DISCLAIMER: As well you know it is unusual I start with a disclaimer as I do feel it’s pretty obvious in all cases that the characters in my stories are not based on anyone I actually know but in this case I thought I’d better make it abundantly clear due to the reptilian nature of the main character. So, in short, not based on anyone I know. Therefore please enjoy, if that is the right term for such a vile figure...
“So, to skip to the end...
“The wife did it,” said Derek, dryly. “Very predictable really.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Barry, who was sat on the same section as Derek.
“Do what?” said Derek. His hands seeming tiny as he rested them on his huge gut.
“Reveal the ending!” interjected Kim, a middle-aged frump on the same team. “I sky-plussed that, I was going to watch it tonight!”
“Well, you didn’t miss much,” chuckled Derek. “Now get back to work.”
Kim turned back round and flipped herself back into available with a begrudging punch of the
keys and took another call. Derek smiled. His chubby features almost burying the joy in fat. He’d
learnt early in life the joy of being nasty. He’d spent his school and summer holidays mercilessly
torturing his younger siblings and cousins, intimidating them with his physical mass, taking delight
from spoiling their fun, from breaking their toys to denying Father Christmas. For Derek his life
was a wicked game. He lived to annoy, and as he’d got older, he’d got so much better at it.
As he monitored his staff to make sure he was going to get HIS bonus this year he chortled to
himself at just how simple it was to ruin the joy of others. It really was as delightful as taking
candy from a baby, and just as easy - stupid kids! Not like they can brush their their teeth at that
age. As his podgy fingers roamed over the keyboard he smiled at the thing that had given him so
much joy over the years, four little words that ruined other people’s good day by not sugaring any
blow ...”Skip to the end!”
Derek however never saw anybody spit in his tea, he was never aware of people rubbing his
biscuits against their groin before placing them on his saucer, and he was certainly oblivious to
people rubbing their fingers down their sweaty cleft before handling his many sandwiches. No.
Derek instead went about his day in blissful ignorance, thinking delightfully to himself that no-one
could ever get back at him. The cup of tea with two hobnobs (feeling strangely warm?) landed on
Derek’s desk and he dunked them in the tea with a lustful abandon, the crumbs finding a sweaty
home on his chin.
Derek’s phone rang sounding like a shrill, angry, robot bird. There were only two reasons it ever
sprang to life, one was a complaint from a customer over a holiday quote that had gone sour, the
other was because a staff member had finally screwed up one too many times. Derek picked up the
phone feeling gluttonous desire inside that it was the latter.
“Derek Coombs” he spat out, slovenly.
“Yep ...yep ...yep. Okay, just send me an e-mail with the details ...No, I can’t come and get
them.”
Sometimes Derek would scoot around the office on his little chair if he had to see
anyone, but personnel were on the whole other side of the building and there was no way that was
going to happen. As he flicked open the new electronic envelope a smile crept slowly over his
massive features. It was good news. It was his least favourite team member, Simon Chadwick’s
final probation report. He had failed to make the grade, not by much, but enough so that, under the
Conservatives new employment laws (Thank you David Cameron, thank you.) he could be
dismissed. Admittedly if Derek wanted he could keep him on and extend his probation but why do
that, it would just prolong his bad stats. Although it was Derek’s choice realistically there was no
choice.
Derek placed his stubby little fingers on his chair rests and heaved his way out of the chair. He
couldn’t scoot round to Simon’s desk due to it’s positioning near the wall. He longed for the day
when he could trounce around everywhere in one of those mobility scooters, he would then have an
excuse to summon everyone to his desk and not move to see anyone. He wheezed over to where
Simon was sat and placed his hand gentle on Simon’s shoulder.
“Simon,” began Derek with a smile. Simon looked back nervously at the man known
unaffectionately by the rest of his team as “Jabba”.
“Yes’” Simon replied, anxiously.
“I’ve got your probation details in,” Derek said, blankly. “So, to skip to the end...you’re fired.”
Simon’s face dropped. Derek could feel the eyes of everyone on his team turn and glare at him.
