Dire Strands

His mornings, more often than not, started with a fly check. A quick flick at the disintegrating plate beside the bed, hoping no flies appear in the sky.

He had a bin bag hanging out his window. He did not partake in communal littering; no, his shit was his shit. A collection of family photos decorated his wall like grass bursting through concrete slabs- forced habituation. Sometimes, fellow flatmates would ask him to take out the kitchen bin, his reply?

“I didn’t contribute to that bin bag.”

He pissed outside too much. It was a consistent frustration. The ‘what ifs’, the minuscule yet infuriating potential fine. A few close calls changed him. He now would walk into any establishment and head straight to the bathroom in silence with no eye contact. The big picture didn’t change. He still had a prostate that was worth checking, but now he had places to piss.

He had a list of restaurants noted on his phone. A few were ticked off, but, to his delight, many remained unsoiled and primed for a fucking. His tactic was born a few towns over where he used to stay. A pompous area filled with theatre students gave rise to various costume stores not only existing but thriving even after October 31st. A curious venture into one of the stores spawned his idea.

There was a vast variety of wigs- every colour taken care of. He plucked a few hairs from each wig to cover the spectrum. Back in his new home, he entered restaurants fully armed. Eyes attached to the waiter or waitress. Taking in nothing but the colour of their hair. Occasionally, if a friendly personality breached the man’s defences, the target changed if and only if the kitchen was visible to the customers. A polite and attractive waitress would be spared in favour of a hairy chef parading in the background. A worthy target.

“Excuse me!” The words that haunt every person that belittles themselves with a job in hospitality.

“There is a hair on my steak.” The man made sure to alert with calculation. Maybe, an eighth of the meal remained. The man was bald, scarily bald.

“it couldn’t have been from me!” he would rehearse to himself in the mirror. The female student, the functioning alcoholic ‘artist’, the cocaine-addicted chef? No one was safe. All of the tropes were readily victimised by the man. His reward? A free meal. On a lucky day, a free meal and a voucher.

Onto the next.

Cheers.