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Mob was angry. Angry as hell. And whilst pulling on his lemon sweater he couldn’t help letting out a muffled growl.
From the windowsill the cat glared at him. “Don’t worry, Rolex,” said Mob, “I’m not angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
From the basket on the floor the dog looked up, unsure whether to wag its tail. “Fear not, Omega,” said Mob, “neither am I angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
On the bed, Mob’s wife rolled onto her side. Observing her peachy behind as it poked out from under the duvet, Mob said: “Nor I am angry with you, my dear, even though last night at the restaurant you were flirting quite outrageously with that handsome waiter.”
His wife sighed, and pulled a pillow over her head.
Mob’s brow twitched.
The cat, the dog, the wife, he thought. All the things I love.
He wriggled into his pastel-blue trousers, and as he did so, his second self (the invisible Mob) reached over and kissed the ladybird tattoo on his wife’s ankle.
After lacing up his Dunlop Green Flash trainers and combing his hair, Mob went downstairs, where in the kitchen he angrily consumed two slices of toast (with honey) and a large mug of coffee (black, unsweetened).
With brow once again twitching, his hands shot into a drawer, from which he dragged a notepad and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen table, Mob scribbled something, before angrily tearing out the marked sheet. Standing up, he shoved the paper into his right trouser pocket.
“Right,” he said, almost growling. “Here - we - go.”
He unlocked the backdoor and, lighting a cigar, ventured out into the dying day.
(His second self remained at the kitchen table, lost in sombre thought.)
It wasn’t long before he was striding through the city: traffic jams, countless people, hustle and bustle, same old same.
In the car park of a small supermarket, Mob met up with some of his gang. Piranha was there, and Mephisto, Wishbone and Lucky Fluke. Even Merlin the wise guy had turned up, dressed as always in a purple robe and sombrero. Brazila and his merry band of cheerleaders were also present, and as Mob approached they shook their pompoms and announced his arrival with the all too familiar:
“Give me a M!”
“M!”
“Give me an O!”
“O!”
“Give me a B!”
“B!”
“And what have you got?”
“MOB!”
Whilst the cheerleaders held their finishing pose, Mob forced a smile.
After greeting the gang with the customary handshakes and gargled platitudes, Mob’s face turned serious. “Listen up,” he said, “I want you to remember one thing.” He tapped his right trouser pocket. “It’s in here.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Wishbone.
“It’s in here,” Mob repeated, again tapping his trouser pocket.
“What is?” said Piranha.
Mob stared at them, his brow twitching. “The truth. The truth is in my pocket. Remember that I told you.”
“Whatever,” said Merlin, dismissing Mob’s posturing.
“Just remember,” Mob said with angry eyes “The pocket.”
Laughing at Mob’s craziness, the gang moved out.
“Where are we going?” said Lucky Fluke.
“To the arcade,” said Mob.
The cheerleaders cheered on everyone’s behalf.
* * *
Like a dream it came - a red car - through the city streets - through the traffic it weaved - a mile or so away from Mob and his gang.
Past the church (someone was getting married) - past the station (someone was late) - past the waterfront (someone was fishing) - past the old musician and his bleeding-heart songs.
Like a dream the car came - its headlights like evil eyes - its body, red as unreal flames.
Mob was the leader, so he walked on in front. His lemon sweater (woollen with an extravagant stitch) meant: I am the leader. And he was. All the gang knew it.
Approaching the zebra crossing and the Belisha beacons, the neon lights of the arcade came into view. Mob was marching - his followers following. The green man flashed then turned red. Mob didn’t notice. He just kept on walking.
Like a dream it came - evil eyes - red as unreal fire.
“MOB!” the cheerleaders yelled
BANG.
Mob was thrown through the air like a ragdoll, then he hit the tarmac like a sandbag. The red car screeched to a halt.
Too late.
The driver got out - a man with red hair - shock written all over his face. The gang ran to the motionless Mob.
Expletives.
Howls of anguish.
Disbelief.
Merlin threw aside his sombrero and leaned close. “He’s alive,” he cried. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Mob’s lips moved.
“He’s trying to say something,” sobbed Merlin, lowering his ear to Mob’s twitching mouth. “What’s that … it’s what … it’s … in … the pocket.”
“What’s in his pocket?!” screamed Wishbone.
Merlin’s hand delved into Mob’s pocket and pulled out a piece of paper - the piece of paper. With hands trembling he passed it to Wishbone, who, after frantically straightening it, stared in awe at the words written thereon:
Dear friends,
Today I will die.
Tell my wife I love her.
Farewell.
Back at the house, Mob’s wife sat up, certain she had just seen a ghostly man stroking the cat.
