STRAWBERRY FLAVOURED DEATH
Written by SCOTT BURDITT
Published by Scott Burditt at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Scott Burditt
His life was a mess. Jim Harrington was actually quite creative when he put his mind to it but working for Printpro, a small group of printers across the Wirral wasn’t helping. He was constantly repairing machines broken by the idiotic employees. Almost everyday he would expect a call from the Managing Director to urgently go back and forth between them and it bored him to death. All this overtime he was doing was sucking up valuable drinking time. He could still taste last night’s beer and the curry he had eaten wasn’t helping matters.
As usual, he was late getting in to the head office and he hoped no-one would notice or care. As he packed his coat away in the locker he’d been allocated, he could barely remember last night after sinking pint after pint. He hoped no-one would catch a whiff of his strong alcoholic breath or he would be sent home as a potential fire hazard. Mind you, if he hadn't had an eight pint drinking session, what was the point of living? Especially so, if the football was on. Who cared if he was wrecked on a Thursday morning? Thursday was the new Friday. He'd suck on a mint and drink loads of water and as long as he didn’t breathe on anyone no-one would be any the wiser. Anyway, his head was usually clear by lunchtime. A 'free' Mars bar from the snack box would always perk him up in the morning. A good old sugar rush kept him going. He never paid anyway and when no-one was looking, he'd take the money as well. He'd always cough up when the snack box man visited every fortnight. In the meantime there was a dead cert on at three o'clock and he needed to get down the bookies at lunchtime. They laughed and joked with him in there and he swore the girl behind the counter fancied him, despite her being half his age and twice as beautiful as any other girl he knew. Drinking and the odd flutter was the only real pleasure he got out of life now but everybody said he needed to cut back on the drink as his nose was now huge, but Jim didn't care anymore. He'd dabbled in drugs a few years back out of curiosity, but couldn't afford the lines of coke anymore. Life sucked. He had a week off work blaming swine flu. If drinking and gambling was the symptom he was definitely on to a winner. Fortunately, his boss Brenton, was an idiot anyway and was easily sucked in by his excuses.