The Egg on Toast

"And did you see Eastenders last night?" my wife excitedly spurts, to her friend, in our living room.

I am in the kitchen, preparing food for these two wankers.

Later I might speak with my wife about something that truly excites me: imagining being a floating, invisible eye. She will not respond so excitedly as she does now, when thinking about a fucking soap opera!

What am I doing in this bland relationship!

"Kyle?" she calls, from her seated, presumably comfy arse.

"What is it, dearest? Sweetypie? Love of my life? What can I help with?"

"Come in here and tell Maria about that time you pictured happiness in your future!"

"For the comedy factor, or?" I call.

The two laugh. Seems I don't need to go into the details.

Wankers, man.

I burn their food a little, and spit into it many times.

"Would you two like some champers with that?" I enquire.

"We already have some wine," says Maria. "Thanks, Kyle."

"Alright," I say, taking from the cupboard two champagne glasses.

I bring them to the bathroom. I fill one with water. I crack and break the other one, roughly but not completely, so it can still be drunk from, albeit with effort, reluctance, and possibly injury; into this glass I take a long piss, filling it right the fuck up.

• • •

"Here you are, lovelies," I say, setting their food down at the dinner table.

"Ah, you're a wee sweetie," says Maria.

I smile, and ostentatiously pull the women's chairs out before they in them sit.

"You're so chivalrous, Kyle," says Maria.

My wife makes a look, one that announces to the entire planet that she is tired of my manners, that she wishes to be pumped nightly by some stud that gives no shit about her feelings.

In several minutes, she, face cut and bleeding on her champagne glass, her condemning tongue engulfed in my piss, will understand that my good-boy pretence is over.

• • •

"You were right to do what you did," says the police constable, as he takes my statement. "Sounds like your wife was a heartless bitch."

"Aye," I say, growing impatient. "Right; can I leave?"

"Aye," says the constable, placing a cigarette into my mouth and lighting it for me. "Have fun in your singledom, Mr. Mullan."

"Will do," I say.

Now, with my wife dead, and Maria already pining for me, made known to me through a constant stream of texts to my phone, I am certainly excited.

I pull from my pocket my wallet.

How loaded am I? Mother of shit; I can do anything!

My first action: a call to the local animal shelter:

"I'd like to make an anonymous donation," I say. "I'll be round shortly."

• • •

"Sir," starts the shelter supervisor, as I enter the lobby. "Thank you so much for wishing to make a donation!"

"What?" I say. "I think you've got the wrong bloke."

This supervisor is surprised, growing dejected after he finds out why I'm here:

"I am here for your heart."

"Would you like it on a platter?" a lobby-dwelling parrot asks.

"Fuck it; sure," I say.

Instantly this parrot begins pecking furiously at its cage's latch; soon it has broken it; soon it is through; now it goes straight for the supervisor, pecking the shit out of his face, screams flying all around.

"Gosh; way to go," I comment, moving for the till to begin smashing at it, locked, to open for me.

"Thankin' ya," replies the parrot, after its pecks silence the supervisor for good. "Thankin' ya very much."

"Here," I say, wrapping a wad of banknotes with an elastic band and setting this in the parrot's cage. "Escapee cash. Now, my requested heart: is it ready?"

"Several minutes," the parrot informs me, after just starting on the supervisor's chest. "I have just broken through the hypodermis."

"Oh, you have, have you?" I ask, bending down to unplug the till, now grappling with it, yanking it from its installation bay, lifting it high above my head, and launching it at the parrot.

A few feathers fly as the bird is crushed.

I think it died instantly: for I heard no sounds of pain, only quick, gravitational reactions, those of bones bending, cracking, snapping, from insupportable weight.

"Two fewer hungry mouths for the animal shelter," I sing, as I exit the place. "Oh! Two fewer hungry mouths for the animal shelter!"

I hope the animal shelter's staff appreciate my anonymous donation.

• • •

kyle! going out with a few mates in a bit. if you want to join. maria x

Hmm. Why not, I suppose?

where

I call a taxi.

down at the egg on toast. you coming? x

My taxi arrives. I enter.

no. cya

"Egg on toast, please," I request.

"I'm a taxi driver, buddy, not a bleedin' food vend-"

"The pub," I say.

"Ah," says he, starting the journey.

aww why won't you come? don't you like me? x

got a raid

you'd rather play video games than see me?

ye

"Busy tonight?" I ask, of the driver.