Derek offered a fake half-hearted pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger,” said Derek, as if he had no choice in the matter. He
eased himself back into his seat and just glanced over at Simon. He was sat just looking at the
screen, not knowing what to do with himself. Slowly he began to pack his things away; the “Best
Dad in the world” mug, the pictures of his children and the good luck card he’d taken with him to
bring him luck after being made redundant from his previous job. No-one wanted to see anyone
lose their job during any time, and his colleagues didn’t know where to look or how to feel, that is,
everyone but Derek, of course, who chuckled quietly inside as he removed the last of his personal
memento’s from his desk. Derek just sat there, his huge frame dwarfing his computer as his podgy
fingers typed merrily away, pretending to be busy, a quiet glee sparkling through his system as this
gem of a highlight helped to twinkle an otherwise dull day.
For Derek the rest of the day involved the most depressing of things ...Actually doing some work.
Complaints came in and he had endless stats to compile and graphs to complete to show how well
he was doing in managing his team to make sure his own bonus got paid. He waddled through the
call centre of CJD holidays like a titan; a gladiator of a call-handler who had finally achieved
something more after doing his time speaking to the general scum that rang in. When Derek left
work that night he did so with the knowledge he was one day nearer retirement with his pension
getting ever fatter with the contribution his monthly bonuses were addingt. He got to his
Volkswagen Polo (Some prize cunt had prized off the L from the back of it. Derek looked forward
to the day he found the bastard who had done that,) and opened the door when a call startled him.
“YOU FAT FUCK! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” came an angry yell. Staggering towards him
was a furious Simon Chadwick; his eyes glazed over as an afternoon of alcohol had rendered them
only partly functional. Simon stumbled forward, swearing as he came. Derek held his ground and
as soon as he got within reach rammed the car door straight at him. Simon bounced off the door,
spun through the air and hit the ground with a whimper and a panicked sob, like some pathetic over-
grown newborn. As far as Derek was concerned he could fucking stay there. Wimp! The real
world wasn’t there to help losers like him, it was to help go-getting winners ...like him. He
squeezed into the Volkswagen Po o (...Son of a bitch that did that...) turned the key, and left Simon in a heap on the ground. Derek needed to go home and have a shower, wipe underneath his folds and put on something smart so he could seem semi-respectable for his team leaders lunch. Every
month all the supervisors got together for a meal and tonight they were heading for Foo Yung’s
Chinese buffet. Derek was delighted with that. An all you can eat buffet for him was less of a
bargain and more of a challenge. It also meant he got to avoid his stupid wife for yet another night.
They had got together when they were both in their heady twenties and overcome with heavenly
desire. Now he could barely stand to look at her, and was pretty sure that was how she felt about
him. Now any excuse to avoid here was greeted like the arrival of a long-lost friend. Derek said
goodbye to his wife with a barely concealed fake smile and squeezed through a doorframe that was
designed to let two people pass through comfortably.
Derek arrived at the restaurant only to find that his colleagues were already sat at the table, talking among themselves, enjoying a drink and laughing without him. Bastards! Derek shuffled forward and pulled the last seat out and squeezed onto the wooden chair that groaned as his ample weight strained every sinew of wood but, somehow, managed to remain upright. Derek swiped a menu off the table and perused the details while his colleagues carried on like he wasn’t there. He had to admit the people he worked with were merely a distraction to the buffet menu that he was about to devour. For most people fifteen pound a head may be seen as a risk if you didn’t know if there’d be enough you would like on that menu ...for Derek, it was a bargain.
“Can I take your order, please?” asked the waitress, as she wandered over with a smile and pleasant demeanour at the ready.
“Well I don’t know about everyone else but I’ll take one of each starter,” said Derek with a slavering wheeze. The rest of the table went quiet at the announcement. The waitress could not disguise her worried look of concern, however.
“Erm, sir?” she began, fearfully. “Whilst it is a buffet, whatever you leave in the starters you will be charged f-”
“I said I want ONE of EACH of the starters!” repeated Derek, coldly.
“One of each of the eighteen starters?” the waitress queried one more time.
“YES!” said Derek, antagonistically. “I’ll have that with a pint of Carling, and then I’ll take the chicken curry, beef in black bean sauce and the king prawn chop suey, please.”