From the windowsill the cat glared at him. “Don’t worry, Rolex,” said Mob, “I’m not angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
From the basket on the floor the dog looked up, unsure whether to wag its tail. “Fear not, Omega,” said Mob, “neither am I angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
On the bed, Mob’s wife rolled onto her side. Observing her peachy behind as it poked out from under the duvet, Mob said: “Nor I am angry with you, my dear, even though last night at the restaurant you were flirting quite outrageously with that handsome waiter.”
His wife sighed, and pulled a pillow over her head.
Mob’s brow twitched.
The cat, the dog, the wife, he thought. All the things I love.
He wriggled into his pastel-blue trousers, and as he did so, his second self (the invisible Mob) reached over and kissed the ladybird tattoo on his wife’s ankle.
After lacing up his Dunlop Green Flash trainers and combing his hair, Mob went downstairs, where in the kitchen he angrily consumed two slices of toast (with honey) and a large mug of coffee (black, unsweetened).
With brow once again twitching, his hands shot into a drawer, from which he dragged a notepad and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen table, Mob scribbled something, before angrily tearing out the marked sheet. Standing up, he shoved the paper into his right trouser pocket.
“Right,” he said, almost growling. “Here - we - go.”
He unlocked the backdoor and, lighting a cigar, ventured out into the dying day.
(His second self remained at the kitchen table, lost in sombre thought.)
It wasn’t long before he was striding through the city: traffic jams, countless people, hustle and bustle, same old same.
In the car park of a small supermarket, Mob met up with some of his gang. Piranha was there, and Mephisto, Wishbone and Lucky Fluke. Even Merlin the wise guy had turned up, dressed as always in a purple robe and sombrero. Brazila and his merry band of cheerleaders were also present, and as Mob approached they shook their pompoms and announced his arrival with the all too familiar:
“Give me a M!”
“M!”
“Give me an O!”
“O!”
“Give me a B!”
“B!”
“And what have you got?”
“MOB!”
Whilst the cheerleaders held their finishing pose, Mob forced a smile.
After greeting the gang with the customary handshakes and gargled platitudes, Mob’s face turned serious. “Listen up,” he said, “I want you to remember one thing.” He tapped his right trouser pocket. “It’s in here.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Wishbone.
“It’s in here,” Mob repeated, again tapping his trouser pocket.
“What is?” said Piranha.
Mob stared at them, his brow twitching. “The truth. The truth is in my pocket. Remember that I told you.”
“Whatever,” said Merlin, dismissing Mob’s posturing.
“Just remember,” Mob said with angry eyes “The pocket.”
Laughing at Mob’s craziness, the gang moved out.
“Where are we going?” said Lucky Fluke.
“To the arcade,” said Mob.
The cheerleaders cheered on everyone’s behalf.
* * *
Like a dream it came - a red car - through the city streets - through the traffic it weaved - a mile or so away from Mob and his gang.
Past the church (someone was getting married) - past the station (someone was late) - past the waterfront (someone was fishing) - past the old musician and his bleeding-heart songs.
Like a dream the car came - its headlights like evil eyes - its body, red as unreal flames.
Mob was the leader, so he walked on in front. His lemon sweater (woollen with an extravagant stitch) meant: I am the leader. And he was. All the gang knew it.
Approaching the zebra crossing and the Belisha beacons, the neon lights of the arcade came into view. Mob was marching - his followers following. The green man flashed then turned red. Mob didn’t notice. He just kept on walking.
Like a dream it came - evil eyes - red as unreal fire.
“MOB!” the cheerleaders yelled
BANG.
Mob was thrown through the air like a ragdoll, then he hit the tarmac like a sandbag. The red car screeched to a halt.
Too late.
The driver got out - a man with red hair - shock written all over his face. The gang ran to the motionless Mob.
Expletives.
Howls of anguish.
Disbelief.
Merlin threw aside his sombrero and leaned close. “He’s alive,” he cried. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Mob’s lips moved.
“He’s trying to say something,” sobbed Merlin, lowering his ear to Mob’s twitching mouth. “What’s that … it’s what … it’s … in … the pocket.”
“What’s in his pocket?!” screamed Wishbone.
Merlin’s hand delved into Mob’s pocket and pulled out a piece of paper - the piece of paper. With hands trembling he passed it to Wishbone, who, after frantically straightening it, stared in awe at the words written thereon:
Dear friends,
Today I will die.
Tell my wife I love her.
Farewell.
Back at the house, Mob’s wife sat up, certain she had just seen a ghostly man stroking the cat.
