So I like a little shimmy in the kitchen every now and again. I boogie, I wiggle, I shuffle, I shaggle.
But after the slaughter of that irritating guy, I felt an extra spring in my step.
The Solid Gold dancer inside me just wanted to burst forth. Darcel Wynne, you and me, baby! (Just google her, she was The One, long before Neo)
I danced more than Laura Palmer’s dad, and Bob.
I did slip on the blood once or twice, but there was something satisfying in seeing the swirling patterns it made on the floor.
He had to die, that irritating guy. And when he did, a star was born.
Every ending is a new boogie.
He, of course, wouldn’t see it like that. He’d think his light was snuffed out too soon. He’d like to think he had more to give, more to contribute. After all, he was a good bloke, he was good at Sport, or talking about it at least. And he did a lot of that.
He was probably good at drinking beer too. I imagine he swilled it down like it was a magical elixir guaranteed to give eternal Good Blokery. Except it didn’t. More beer equated to more drivel. But he never learned.
And he never will now!
He was a Battler, with his Ford muscle car, his 50 square house in the eastern suburbs, his tradie credentials. What’s not to like about a Battler? They Battle, don’t they?
Why kill him off?
Cos. He’s irritating.
He charged me $284 to change the thermo coupling on my gas ducted heating. It took him 15 minutes and a single piece of wire. But he’s a Battler, right?
He gave me the once over while I was waiting for his hand-held ATM to give me a little piece of paper informing me I’d just been screwed. That’s one for the Battler.
He hung around my kitchen emitting stale cigarette smoke and giving me unsolicited advice about the colour of my car. I’m not shitting you. He really did. Apparently, that’s what Battlers do.
It occurredtwit to me that nurses don’t get paid that much for 15 minutes work.
And neither do paramedics.
People who literally save lives don’t get paid that much.
Or teachers, architects, lawyers (mostly), accountants…
So I offed him.
And as I heave on down the road (in purely rhythmic terms) with blood on my hands, the little prick is no more. And the next twit of a Battler to overcharge for a simple fix will meet a similar Foxtrot.
His end is my Beguine.