Derek handed the menu back as he threw out a contemptuous “Please,” that managed to sound like an order. The rest of the team leaders stared at him with disparaging eyes. As far as Derek was concerned they could do. He knew that they only invited him because they couldn’t deliberately ignore him, but it didn’t matter. He was there for the food. That was how he was going to enjoy himself. If hell was other people then heaven was an all-you-can-eat buffet where you can ignore you’re scummy colleagues in a deluge of food and drink.
As his order arrived and the other team leaders tried with increasing difficulty to avoid looking at him with disgust, Derek switched his focus to his eighteen starters and began to devour them like he was a condemned man, chomping on the ribs and nuggets and seaweed and vegetables, savouring the different textures as the food made a brief stay in the hotel known as “Derek’s Mouth” before taking the journey to their new home in Derek’s stomach. While everyone else talked and ate or ate and talked Derek simply feasted, decimating his starters in the same length of time his smarmy colleagues finished their one or two.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna go and make some room for the main courses,” said Derek rubbing his stomach and groaning, bringing a similar response from everyone else at the table. Derek gingerly waddled off to the toilet, evacuated, whilst moaning profusely (so much so that the rest of the restaurant could hear him!) and returned cheerfully. Conversation stopped as it always did when he returned, a few people made attempts to talk to him as they always did, but he shrugged off their pitiable efforts and settled down to the next set of courses. The food was delicious and he ate with a gusto and a passion that had left much of the rest of his life. Most of the food managed to make its way inside him, but somehow bits of chicken and beef still managed to lodge themselves in his jowels. The rest of the evening for Derek was utterly forgettable as chat turned to shit like “The X-Factor” and “I’m a celebrity get me into there”. Jesus they were a boring bunch. When the bill was eventually placed down there was the usual battle over how to pay. “Shall we all chip in a little?”, “Let’s just pay our own bill, “ etc. Derek had had enough of them at this stage and was just looking forward to getting out the door.
“Let’s ask for separate bills and just have done with it,” he said, decisively. The other team leaders looked round at each other. They didn’t really want to do that but none of them had the balls to really say anything against him, so they meekly agreed and called the waitress back over to split the bill. She took the bill back with a smile and took details of everyone’s order including the drinks and brought back each person’s individual tally with a hospitable smile noticed by everyone except Derek who just sat there in a stuffed stupor. As money was placed down and people attempted to work out what ten per cent of nineteen pounds fifty was Derek swiftly merely removed the exact amount for the bill and put it on the table. One of his fellow supervisors sat next to him noticed this and after furrowing her brow decided out of politeness that she had better mention it to him. She knew that Derek had a fearsome reputation but surely his not leaving a tip was a simple error, bearing in mind the feast he had just gorged on.
“Ooh, Derek,” she began, meekly. “You’ve not left a tip.”
“Well, Sue,” replied Derek, sarcastically, “To skip to the end, I didn’t think there was anything there that was exceptional, so I’m not leaving a tip.”
Sue looked down at Derek’s plates that were devoid of even the tiniest scrap of food and sauce.
“But ...You ate it all,” she countered.
“IT WAS FOOD, OF COURSE I ATE IT!” shouted Derek. The whole restaurant now stopping to stare at this ogre of a man. “If I’m to give a tip then the service I receive had better be frigging exceptional, I mean they’d better suck my dick or something!”
Derek’s colleagues had turned away in disgust from his drunken rant. The blood from Sue’s face had drained as she finally understood why no-one ever stood up to Derek. The rest of the restaurant who had overheard Derek where looking equally appalled as the creature that resembled an obese, shaved yeti seemed intent on ruining everyone’s dining experience. The waitress who had smiled serenely came back to the table and picked up all the plates with the different amounts of money and, still smiling, asked if anyone would like a mint. All the supervisors declined as their stomachs had been well and truly turned by Derek’s abysmal attitude, that is all but one of the supervisors.
“I will and bring more than one mint!” ordered Derek, slovenly.
The waitress headed back into the kitchen with the cash and picked up five mint imperials and smiled broadly as she watched the five white balls roll comedically in her hand.
“MAX!” she shouted. From the back of the restaurant’s kitchen the family dog, a butch German shepherd bounded through like it owned the place, even though it clearly lacked the financial clout to obtain a business loan.
