Hours passed the same way, with Daniel repeating
his line over again in the aisle of his local supermarket. This was his Tuesday
routine.
On Wednesdays it was incessant hair scratching;
Thursdays compulsive bum wiping; Fridays salsa dancing; Saturdays masturbation.
Sundays and Mondays were always respected as days of rest.
But it was Daniel's unwavering obsession with elderly
women that was most crippling. He could handle a bleeding scalp, sore bum and
dick; even the verbal abuse on supermarket Tuesdays. But there was something
about elderly women that worked him into a frenzy; their elasticised skin,
tangible smell, chalky lips and liver spots were to Daniel what oysters and
5-star hotel jacuzzis are to the masses.
One Friday, after 14 hours of salsa dancing, Daniel
returned to his home, dizzy with contemplation.
'What if
women stopped getting old? What if the Dove and Olay and Lancôme ads were
right? What if they had found a sci-fi space cure for aging?'
Overwhelmed, Daniel fell into his armchair, poured
a brandy, knocked back a Viagra and began his Saturday routine early.
The following morning, above the sound of bacon fat
popping in the kitchen, one could hear hushed voices explaining over the
breakfast table how 'he'd broken his routine'. Nods were exchanged and teas
left to stand – there was a job to be done.
When the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics
were confronted by a truly amazing sight. 32 breasts dangling over the dead
man's body like snot from a baby's nose.
Without bothering to re-cloth, the 16 women put
their hands beneath Daniel’s already-decaying body, hoisted him onto their
shoulders and pushed past the paramedics to the front door.
After all, it was a Saturday and Daniel needed to
collect his post-masturbation sausage roll from the local supermarket.
It must be re-iterated that Sundays and Mondays
were days of rest.
