Paintball madness

a loss of a job leads to a terrible explosion

Paintball madness

“You want these,” said Simon, pointing at a box of cigarettes that were exactly the same as the ones the customer had just put on the counter, except the price, which was twice as much. “Or you could have them both. I'll give you a discount. Instead of paying £9 you pay £8.99. Bargain!”

“Sounds good.” said the somewhat stupid customer. He took the two cigarette packets, handed over his money and left.

“Another customer conned.” said Simon, rubbing his hands. “Time to go home.”

He stepped out into the street and turned to lock the door. Having checked the door was absolutely secure he turned to his car. He smiled at the sight of the shiny, good as new Mercedes that gleamed in the afternoon sun. The windows were tinted so strangers couldn't see the rich leather seats inside.

Unfortunately this car wasn't his. He owned the rusty old car behind that could be any make, the letters had long since fallen off. Its windows weren't tinted, just coated with grime. Like with the Mercedes, this was a good thing, as you couldn't see the torn chairs, half cotton and half cheap nylon patches.

He had bought this car off his parents 5 years ago at a cheap price. A bargain, he had thought at the time. Before he turned the engine on and the steering wheel fell off. Unfortunately, his parents refused him a refund, despite his complaints that he was their son.

He admired the keyring. It was the only thing in the car he could admire. The key fob had a picture of a penguin on it, with “Quack” written over it. He still failed to think why. He sighed, smiled at “Quack” the penguin and started the engine. Then he began to clatter his way down the road towards his dilapidated flat, which, incidentally, he bought off his parents for a knock down price, and his wife, Agnes.

In a flat in a rough area of town sat a woman. Her hair was greasy and unkempt, and her horn-rimmed glasses were askew. She sat with her head in her hands, with a long line of beer cans in front of her.

“Why?” she shouted into the kitchen table. “I advised the ungrateful little brats about whatever stupid career they should take for 5 years. 5 years! And now they see fit to just... just throw me out!” She slammed her fist on the table and grabbed another can of beer. She brought it to her mouth, but realised it was empty. She growled and threw it out the window. It hit the windscreen of a rusty old car that was turning in to the car park for the flats opposite. “It's all because of those stupid flats they built last year!” she cried, because everyone needs a scapegoat. “I'd still have my job if it wasn't for them!”

Taloolah Brides was a jack of all trades in a manner of speaking. Although the term “trades” was a loose word in this case. At the age of 8 she had left St Agnes' school for the Proper Lady after an argument with the headmistress over Taloolah seeing a boy from the village, although the headmistress would have called it a “heated discussion”. Taloolah had argued that seeing a boy was normal, particularly for a girl who spent 5 days out of 7 shut in a cage where the nearest they got to a male was a poster describing the body parts using a cartoon drawing of a toddler, and that had been debated over. But the Headmistress had argued that an 8 year old seeing a married 25 year old during school hours was not something the Proper Lady did.

So Taloolah had run away. She intended to elope with her boyfriend, although he had to explain what elope meant first. However, it turned out that he had decided that an 8 year old wasn't his type. So she had wondered around for a bit, got a few odd jobs doing things like chimney sweeping, street sweeping, house sweeping and the girl who goes into the small bits in the sewers that grown men can't fit into. It was at 15 that she met George. George was a fellow cast away. He had run away St Peter's school for the Decent Chap on the grounds that he didn't want to be a Decent Chap. They had fallen in love, and he taught her how to do other, special jobs. Like picking a lock, shooting a gun and running very very fast away from flashing blue lights.

At 21 George was killed when he slipped and accidentally shot himself in the head. Taloolah hid with her grief for a year, and decided to go clean. She gave up drugs, and got a proper job at a paint balling arena as a cleaner. However, it seemed that she doomed to crime for life. It turned out the owner of the arena was planning a massive conspiracy to blow up the house commons using explosive paintball guns. He gathered some staff together to work on the “special project” with him, offering them a pay rise if they agreed or a demotion to corpse if they didn't.

She remembered all her time with George and everything he'd taught her. Looking round at the vague plot she realised it would just end in them all being caught. So she ran away and tried to start a new life. She was sacked from job after job, and ended up spending so much time in the job centre that she decided to work there. From there she was given the job of careers adviser at a Jasper Pounds Memorial school. However the school was hit by recession, not unlike it's namesake, who was a famous business man, well known for starting small businesses that quickly collapsed. He was known as Jasper “Doesn't have any” Pounds.

And here she was in her miserable flat, having already spent a week sitting at her table drinking beer. She was on her last six pack. They were pretty much all she owned, that and the table. She had to sell everything else.

Simon Streep jumped as the beer can hit his windscreen. The sudden lurch pulled the steering wheel off the dashboard. He threw it on the passenger seat and desperately hit the brake. The car swerved into the back of a three wheeled van, which amusingly fell on it's side.

He leapt out of the car and swore in the general direction the can had come from. Then he stormed into the block of flats that, despite being less than 2 years old still looked run down.

He slammed the door of his flat and stomped down the hall.