Mob was angry. Angry as hell. And whilst pulling on his lemon sweater he couldn’t help letting out a muffled growl.
From the windowsill the cat glared at him. “Don’t worry, Rolex,” said Mob, “I’m not angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
From the basket on the floor the dog looked up, unsure whether to wag its tail. “Fear not, Omega,” said Mob, “neither am I angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
On the bed, Mob’s wife rolled onto her side. Observing her peachy behind as it poked out from under the duvet, Mob said: “Nor I am angry with you, my dear, even though last night at the restaurant you were flirting quite outrageously with that handsome waiter.”
His wife sighed, and pulled a pillow over her head.
Mob’s brow twitched.
The cat, the dog, the wife, he thought. All the things I love.
He wriggled into his pastel-blue trousers, and as he did so, his second self (the invisible Mob) reached over and kissed the ladybird tattoo on his wife’s ankle.
After lacing up his Dunlop Green Flash trainers and combing his hair, Mob went downstairs, where in the kitchen he angrily consumed two slices of toast (with honey) and a large mug of coffee (black, unsweetened).
With brow once again twitching, his hands shot into a drawer, from which he dragged a notepad and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen table, Mob scribbled something, before angrily tearing out the marked sheet. Standing up, he shoved the paper into his right trouser pocket.
“Right,” he said, almost growling. “Here - we - go.”
He unlocked the backdoor and, lighting a cigar, ventured out into the dying day.
(His second self remained at the kitchen table, lost in sombre thought.)
It wasn’t long before he was striding through the city: traffic jams, countless people, hustle and bustle, same old same.
In the car park of a small supermarket, Mob met up with some of his gang. Piranha was there, and Mephisto, Wishbone and Lucky Fluke. Even Merlin the wise guy had turned up, dressed as always in a purple robe and sombrero. Brazila and his merry band of cheerleaders were also present, and as Mob approached they shook their pompoms and announced his arrival with the all too familiar:
“Give me a M!”
“M!”
“Give me an O!”
“O!”
“Give me a B!”
“B!”
“And what have you got?”
“MOB!”
Whilst the cheerleaders held their finishing pose, Mob forced a smile.
After greeting the gang with the customary handshakes and gargled platitudes, Mob’s face turned serious. “Listen up,” he said, “I want you to remember one thing.” He tapped his right trouser pocket. “It’s in here.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Wishbone.
“It’s in here,” Mob repeated, again tapping his trouser pocket.
“What is?” said Piranha.
Mob stared at them, his brow twitching. “The truth. The truth is in my pocket. Remember that I told you.”
“Whatever,” said Merlin, dismissing Mob’s posturing.
“Just remember,” Mob said with angry eyes “The pocket.”
Laughing at Mob’s craziness, the gang moved out.
“Where are we going?” said Lucky Fluke.
“To the arcade,” said Mob.
The cheerleaders cheered on everyone’s behalf.
* * *
Like a dream it came - a red car - through the city streets - through the traffic it weaved - a mile or so away from Mob and his gang.
Past the church (someone was getting married) - past the station (someone was late) - past the waterfront (someone was fishing) - past the old musician and his bleeding-heart songs.
Like a dream the car came - its headlights like evil eyes - its body, red as unreal flames.
Mob was the leader, so he walked on in front. His lemon sweater (woollen with an extravagant stitch) meant: I am the leader. And he was. All the gang knew it.
Approaching the zebra crossing and the Belisha beacons, the neon lights of the arcade came into view. Mob was marching - his followers following. The green man flashed then turned red. Mob didn’t notice. He just kept on walking.
Like a dream it came - evil eyes - red as unreal fire.
“MOB!” the cheerleaders yelled
BANG.
Mob was thrown through the air like a ragdoll, then he hit the tarmac like a sandbag. The red car screeched to a halt.
Too late.
The driver got out - a man with red hair - shock written all over his face. The gang ran to the motionless Mob.
Expletives.
Howls of anguish.
Disbelief.
Merlin threw aside his sombrero and leaned close. “He’s alive,” he cried. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Mob’s lips moved.
“He’s trying to say something,” sobbed Merlin, lowering his ear to Mob’s twitching mouth. “What’s that … it’s what … it’s … in … the pocket.”
“What’s in his pocket?!” screamed Wishbone.
Merlin’s hand delved into Mob’s pocket and pulled out a piece of paper - the piece of paper. With hands trembling he passed it to Wishbone, who, after frantically straightening it, stared in awe at the words written thereon:
Dear friends,
Today I will die.
Tell my wife I love her.
Farewell.
Back at the house, Mob’s wife sat up, certain she had just seen a ghostly man stroking the cat.
