March 2013 – “loose ends” – Tits Up by Martin Bolton

Tits Up

By Martin Bolton

 Time to get up. Time to get up. Time to get up. Time to get up.

The alarm clock repeated itself like a drunken uncle, the depressing monotone theme tune for every groggy, hollow dawn, another reminder that I was not rich or successful. But I wasn’t listening, I had other things on my mind, namely the two mysterious flaps of skin which had sprouted from my hips.

I pressed the big button on top of my alarm clock with my palm, it went silent and I rolled onto my back, knuckling my eyeballs and listening to them squelch as I scratched them against my brain. Blinking sleepy tears from my eyes and removing my boxers, I stood naked in front of my full-length mirror. The skin-flaps were about the size of my hands. They drooped from my hips, making it look like I was wearing a pair of pale, skin-tight trousers with the pockets inside out.

Not for the first time I thought of myself on stage doing genital origami. If I could make it look like a hairy snout, the flaps could be ears. I could be a genital spaniel, I could be famous. My eyes drifted upwards. If only I had a massive jaw, I thought, a massive jaw would solve all my problems. Dismissing the thought, I ambled towards the bathroom.

I had an appointment with Dr. Fingers at nine o’clock, he was going to inspect my flaps.

* * * *

“Put your trousers on please, Mr Bolton, I think I know what the problem is.” Dr Fingers sat in his creaky wooden chair and crossed his tweed legs while I tucked my flaps back into my jeans. I sat in front of him in the usual place.

“You have a rare condition,” Dr Fingers continued, peering at me over his half-moon glasses, his cold hands folded neatly in his lap like a freshly ironed piglet, “very rare indeed.” He banged two buttons on his keyboard with his middle finger.

“How rare?” I asked, a hand venturing towards one of my flaps.

“Very rare indeed.” He repeated, his pin stripe moustache wiggled briefly as though it was a split second behind his top lip.

“Oh,” I said, “what is it? What’s wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong as such, this seems to be a natural occurrence in your species.”

“My species?” I could feel my heart beating faster, tears welling up in my eyes.

“Please remain calm, Mr Bolton, let me explain. The flaps you have on your hips are the beginnings of legs.”

“I’m growing more legs?” I was in shock.

“Not really growing them,” Dr Fingers steepled his fingers and gave a short, clean sniff, “those are just the ends.”

“Ends?”

“Loosely speaking.”

“Loose ends?”

“At the moment, but I have ordered your legs, they should arrive at your home this afternoon.” He banged the the ‘enter’ button for good measure.

“Please,” I pleaded, “explain what is happening.”

Dr Fingers took a deep breath and removed his glasses, placing them carefully on his desk. “You are a grasshopper, Mr Bolton.”

“I beg your pardon?” I felt sick.

“In order to attach them properly,” he continued, “you’ll need to soak in the bath with them. There will be instructions with the packaging, ensure you follow them to the letter.”

He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It is the number of a recommended vet. If you have any problems you’ll need to see him from now on.”

“A vet?” I was finding it hard to take it all in, “Why?”

“You are a grasshopper, I’m afraid I am only qualified to treat humans.”

* * * *

“Fucking parcel for you.” The security man, Paz, tossed me a massive bunch of keys as I arrived at the reception of my building. With no discernible corners, Paz resembled a big cake with an icing collar and a thin liquorice beard stretched across his fat marzipan face. The imaginary baker had apparently forgotten the eyes and just thrown on a pair of raisins as an after thought.

Reclining precariously on a tiny chair with his massive boots on the desk, Paz hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the store room behind him.

I opened the door to reveal a small room strewn with sacks of post, jiffy-bags and boxes of all sizes, colours and shapes. It looked like years worth of undelivered post tossed carelessly into Paz’s store room, never to be seen again. On the right hand side were two huge, triangular packages with the word FRAGILE printed in large capital letters on the side. They were much bigger than I had expected, a good three feet taller than me. My heart sank.

My new legs would never fit in the tiny lift. I was going to have to get them up fifteen flights of stairs. I enquired as to whether Paz might lend a hand.

“No fucking time mate, its all gone tits up, I just ain’t got the fucking time.” Paz didn’t move as he replied firmly in the negative.

“I’ll never get these parcels up the stairs,” I begged, “can’t you spare ten minutes?”

“No fucking time mate, its all gone tits up.”

“What has?” I asked.

“Fucking lost everyone, didn’t I”

“What? How?”

“Fucking fire drill went tits up.”

Advertisements

One thought on “March 2013 – “loose ends” – Tits Up by Martin Bolton

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s