“Lock the door,” called his wife in her strong Irish accent. Simon sighed and did so.

The kitchen was a bombsite. The dirty plates were stacked up to the roof. His pig-like wife, Agnes, had taken a week off work to clean them all. She was standing at the sink now, her piggy stature blocking it from view, which helped a little.

Simon slumped at the table, which was covered in burn marks. Simon had no idea why. He had bought it from his parents last summer. For £352. His parents were even better conmen than himself.

As he slumped at the ashen table he reflected on his pathetic existence. It was all Agnes's fault. His parents had told him not to marry her. Trouble was, experience had taught him never to believe a word his parents said. They recently offered him £500 to help refurbish the flat. He took it, eagerly. They didn't mention until after he'd spent it all that he would have to pay it back with the debt increasing by 15% every week he didn't pay it.

“Some help would be nice.” said his wife, sloshing water on to the floor.

“Tough,” he told her, grabbing some non-alcoholic beer.

“You're not having any food this evening if you don't help.” said Agnes, sternly.

“I'm not having any food anyway.” he said, miserably. “We're broke remember?” He dug out the £8.99 he'd earned that day and slammed it on the table.

“Great.” said Agnes. “Now go out and get us some food. A microwavable pasty of something.”

He shook his head. “We sold the microwave last week, remember. We got three meals for it.”

“Of course. How could I forget.” Agnes smiled. “Three days of delicious tesco value ready meals.”

“I'll see what I can find for 9 quid.” Simon stood up. “See ya.”

“Lock the door. We don't want those kids next door getting in.” The kids next door were a group of three eight year olds who spent 24 hours a day going out, getting drunk and smashing up the neighbourhood.

Simon grabbed his key and left the flat.

Taloolah flicked on the fan in the bedroom and lay on the bed. The cold breeze was soothing on her face. Well, it was until there was a click, a spark and the fan, as well as all the lights in the flat, went off. She leapt up and screamed. This was so unfair.

“I've had enough.” she went into her old airing cupboard, with the boiler that hadn't worked for years, and dug out an old paintball gun. The gun went back to the days she had worked at the corrupt paintball arena.

There were still some of the old explosive pellets. Most of the paint was dried up now, but she thought she might be able to make some more of her own.

She went into the kitchen and searched the single fridge for something to fill the shells with. The best she could find was hummus and of course, non-alcoholic beer. But she decided the beer was too precious to waste.

She moved to the sink and began scraping out the old dried up paint and replacing it with hummus.

It was late and pretty much all the shops were closed, all except the 24hour jewellers. That always puzzled him, why someone had opened a 24hour jewellers. A 24hour supermarket was normal, a 24hour pharmacy would be useful, and a 24hour weapon shop would come in useful, but a 24hour jewellers?

Simon knew, in order to get his dinner, he would have to break into a shop. He'd done it before. He knew one that would be easy.

“Streep's Convenience Stores” had been given to him by his parents (for a small fee). He couldn't afford an alarm, so all he had to do was make sure no one was watching. Quickly looking around he hurled a bin lid through the window. It shattered inwards, and he leapt in, landing in a Easter display. Quickly, he grabbed some ready cooked chicken that was actually starting to cool now, and some potato salad. He went to the till and inserted £8 into the till.

But then he remembered: the chicken was on special offer. He swore and added the other 99p. He reached for a piece of paper and scribbled IOU, then paused, pen poised. He supposed he could give himself a discount, seeing as he was the owner. He wrote £2, then stuck it behind the till. Then he reached back into the till and took back one pence.

Then he leapt back out the window and headed for the car. He took three steps before a policeman stopped him.

“Ah...officer.” stammered Simon.

“'ello, 'ello, 'ello.” said the policeman.

“Oh, I see, you're not a real policeman. You're just doing fancy dress. Very good. I almost believed it for a moment.”

“What? No, I'm a genuine policeman. What you talking about?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Policemen don't really say 'ello, 'ello, 'ello.”

“Well, I did. Now stop being awkward. Where was I? Ah yes.” The policeman cleared his throat and lay a hand on Simon's shoulder. “What's goin' on 'ere then?”

“Well, I have just bought a chicken and some potato salad for my tea.” Simon said. “And my wife doesn't like having to wait for her food. Between you and me, she likes her food a lot.”

“Right, nice story. But I saw you break into that shop.”

“Yeah, but it's all right, cos I paid. Well, most of it, but I did write an IOU.”

The policeman narrowed his eyes. “Right...but you still broke in. You smashed a window, and the owner's not gonna be happy.”

“I am the owner.”

“So...why did you smash the window? Why didn't you just use the keys?” asked the policeman, sounding very confused.

“I forgot my keys.”

“Right...hang on!” the policeman shook his head. “Why did you pay if you're the owner?”

Simon gasped. “Oh yeah...I shouldn't have paid... Why the little... I am going to kill that guy when I catch him.”

“So you paid an employee?”

“No. I don't have any employees.”

“So you paid yourself.”