From the windowsill the cat glared at him. “Don’t worry, Rolex,” said Mob, “I’m not angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
From the basket on the floor the dog looked up, unsure whether to wag its tail. “Fear not, Omega,” said Mob, “neither am I angry with you. I’m never angry with you.”
On the bed, Mob’s wife rolled onto her side. Observing her peachy behind as it poked out from under the duvet, Mob said: “Nor I am angry with you, my dear, even though last night at the restaurant you were flirting quite outrageously with that handsome waiter.”
His wife sighed, and pulled a pillow over her head.
Mob’s brow twitched.
The cat, the dog, the wife, he thought. All the things I love.
He wriggled into his pastel-blue trousers, and as he did so, his second self (the invisible Mob) reached over and kissed the ladybird tattoo on his wife’s ankle.
After lacing up his Dunlop Green Flash trainers and combing his hair, Mob went downstairs, where in the kitchen he angrily consumed two slices of toast (with honey) and a large mug of coffee (black, unsweetened).
With brow once again twitching, his hands shot into a drawer, from which he dragged a notepad and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen table, Mob scribbled something, before angrily tearing out the marked sheet. Standing up, he shoved the paper into his right trouser pocket.
“Right,” he said, almost growling. “Here - we - go.”
He unlocked the backdoor and, lighting a cigar, ventured out into the dying day.
(His second self remained at the kitchen table, lost in sombre thought.)
It wasn’t long before he was striding through the city: traffic jams, countless people, hustle and bustle, same old same.
In the car park of a small supermarket, Mob met up with some of his gang. Piranha was there, and Mephisto, Wishbone and Lucky Fluke. Even Merlin the wise guy had turned up, dressed as always in a purple robe and sombrero. Brazila and his merry band of cheerleaders were also present, and as Mob approached they shook their pompoms and announced his arrival with the all too familiar:
“Give me a M!”
“M!”
“Give me an O!”
“O!”
“Give me a B!”
“B!”
“And what have you got?”
“MOB!”
Whilst the cheerleaders held their finishing pose, Mob forced a smile.
After greeting the gang with the customary handshakes and gargled platitudes, Mob’s face turned serious. “Listen up,” he said, “I want you to remember one thing.” He tapped his right trouser pocket. “It’s in here.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said Wishbone.
“It’s in here,” Mob repeated, again tapping his trouser pocket.
“What is?” said Piranha.
Mob stared at them, his brow twitching. “The truth. The truth is in my pocket. Remember that I told you.”
“Whatever,” said Merlin, dismissing Mob’s posturing.
“Just remember,” Mob said with angry eyes “The pocket.”
Laughing at Mob’s craziness, the gang moved out.
“Where are we going?” said Lucky Fluke.
“To the arcade,” said Mob.
The cheerleaders cheered on everyone’s behalf.
* * *
Like a dream it came - a red car - through the city streets - through the traffic it weaved - a mile or so away from Mob and his gang.
Past the church (someone was getting married) - past the station (someone was late) - past the waterfront (someone was fishing) - past the old musician and his bleeding-heart songs.
Like a dream the car came - its headlights like evil eyes - its body, red as unreal flames.
Mob was the leader, so he walked on in front. His lemon sweater (woollen with an extravagant stitch) meant: I am the leader. And he was. All the gang knew it.
Approaching the zebra crossing and the Belisha beacons, the neon lights of the arcade came into view. Mob was marching - his followers following. The green man flashed then turned red. Mob didn’t notice. He just kept on walking.
Like a dream it came - evil eyes - red as unreal fire.
“MOB!” the cheerleaders yelled
BANG.
Mob was thrown through the air like a ragdoll, then he hit the tarmac like a sandbag. The red car screeched to a halt.
Too late.
The driver got out - a man with red hair - shock written all over his face. The gang ran to the motionless Mob.
Expletives.
Howls of anguish.
Disbelief.
Merlin threw aside his sombrero and leaned close. “He’s alive,” he cried. “Someone call an ambulance!”
Mob’s lips moved.
“He’s trying to say something,” sobbed Merlin, lowering his ear to Mob’s twitching mouth. “What’s that … it’s what … it’s … in … the pocket.”
“What’s in his pocket?!” screamed Wishbone.
Merlin’s hand delved into Mob’s pocket and pulled out a piece of paper - the piece of paper. With hands trembling he passed it to Wishbone, who, after frantically straightening it, stared in awe at the words written thereon:
Dear friends,
Today I will die.
Tell my wife I love her.
Farewell.
Back at the house, Mob’s wife sat up, certain she had just seen a ghostly man stroking the cat.
I liked the style of this it was different. Ending left me a little cold though.