TV Licence
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It was like any other day. Suarez had almost lost a tooth trying to take home a piece of Chiellini’s shoulder. Miss Bowls’ screeching ‘Pudding!?’ reverberated off the walls, bounding hopefully over gap toothed fences, crawling willy nilly up graffitied dustbins, despite the furry being tucked away in furry heaven for the last year due to an overzealous bin truck driver and a spillage of lemon and ginger tea. Marge sounded, ‘Ready!’ A 155mm round that would give the singular curling fringe of Frau Farbissina a run for its money as the eggs turned from their gold and white Neoclassicism into burnt deformities, resembling the frozen agony of Vesuvius’ victims.
‘Here.’ She plonked the blue plate of victims on Dave’s table as the whistle sounded, causing a momentary raising of his left eyebrow before it returned to its bed and resumed subdued silence. She watched him as he sawed through one of the legs and scraped off a bit of burnt sun, smoothing it over the meat as though icing a cake before engulfing it with his gob. He tried to show no hesitance as he chewed, rubbing the little smooth chip with his forefinger. Marge, satisfied, melted into her chair and began filing her nails.
‘Post?’ spoke Dave through cannibalism.
Marge stopped filling, plucked an A2 in her throat, formed back into a solid and proceeded to the front door. A smattering of envelopes lay on the green door mat. She leafed through the deck of white before stopping, her fingers gracing a red envelope.
To The Legal Occupier
59 Blowfish Drive
Little Smalltown
Perkshire
Marge resumed her liquid state and discarded the whites to relax under the shade of the brown lamp. Her thumb rubbed the ruby paper, causing Dave to fight against the gravitational pull of the telly to stare at Marge’s massaging. He watched her grab her nail file and sink it into the corner, the noise of friction sounding the quality of the paper. The disembowelment complete. She laid down her instrument and pulled the contents from the deceased vermilion. Dave stopped chewing as Marge’s eyes slowly became two disappearing satellites, drifting into the beige cosmos, searching for the meaning of the stars.
‘Well?’
Marge didn’t look up. She remained fixed. The way Alan Sugar would remain after a torrent of subconscious reasons as to why the Baby Burper was the greatest thing since some bloke decided to slice bread… or was it a lass… who cares.
‘It says… we need to confirm whether or not we have a tv licence… or, or they’ll pay us a visit… which is in capital letters.’
Marge rested the letter on her thigh, a universal sign that the person who has just read said letter has entered into a frame of deep contemplation, with a slight hint of exasperation making its way out of her right nostril.
‘They can’t visit us. Can they?’
Marge didn’t know.
The front door flew off its hinges. Dust, hair and a spider’s leg jumped into the air, liberated momentarily from the fading carpet. A black boot, expertly polished, placed itself on the green mat, then a second boot emerged from the streaming sunlight. They marched down the hallway, the vibrations trembling through the masonry, shaking Miss Bowls’ hand like an eager salesman as she turned the key in her front door lock. The boots entered the sitting room and looked from Dave to Marge and from Marge to Dave. The black boots shot Dave in the head before both his eyebrows could be raised in expected surprise. Marge gasped and pushed herself further in the crease of her chair, out popped a long forgotten five pence that wriggled underneath the edge of her trousers, the black boots took aim and placed a single bullet through her gaping mouth, her blood finally beginning the long promised redecoration of the living room walls.
Marge brought the letter to her face. Then set it down.
‘They can’t come in the house. Not unless we say they can.’
Marge would make statements like this from time to time. She’d raise her head just a fraction as she spoke as though addressing the masses. Then after the words were said. She would simply cross her legs, abduct the remote from Dave’s table and flick until a programme that displayed the right amount of tackiness caught her eye. There was no need for further debate. Dave accepted Marge’s words as gospel. The room, with its flowery curtains, slightly too loud ticking clock, fugazi fire and indoor gnome, was a church. Marge was god, Dave a mortal being, hanging on every word.