‘Sofa slug’…

  Shane’s mum pondered for a moment before deflecting that monkey of an insult with a sadistic laugh. She snatched that monkey, bashed out its brains and ate it, “You have no respect for me boy.”

  She paused for a moment to eat some sugary popcorn and to continue to process her son’s harsh words. She further repaid the pain of her son’s hurtful comments, with more of her own, “Look who’s talking, you’re a fat slob, fat kid, fatty … fatty, fatty, fatty McFat-Fat. Fattest kid in Wattle Creek I reckon. “Why,” she smiled in sheer sadism, “you’re even fatter than that giant mate of yours, with his silly purple push bike and his super tight 80’s metal band t-shirts,” she laughed, “what a giant nerd.”

  “Dave’s all muscle with a bit of bubble wrap,” rebutted Shane, “Besides, I don’t need to defend him. He’s big and mean enough to take care of himself. Just last week he punched out the captains of the school footy and cricket teams, because they tried to diss him, and told him that old people’s music like Kiss and Queen sucked more than Def Leppard.”

  Shane took in a gush of air, “And to call me a fat slob mum, far out, have you looked in a really, really, really big mirror lately? And did it die? Did it crack and shatter under the sheer weight of your reflection? And when your busted up motorised scooter with the shonky wheels and burned-out electric motor gets back from its third round of repairs, will you keep looking at the side mirrors for Japanese whalers?”

  A storm of bad mojo settled in on Shane’s mum’s face, gluttonous saturnalia, carnivalesque monstrosity, clown eater, circus act, Fanta guzzling Anglo-Tiddalik, the monster who ate the woman who ate the world, obnoxious obscenity, foul mouthed fart factory, fat bastard’s bride, a metric tonne of depressive deprecation…

  The emotions of anguish, self-loathing, regret and searing hot hate flushed her chunky cheeks fiery red. Her face morphed into a baboon’s arse, “You’re going to end up a loser, just like your worthless father.”

  “Dad’s not worthless. He makes good money driving dump trucks for the mines.”

  “Yeah right,” snickered Shane’s mum, “and his mail order bride probably spends it all on shoes and super tight outfits.”

  “Yeah, well at least she can fit into those outfits.”

  “Shut up yah crud muffin!” she roared with a blend of hurt feelings and murderous rage, “go live with your father and his skinny, jungle bunny scrag! See if I give a crap! And I tell you what, if you like her cooking that much, ask your dad for a plane ticket and bugger off up North to your father’s place for good, yah worthless crud muffin!”

  “I will bugger off!” Shane roared defiantly, “I will go live with dad … and Lulu!”

  “Fine, go ahead!”

  “I will!”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Good!”

  “Okay!”

  “Yep!”

  “Behemoth the beached whale,” Shane mumbled as he continued to trudge away.

  “You watch how you talk to me boy,” his mum murmured.

  “Jabba’s chunder cat.”

  “Yeah, keep on walking, yah worthless crud muffin.”

  She opened another bottle of Fanta, tossing the cap to the floor before shovelling fistfuls of honey and butter drizzled popcorn into the trash compactor she called a mouth. Her attention returned to the television.

  Once again, Rick Alpha had saved the day. Evil and ugly men with squinting eyes beneath bushy mono-brows, short foreheads, thick brow ridges and missing teeth had taken kids suffering from cancer in a children’s hospital hostage. Armed only with his big guns for arms, bulging tight denim jeans and a canary blonde mullet that could launch a thousand panel vans and split the drumsticks of a billion Bevan wenches, Rick Alpha dispatched the hundred odd horde of demented deros with gorrific ease. And it might be added, he somehow found the time to walk the dog, wash the dishes, mow the lawn, pay the bills, clean the gutters, cook the lamb roast, do the washing, paint the house, build the fence, service the car, weed the gardens, help the elderly pensioner cross the road, shift Earth’s orbit by a few inches to thwart climate change, sing a rock ballad, save the president of the United States from even uglier men from Mars with bushy green monobrows and to top it all off, with just a paperclip and half a packet of thumb tacks, he found a cure for cancer.

  “Now that’s a real man,” she mused lustily between slurps of Fanta, “and he still has his hair,” she continued to slurp on the Fanta and gulp down fistfuls of popcorn.

  “Meow row.”

  Elmo was a ginger tabby. He paced anxiously in circles near the laundry door and meowed in cracked, mellow tones.

  “Hang on Elmo, just putting my Uggies on,” Shane leaned on the gyprock wall while he slipped on his boots.

  “Meow now.”

  “I said hang on,” from the hook behind the door, he grabbed the thick green jacket with German flags that he bought from Noel’s Army Disposals. He slipped it on and pulled the hoodie over his head. Elmo paced the infinity symbol between his boots. Shane flicked the switch and turned on the backyard floodlights.

  “Come on puss,” he said as he opened the door, the cold chill was, well chilly, “hurry up and take a whizz, I’m in the middle of a raid.”

  “Meow how.”

  “Yeah,” said Shane, “Johnny’s warlock took out the big boss ogre and Dave’s judicial champion just broke down the doors to the swamp troll’s fortress with a jumping headbutt. My orc-elf wizard will use his battle potions to numb the dragon inside while Woodford’s barbarian slices off the dragon’s cockles with the mighty Sword of Sir Irwin.”

  “Meow wow.”

  With his tail standing tall like the mast of the flagship of a Moggie-Ranga invasion fleet, Elmo pranced down the concrete walkway, across the dirt and patches of grass towards the pile of lawn clippings against the back fence. He dug around and found a nice warm spot, right above where the dog decomposed.

  Elmo crouched and let it rip. The cat looked relieved as steam rose in pungent wafts of sardines and ammonia. Shane paced around the yard. He looked down at the ground and up to the shadows of the dense tree line behind the back fence. There were hills beyond those trees. Ancient hills that flowed into endless, primordial darkness.

  “Come on Elmo, come on, I’ve got something important to do.”

  The cat ignored him, finished its business, proceeded to explore the back garden, sniffed and growled at the half dead chilli bush.

  “Come on Elmo.”

  The cat jumped up to the top of the fence, strutted and stretched.

  “Come down Elmo.”

  The cat continued to ignore him.

  “Right,” Shane trudged across the yard towards the back fence, “you’re coming inside whether you like it or not.”

  He stopped halfway. Elmo froze, arched and raised the hairs on its back. The cat hissed and growled at the darkness.

  “What is it puss? A possum? A wombat?” Shane continued to walk towards the cat, “No need to get scared over a poss—”

  A blur snatched the cat as it screeched. The ginger moggie disappeared into the darkness. Shane stood frozen. A crimson tear of blood drizzled down a fence paling. Silence, total silence except for the gentle wind through the trees.