“Here you go, Max. Have a taste,” said the waitress as she lowered her hand. The dogs eyes seem to grow wide as it proceeded to slurp and slaver over the small white balls, savouring the taste and going crazy with desire for the tasty white treats.
“Okay, Max, stop now. Max, stop now! MAX, STOP!” she ordered. The dog did so and slunk back away. It my have enjoyed the feeling like it owned the place but it still recognised who its master was. The waitress brushed a tissue over the mints and placed them gently on a saucer, the innocent mints tinkling merrily as they jostled over the miniature plate, oblivious of their previous patron and just sat there glistening away, waiting for Derek to shovel them into his eager gob.
The waitress scamped cheerily through the restaurant up to Derek’s table and placed the mints down happily next to him.
“Cheers, love,” said Derek as he scooped the mints up in his chunky fingers and started popping them in his mouth, avoiding any sort of sucking and just chewing on them straight away. The rest of the guests grabbed their coats and spoke in hushed tones, planning to meet somewhere else straight after the meal to avoid spending any more time with Derek than necessary. While everyone else made tracks out of the door in a suspiciously swift manner Derek faced his usual struggle to get out of his seat, the chair groaning as he pushed himself off, fortunately, somehow, the glue and joints managed to hold together in spite of the strain placed against them. By the time Derek had wrapped his coat around himself everyone else had disappeared, leaving him to make the relatively short drive home alone.
He headed back to his Volkswagen Po o (“Oh, when he found out who did that!”) and squeezed himself inside. The drive home only took about fifteen minutes and was easily worth the risk of being stopped. He turned the key and set off for home, like every other person who drink drives Derek thought he was doing just fine but the truth was he was pretty fucking far from fine, the alcohol coursing through his system was merely acting like the world’s worst best friend, assuring that everything was okay while the truth was masked in a drunken haze. Derek of course was vile and unlikeable most of the time but the drink in him was now making him unbearable, not that he knew this, as far as he was concerned he was just feeling confident and happy with his lot in life. That is until the flashing blue light became noticeable in his rear view mirror.
“Bollocks!” spat Derek as he pulled over. As the copper got out of his vehicle in Derek’s wing mirror Derek breathed into his hand and sniffed. In spite of the mints and the huge amount of Chinese food he had wolfed down his gullet the rank stink of alcohol still clung fiercely to his breath. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Three sharp raps hit his driver’s side window and as Derek looked up to see the officer performing a patronising twirl with his finger to indicate he wanted him to role the window down. Derek pressed the button and felt an icy blast slither into the car, which felt like the perfect combination of weather mixed with the cop’s icy demeanour.
“Good evening, sir,” said the cop in that way they do to make “Sir” sound less like a compliment and merely supplicant. “Have you enjoyed a nice evening out?”
“Yes. You?” replied Derek, curtly. If the cop wanted him to provide a noose to hang himself he would have to do a better job than that.
“Not particularly. Have you enjoyed a drink or two tonight. sir?” asked the cop. Derek considered lying but the stench on him would be floating through the air and hitting the cop’s nose any second, if it hadn’t done already.
“A couple,” responded Derek with a shrug. “Why did I do that shrug? That was so fucking pantomime!” thought Derek, cursing himself for such a giveaway gesture.
“Sir, would you mind...” began the cop before Derek cut in.
“Look, let’s just skip to the end where you give me a fixed penalty,” interrupted Derek.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I hadn’t finished,” continued the cop.
“I know but you might as well skip to the end and give me an on-the-spot penalty,” interjected Derek again. “For my sake, for your sake, for the countries sake ...It’s for the best.”
“Why would it be best for you not to blow into this tube, sir?” asked the cop. Derek let go an involuntary sigh. This pissed him off. If he said “Skip to the end” then that meant “Skip to the end” not elaborate as to why we should skip to the end. Derek knew if he’d get out of this now he’d have to use every single one of his call handling skills. Derek switched his brain over to work mode before speaking.
“Fine,” began Derek. “Look the reality is that I’m not gonna give you a breath sample and yes, I know that that’s a criminal offence, but I’m not gonna give it. Like I’ve said I’ve had a couple. Now this means that by the time you’ve squeezed me out of the car, got me into your car, driven me to the station, booked me in and got the authority to take either a urine or blood sample then a fair share of that alcohol in my system will have dissipated so you’ll just be wasting your time AND taxpayers money, both yours and mine, in prosecuting and processing me when there are a HELL of a lot more dangerous people on these roads. If you pick up one of those bad boys you get the glory, you get the headlines and maybe a way out of doing this shitty traffic job in the middle of winter, no offence.”