“Yes, the little b*****d! He thought he could get away with making himself pay!”

The policeman just shook his head in bewilderment. “Well, it's gonna cost you a pretty penny to get that window replaced anyway.” He walked off.

Simon looked at the windows. “Oooh...yeah.”

Taloolah examined the loaded paintball gun. Satisfied, she moved to the window and aimed. She decided to aim it at a certain window on the third, just for the hell of it. But then the rusty old car clattered round the corner. She smiled. A moving target. More fun. Admittedly not so much of a challenge, seeing as it moved at about 5 miles an hour, but she changed the focus of the gun.

A little pellet shot out the end, hitting the car sun roof, bright blue paint and hummus exploding over the roof, and shattering the weak glass. Taloolah grinned. She hadn't lost her touch.

The car squealed to halt, or at least it squealed to a very slow stop, eventually ending up a few metres down the road, leaving tyre tracks behind it. Simon leapt out the car, ignoring the car door, which fell off as he slammed it. That didn't really matter anyway, as a moment the whole car exploded in a massive ball of fire that threw Simon to the ground.

He looked up and saw Taloolah standing, grinning maniacally at the window.

“What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

“You have no idea what it's like, do you? You go around, with your swanky flats and cars, doing your stupid jobs, earning money. You've no idea what it's like to be broke, do you? To be ruined!” Simon thought about his run down flat, and his income of about £10 a day, the tea he barely managed to just buy and nearly said Actually, I kinda do. But the Taloolah carried on. “So you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna ruin you. You and your posh new flats!” Simon thought, posh? “Yeah, I'm gonna completely destroy them.”

“How? With a...a paintball gun?”

Taloolah smiled even wider. “This ain't no ordinary paintball gun.”

Simon suddenly gasped. “Wait a moment! I know you!”

Taloolah narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“I used to work with you at the paintball place right? Talooloo or something.”

Taloolah growled. “Taloolah!”

“Whatever. You're that woman that ran away!”

Taloolah nodded. “That plot was rubbish. It would never have worked. I'm surprised you aren't all in jail.”

Simon laughed. “No, no! It worked. It was all really smooth.”

“You actually managed to blow up the house of commons?”

“Yeah! Did you not know? It was on the news!”

Taloolah shrugged. “I wouldn't know. I sold the telly.” She raised her gun again. “Anyway, you'd better get out of the way if you don't want to get fried to a multicoloured crisp.”

Simon took a step forwards. “You...you can't just blow up a block of flats. That's my block of flats!”

“What do I care?”

“Well, I thought we were old friends...” Simon pleaded.

Taloolah shrugged. “So, I'll spare your life.”

Simon looked up at his flat. Maybe it was time for a fresh new start. But he couldn't just let her blow up all his stuff. Agnes was still in there as well.

“Hang on. I can help, but I'll need to go and get some stuff.”

Taloolah rolled her eyes. “Fine, but hurry up.”

Simon smiled. “Thanks.” He reached into his pocket, but then remembered that his door key was still in the car ignition. He groaned, and ran for the door. He leapt up the stairs two at a time, before banging on his front door. He heard Agnes call “Coming.” then the door opened.

She rolled her eyes. “Lost your keys? What about tea?”

Simon had forgotten about that. The chicken had been in the car. “Sorry. Couldn't get any.”

Agnes sighed. “Guess we'll just have to go hungry tonight.” She waddled back to the kitchen and her endless pile of dirty dishes.

Simon went to his secret cupboard and pulled out a paintball gun. He checked the paint. It was still wet. He loaded the gun, then put it on the bed. Then he grabbed a suitcase and started chucking clothes into it. He glanced around. He didn't own much, thankfully. There was a CD of the Beatles which was fairly useless as the did have a CD player, but he threw it in anyway. Then he grabbed his toothbrush and some shampoo, shoved that in and zipped up the suitcase.

Then he called “Agnes!”

“What?” she called back, irritably.

Simon sighed. God, he hated her. When he thought about it, it would be nice to get away from her. “Nothing, darling.” he called back.

He heard her tut and mutter something under her breath. Then he quietly slipped out the door with his suitcase.

“Lock the door!” he heard Agnes shout. Simon ignored her. He was already bounding down the stairs. He nodded at Taloolah, then quickly backed up against the wall opposite his home of the last 5 years. He aimed his gun, the shouted, “Go!” at Taloolah.

He started to laugh as paint and hummus exploded across the building, splattering the his horrible former home in multicolours and a strong smell. He imagined his horrible piggy wife (ex-wife he thought, happily) screaming out, as the paint splattered across all the plates she'd just cleaned, covering her soapy dress in hummus. Soon all that was left of that hell on Earth was a burnt out shell, smelling faintly of hummus.

Then he ran over to a car in the car park, smashed the door in and quickly hot wired it, something he was rather good at. Taloolah joined him a few minutes later, and they sped off, to a new life, very, very far away.

He made sure to stop and graffitti “Streep's Convenience Stores” on the way.

Author's Note

Image ~ Wikipedia