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  1. randomly going through my archives of stuff that I keep stored on my hardrive and posting things as and when the urge strikes me.

    Sir / Madam,

    In reply to your Private Eye advertisement, I present my writings, tentatively entitled The New Apocrypha.


    Dave. Failed Husband, used car salesman and human being. Driven totally insane by guilt, disaster and excessive inhalation of Turtlewax fumes, Dave’s brain gives up rational thought. Lead by God in the incarnation of a flood insurance salesman, Dave builds a Giant Ark in his back garden.

    Deceived by his diminishing wit, Dave raids New York Zoo with the aid of a stolen Volvo truck and shotgun. He must save himself, save humanity from impending Doom and avoid the homicidal machinations of Lions, Pirates and the mysterious Evil Beavers.

    For no one was more surprised than Dave when his flood insurance actually paid off…


    Dave’s office, a somewhat dilapidated Portakabin, was not indifferent to the Gimphut of the future. It had some advantages of course. Electricity that sparked gaily during rainstorms was one of them. Coffee was another.

    The kettle boiled away merrily as Dave reclined in his reclining seat that no longer reclined. The psuedoleather creaked in protest as Dave shifted his bulky arse around in search of a comfy position. Paperwork loomed at him from the desk in front of his non-recliner. He ignored it and instead focused on the bubbling kettle and the fizzing plug in the corner.

    The room was a nice shade of sky blue, Dave reflected. He has spent a fair whack of last month’s takings redecorating the office, and after considerable expenditure and time the interior of his portakabin looked almost respectable.

    The paint smelt a bit too much like Turtlewax for Dave’s liking. That would fade in time he supposed, but presently it was a constant reminder of his neglected duties outside. The rank stench of guilt.

    Bugger it. Coffee, come to daddy.

    Dave slurped noisily from a novelty mug, clearing space amongst the forms and sad bank statements that threatened to avalanche from the desk at any moment and giving pride of place to his heated beverage. Dave was about to put his feet up on the desk when he thought better of it. The paper mountain trickled left almost imperceptibly in preparation for the expected cavalcade to the floor. Best not tempt fate there, Dave decided. His Doc Martens retreated back to the floor.

    Slurp. Slurp.

    The aroma of cheap beans and cheap paint swirled around in Dave’s head to mix with his idle musings and simple fantasies. More braincells popped and dimmed.

    What I need right now, said one of the idle musings, is a ciggie.

    Guiltily, Dave sat up and carefully eased the desk drawer open and reached for a fresh deck of twenty. He had promised himself he wouldn’t smoke in the office anymore… the ceiling was stained nicotine yellow beneath the new paintwork. The flies in the summer had become hopelessly addicted to the stuff, turning away from the neon blue Insect-O-Cutor and instead drawn hopelessly for another tongue at Dave’s roof.

    No more freebies for you bastards, said the rapidly expiring brain of Dave as he fumbled for a light.

    The lighter ignited on the third try. As did Dave’s hand.

    The brain of Dave said, Silly bloody bugger, you’ve been up to your armpits in highly flammable car buffing and polishing products all bloody day and now you are acting all surprised when your hand catches fire. Serves you bloody well right

    Dave himself said, “OOHYAHFUCKER!”

    The chair tried to recline further as Dave rocketed backwards, the chair could not. Instead the chair settled for tilting over backwards and bashing Dave’s skull against his nicely painted wall halfway through the ‘fucker’ of his curse. His still burning hand went automatically to his head to cushion the blow.

    The smell of burning hair assailed his always busy nostrils.

    _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

    Dawn McIntyre, a Scottish immigrant not long in New York and currently a sausage factory worker was pushing her pram past Dave’s Used Autos, located in a stunning scenic location beneath the freeway. She was admiring the Chevy parked in the lot. She was about to continue on her way when the Portakabin door burst open and spat out a burning toupee. The hairy flaming Frisbee landed next to the Chevy and smoldered in a smug manner.


    Thank you for your time and consideration.

    Chris Mallis