“None taken,” replied the cop, anything but unoffended.
“If you take me in tonight then yes, you get warm on this frigid evening, but to be honest I’m a waste of of money and a waste of your valuable time that we can scarcely afford in this economic climate. If I were you I’d just give me a fixed penalty for fifty quid and then we can both be on our way.”
Derek looked up at the cop who gazed out at the grim winter weather and back to his car. The night seemed to close in around him as the weight of Derek’s words pressed against his soul. Derek was suited to working in a contact centre, he had the gift of the gab and when he wanted and could still pull a salesman’s trick out of the bag. The drink, unpleasant as it made him at the restaurant. also gave him a modicum of charm when he wanted it to. These days it just so happened that he never wanted to. The cop seemed to be chewing hard on Derek’s words as he stared into the middle distance for answers that only he knew at this stage.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” said the cop, opening his jacket. “Result!” thought Derek, trying hard to keep the emotion from his face. “I’ll give you your fixed penalty, but you can have the maximum, which these days is three hundred quid. Have a good evening, sir.”
“You to,” said Derek. The cop handed over the fine and it was as much as Derek could do not to tear it up and throw it in the back of his Volkswagen Po o (“Oh! Painfully and slowly!) but then he wouldn’t be able to appeal against it. Any parking or speeding fine he usually appealed against (and won due to the lazy justice system in this country when it came to enforcing said laws!) in spite of his eloquent speech about accepting any punishment doled out. He had no intention of doing that. Derek waited for the cop’s lights to dim and disappear before he started back to home. For Derek this had been a disappointing night and he wanted it to end with some sort of highlight. The drink had taken the edge off his usual bad mood at having to hang out with those losers, especially that silly bitch who insulted him over his lack of desire to tip. Fucks sake! You can guarantee that there’d be one asshole who seemed to make it their personal mission to ruin his nights out.
As he pulled into his drive he couldn’t help but notice that the light in the upstairs window was still on. There was a chance the night could be salvaged if he could get some. Derek opened the door, and squeezed himself out of the vehicle and headed inside. Leaving his shoes in the foyer, his pants on the stairs and his shirt and undies on the landing he headed into the bedroom wearing only his socks (he might have been aroused at this stage but couldn’t tell over his huge gut.) He went over to the bed where his wife, Sandra, lay sleeping, remembering better days when she was young and knew the joy of being alive. Derek moved over to her, the bed lurching like it was being buffeted by tidal wives. She couldn’t help be woken as the mattress tipped her to him like she was being pulled toward a black hole. Derek felt her warm body next to his and although he had no way of seeing it, he knew his body was reacting to hers. He slid his hand round her back and pulled her to him. She was warm beneath her nightgown, her outfit was anything but sexy but the combination of her body-heat and the alcohol was having a powerful effect on him.
“Derek, no, not now,” Sandra said as she tried to force his booze-sweating body away from her, instead he merely chuckled and pressed her against him, his tenuous hardness rubbing against his own tummy as his laugh became a disturbingly throaty gurgle.
“Let’s just skip to the end,” Derek mumbled into her ear.
“Derek, please no!” Sandra responded more firmly. In his youth his extra weight was appealing as it was tempered with a layer of firm muscle beneath, but these days the muscle had been replaced with an extra four layers of fat that made sex less appealing and more like a feat of engineering, right now his feet of flesh were trying to move her legs apart, the muscles so used to powering his fat about his daily work were at full use trying to force his affection onto his much beleaguered wife. She attempted to fight but her eight stone sopping wet weight was little match for his eighteen stone as he forced his way onward and in.
The pounding of his temple was more effective than an alarm clock for waking him up as the beers and Chinese food combined to twirl his senses so that the nerve endings in his brain seemed to feel everything. He knew that the paracetamol and Ibuprofen were downstairs but he also knew that every step would feel like a knife in his brain every time his feet met the all-too-thin stairway carpet. There had to be a closer option that could do the job and allow him time to lie in bed a bit longer and recover before heading downstairs to deal with her.
