THE INTRUDER. riginal.
Decided to write something serious. After all, doesn't Social Mania demand that we all pursue a chosen path (whether you like it or not?) of social interaction whereupon we have to embrace and love one another until death of the Internet do us part? Let me ask a simple question. If the Internet died tomorrow, what in heavens name would we all do for goodness sake? I mean would people's fingers become obese from lack of articulated expression thus depriving the world of our opinions, our very reason for existence? Would we survive? Would we have the strength to crawl next door and belt on their door in an attempt to make some sort of gesture...like, one- on- one conversation! I shudder at the very impost of such an outrageous behavioral pattern which could possibly cause such unrest and mayhem personified. Communication such as this is such a harrowing thought it would send us all back to the dark ages. A desperation only equaled by past frivolous 'ice breaker' phenomenon such as, "hi! we've lived next door for the past 20 years...could i borrow a cup of substitute imitation powdered reduced sugar sugar, or a supplement suppository 'Google' egg to fill the interlude of nothingness in an attempt to garner a chair-to-chair peaceful confrontation seeing as we are both Internetlessly deprived and devoid of finger bang thump "told that bitch what for!" Or could i suggest 'old school' drag out of the backup rusted jam tins joined by a shagged communication string my grandfather and grandmother twanged when they were shouting at each other before they grew up and realized that they might as well get married, continue on line shagging, and subsequently the tirade of shout at a lower volume to avoid chronic throat strain?
You see the old chap in this story has had no communication since his beloved wife passed away and he is forced to fly alone. Look, i was kidding about the Internet devoid. About as likely as Moses ringing and applying for 'fire insurance' prior to the burning bush incident. Just didn't happen, but i just thought i'd throw the thought of idle hands strum shagged, jam tin rusted rested. Silly notion.
The fly-by-night thief stepped gingerly. Launched wide-eyed, hesitantly, off the disintegrating window ledge. A quick nervous glance around.Amazing! Despite being attacked the night before, the elderly pensioner had placed the remaining half of a succulent chicken on the shabby table. A sudden abrupt curse. Wham! The cheap metal alarm clock bounced off the leftover chicken. As if on cue, the clock buzzed strident, briefly, flattened the intended target. The gravy-smeared intruder died on his side...legs scrabbling. The buzz from both participants rendered mute. An impromptu tissue coffin configured hastily. Dumped the deceased by a shaking arthritic two-fingered pall bearer. Malice intended and satisfied. The seconded crematorium, a dying log fire, flared briefly in minute gratitude for the offering. Cremation complete, the slightly inebriated old man sighed, picked up the disconsolate clock, hands seemingly bent in extended protest at its involuntary participation. Sighed again, Muttered to himself, "my ...how time flies...or more to the point...how a fly's timing ended- untimely." He chuckled to himself, grimaced. His wife would have laughed at that spontaneous aside. He negated the thought instantly. The executioner half -filled his smudged glass with cheap wine, Saluted nothing in particular,nothing in particular to salute. Cackled abruptly, raised his glass at the dying embers, "everyone's time is up anytime fly." Suddenly, as if annoyed by his thoughtless musing, hunger interrupted. He tore the solitary leg of the still warm remains. Grunted down on it. A tear welled. He missed her terribly, her laugh, the company. He rose, wiped gravy off the grey- streaked stubble on his chin. Sighed, gagged on the remains of the wine as it clashed with the chicken. You tend to repeat yourself when you're alone. He did constantly, just to disturb the monotony of enforced silence. "Everyone's time is up anytime..." In memory of my dad, like all the older generation, they didn't bitch or moan. He was lonely.