No Good Day Starts Like This

Eric is a layabout. His morning is catastrophic.

NO GOOD DAY EVER STARTED LIKE THIS.

 

Waking up to thunderous banging is never good. The sound of a thousand angry fists tore his sleep to shreds and revealed Eric to the woken world; a startled and barely conscious caricature of himself, one without the motor functions and cognitive ability of every human 30 minutes ahead in their morning routine, and one without the wherewithal to stop himself from rolling straight off his bed’s edge, landing on the remnants of some god awful takeaway Eric didn’t remember ordering but evidently had. It looked like chicken but the smell was that of some unknowable beast, at least 30 years dead and 3/4s rotten (pre deep-frying).

 

Eric had deduced this not only from the smell, which was now infiltrating his entire body so he smelled it when inhaling then tasted it exhaling, but also because his lower intestine was attempting to writhe its way to freedom, via the abdomen or spine, whichever broke first.

 

With so many conflicting priorities bouncing around his morning-soft brain he was inevitably about to prioritise wrongly. Staggering, stumbling, tripping then tumbling down the stairs, he endured his second fall of the morning, the impact of which, combined with his lively bowel led to a prompt and explosive s**t-in-pants situation. Eric staggered himself by his initial thought, which was “Explosion beats implosion.”

 

By this point however, the visitors who had woken him in the first place could see him, in fact, they probably saw him fall down the stairs, which were positioned directly in front of the glass panelled door.

 

Either way, he decided it would look weird if he now just disappeared into another room, so instead, did the respectable thing and answered the door.

He stood there for a second before speaking; almost intentionally giving his unwanted companions a chance to fully take in the spectacle.

 

His straggly brown hair had not been washed since he’d heard that it can wash itself during a conversation about how expensive shampoo was, he had bits of unknowable beast, and similarly mysterious neon red sauce on his left side, including a chunk which had lodged itself between his collar and neck, s**t in his pants and a carpet burn which covered precisely half his face.

 

Looking back at him, with undisguised disgust and indignation were two burly men wearing blue jeans, bomber jackets and woolly hats. “Mr Entoniffel?” said the leader (you could tell because he held the clipboard).

“Morning.” Came the mumbled, barely audible response as the smell of feculent hit all three simultaneously. Eric wretched. The men remained stoic.

“We’re here to ask if we can count on your support in the upcoming election, we represent the Britain For British Party and basically just want to hit brown people all day.”

“Erm...Probably not mate.” Eric said, adding “ is that really your policy?”

“Have you s**t yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Yes it is. What’s in your hair?”

“I think it’s chicken” another meatier wretch produced a dribble of sick, also neon red, which plopped onto the front of t-shirt like bird s**t, “I don’t know why it’s red. Do you really think it’s okay to just hit brown people? Is that even classed as politics?”

“Yeah it’s fine.” The chubby accomplice piped up. “What’s happened to you?” He turned to his keeper with the clipboard: “I don’t think this fella’s interested mate, and if he is, I’m not sure we can be associated with folk like this.”

“You’re right. F**k you Eric.” Asserted the keeper, and the pair left, the signature swinging arms of the elbowless racist out in force.

 

Eric shut the door wandering how they knew his name. He rubbed his eyes, immediately irritating his carpet burn enough to cause his face to weep blood from its tissue thin membrane. He’d have to hoover the rest of his skin from the foot of the stairs. He hated housework. Today was not going well.

It was at this point he realised there were already people in his house. Chattering in familiar tones bounced from the kitchen tiles, eventually making a sudden and focussed entry into his now woken state. It was his parents. He could tell by the sound of squeezed breath escaping twist windpipes in impossible yoga positions. He could also smell sandalwood and hear the thick gloop of homemade smoothies.

 

“Well done son. Shame about shitting yourself. Stay positive and the universe will provide you with a stronger bowel. That’s how it works.”

 

Eric’s Dad was in the conservatory, his feet were face up to the ceiling and his face was pointed directly at the floor, his arms in a bridge across his chest to support his ludicrously flexible hip joints. Years of military experience had simultaneously produced a refined killing machine and persuaded said machine that violence was pointless. He now lived on a commune, having gone AWOL and was technically still on the run.

 

“We need to check you’re not getting involved in hate crime.” He said, apropos of nothing Eric could figure.

 

“Can I just go clean up?” he pleaded.

“It’s all natural son, sit in it for a bit. Absorb your own nature.” He seemed confident that this was science, Eric couldn’t be bothered to dispute it. Despite the sandals, Alladin trousers and general aura of free love which he seemed to carry �" Eric knew his Dad would likely flip out and have to go live in the woods to recover again if they argued. “We just tested you. And while you passed, we are a bit disappointed that you believed they were racists, just because they’re white and wearing bomber jackets. Very presumptuous Eric.”

 

“What?” Eric really wanted this to end.

 

“Those men, they’re from the commune. Sent them over to check your not going all racist and stuff.”

“Why would I ‘go all racist’?” Eric employed the bunny ears to indicate his disinterest and contempt for his Dad’s random inquisition.

 

“Dunno, it happens, especially when people find themselves in threatening or confusing situations.”

 

Eric slung his head backwards in despair and left to clean up. On his way to the upstairs bathroom he noticed a small string had been pulled across the staircase. Further on he saw the carpet outside his room (which faced the stairs) had been lifted from the grips and was curled up.

“No f*****g way!”

Now completely preoccupied with detective work, the s**t still sloshing into liquid in his boxers,  he walked into his room, where he saw the container of weird meat, the receipt next to it showed today’s date, 9am, and it was untouched, save for the trial leading from the polystyrene box to the pillow.

Now convinced he’d been tricked into the morning’s horror, he shot downstairs �" still failing to recognize the importance of shitless pants �" to confront his Dad.

 

When he entered the conservatory though, the only thing there to receive his hastily scripted bollocking were two red hand prints and a note which read:

 

“I genuinely didn’t count on you shitting yourself son, eat more nuts, they’re a great source of protein and totes natural! Love Dad”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Again, friends specifications. The specifications were: A layabout with hippy parents - something goes wrong.