The bathroom? ...Too far, he wasn’t in the mood to walk anywhere.
His wife’s bedside cabinet? ...That might work. She was known to occasionally keep some headache pills in there. She’d used it as an excuse often enough. Derek rolled over and opened the drawer, his sausage mitts moving matter around in search for any sort of pain-relief, not looking but letting his fingers scramble about for anything tablet-shaped, coming across foam ...earplugs, paper ...Don’t know what that is ...A seven ...A seven? Derek removed the seven and spun it in his fingers. A seven? His pained expression changed as he spun the seven anti-clockwise to reveal what it really was ...An L! The bitch had his L. It had been her that had turned his Volkswagen Polo into a Volkswagen Po o! Oh she was gonna pay for that! The headache seemed to drift into insignificance as he got up and marched downstairs. He had so longed to meet the scum-bucket who had turned his car into an object of ridicule (anyone seeing Derek get in and out of his car would’ve argued that he did that himself!) He could hear her in the kitchen pottering about. His rage mounted as he heard her timid, mouse-like movements. He couldn’t believe she would do this to him after everything he’d done for her. He marched up to the kitchen, the offending L clutched tight within his porky fingers. As he made the kitchen doorway she was stood there with her back to him. Derek merely stood there breathing hard through his mouth (the fat had long since blocked his sinuses) and waited till, eventually, she turned to face him.
“Morning, love,” she said without a hint of any emotion in her voice. “Do you want a brew?”
Derek put the L on the work surface and watched as her eyes froze in terror. His hand moved through the air with alarming speed, the back of it connecting with her cheek and sent her sprawling over to the cooker, her head banging against the knobs at the front. Derek wiped the blood from his knuckles and started to walk over. Had his attention not been so held by the sight of the blood on his hands he might have noticed his wife grabbing at the frying pan and her turn with a look that was anything but mouse-like as she brought the pan down, edgeways, onto his head. The hard metal edge split Derek’s scalp sending a trail of blood down his forehead, the line starting hot but ending cool as it made its way down to his eyes. His legs crumpled from the shock of the blow and he he grabbed the sink for support, stunned.
“You, bitch. I’ll ...Kill you,” Derek said, unconvincingly. Sandra however was not gonna take any chances with that comment and started screaming as she pounded his head with the frying pan until Derek had been turned from human consciousness into a huge pile of decaying flesh. It was only when the kitchen tiles were almost covered in blood that she decided to stop hitting him, pocket the L and call for an ambulance.
Detective Kevin Abernathy wandered through the police station with a cup of coffee in one hand and a vegetarian sausage sandwich in the other. His fellow officers teased him mercilessly about it but his improved health and sense of well-being when he stopped eating meat all outweighed any comments by his carnivorous colleagues. As he headed down the corridor he saw one of his colleagues smirk slightly while exiting an interview room.
“All right, Claude. How’s it going?” Kevin asked.
“Same as always,” Claude replied in hushed tones after he closed the door. The mirrors in this place may have prevented people seeing outside the corridor but the doors were far from sound-proof. Kevin looked through the glass at the heavily-bruised face of Sandra Clampton and instantly knew her story (or so he thought) as he’d seen it in her dozens of times before.
“Usual story then?” Kevin asked before sipping on his coffee.
“Yep, husband killed in the kitchen with a frying pan, wife beaten and raped before, assault kit confirms that. No jury in the world would ever convict her but we still have to go through this rigmarole all the same,” Claude replied, dismayed that this had to even eat into his valuable time.
“The wife did it,” chuckled Kevin. “So predictable,” he continued before making his way to his own desk to investigate some real crimes.”
FIN
Now, you may well wonder “What the hell was the point to any of this?” Well I’ll tell you. While most humour is derived from the unexpected, some gags are telegraphed. They have a big sign on them saying “Get ready for this!” and in spite of the fact that they should feel obvious, they are sometimes funnier for us knowing they are about to happen and so I wanted it to be with this story. I wanted to write a story where, in spite of the predictability of the opening line, you still felt like you wanted to get to the end and find out what happened to the utter scumbag in the story. I hope it worked.
I’ve been Mister Chatable ...Still.
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