he walked back, he felt satisfied. He had done it. It took all his effort, but he had the determination. He felt proud. Smug to an extent. He licked the sides of the Ice cream with reckless abandon. Why not? He deserved it. He got home. He continued licking the ice cream and sat down in front of the TV. He turned it on and started watching. On the desk in the corner of the room was a sheet of papers. A stack of work that needed to be done, that longed to be done. People were relying on this work being done.

He sat there and finished his ice cream, watched the end of his reality show, and went to bed.

.. back ..