"Seriously," says he, after a pause and a sigh. "If I had a quid for every time I am asked that very question, I'd be a -"

"I asked only to annoy you," I admit, looking out the window.

"Ah. Ha. You're a right comic," mumbles he.

"So, traffic bad tonight, is it?" I ask.

The driver ignores me. I snigger.

"Man, I'd fucking hate to have your job," I say. "Wankers asking you the same questions every fucking day."

A gap of silence.

"Aye," says he.

"So, who was the fifth and final Prime Minister of Northern Ireland?"

"Eh?"

"Who was the fifth and fina-"

"I heard you. How am I meant to know that?"

"No idea. I don't know it, in any case; so you could answer with any name you like and I'd know no better."

"Right. Mickey Mouse, then."

I sigh.

"And do you resent your parents at all? Perhaps for their fucking when you were a child and could hear them? Perhaps for their splitting up? Perhaps for their forcing you into careers in which you wished for no involvement?"

"What have my parents got to do with anything?" he exclaims.

"Probably a lot," I muse, checking the meter. "How much do you get paid out of that?"

"Mate, the questions: cut them out."

"Yes; ok; but how much?"

"Did I ask you how much you get paid?"

"No," I agree. "Alright; one last question; may I ask one last question?"

The driver sighs, fucked-off now.

I take his sigh as my cue:

"Busy tonight?"

• • •

I'm a few streets away from the Egg on Toast, I think. Taxi driver threw me out; meh; expected as much. Oh; a text:

you're a weird guy. I knew I shouldn't have looked at you twice

Humph. Get a clue, Maria.

• • •

I am on hold, after telephoning the Egg on Toast; for I demanded to speak with the owner, who is said to always be upstairs with 'babes' selected from his establishment's clientele.

"What is it," he grunts, after finally coming to the phone.

"You are my hero," I lie. "Please, tell me your secrets?"

"Hah!" he exclaims, hanging up.

As expected.

I enter the pub, and head right for the bar.

"What can I ge-"

"13 snakebites, I suppose I'll have," I say, nonchalantly.

"Kyle!" Maria calls, rushing over. "I knew you'd come! And I'm so glad you did."

"Hey," I say, calmly, turning to her. "What are you drinking?"

"Oh; a strawberry daiquiri, please!"

"And your earrings? Where'd you purchase those?" I ask, ignoring her drink order: for I wished to know what she is drinking, not what I should buy for her to drink.

"Oh, my earrings? They're from a shop called -"

"Care?" I utter.

"No," says she, taken aback by just a few centimetres.

"Ah," I say, turning back to the bar. "Barman, where are your manners? This lady ordered a drink!"

"Oh! My apologies," says he, turning to fix for Maria her strawberry daiquiri.

"Kyle, I thought you had a raid to attend?"

"Oh?"

"You said, via text."

"Ah."

I lift one of my ready snakebites, and purposefully yet apparently accidentally knock the prepared remainder over.

"My, my," I say, to the shocked barman, apologetically. "I am terribly sorry."

"That's alright," lies the barman, as he moves to clean my mess up.

"Here," I say, taking from my wallet around £300, now handing it over the bar. "Take this for your trouble."

"It's my job," argues he, politely pushing my offer away.

"Take my paper guilt, for fuck's sake," I urge.

The barman looks around him before accepting my money.

"You'd get sacked, would you?" I assume.

A quick nod.

"Right."

"Kyle, want to join us at our table?" Maria asks.

"In a sec," I say, moving to the coin box, en route calling back: "I'll be with you in a sec!"

• • •

"I just don't know what I am doing?" I splutter, to the Samaritans volunteer on the other end of the line. "I am rude to people without realising it until afterwards? And I am so heartless! So heartless. Please, relate to me a snippet of your life so I might understand even a fragment of what it is like to be normal!"

"Sir, the most important thing right now is to understand that there is no such thing as normal! We are all different, in one way or ano-"

I fucking hang up. What's the use?

• • •

"Hello," I say, as I sit down at Maria's table. "Hello, everybody. Are you having a good night?"

Nods; a few utterances of yes; and a lipstuck smile from Maria, who grabs me by the arm warmly, as if I am her fiancée.

"Kyle, why don't you tell everybody about that time you pictured happiness in your future!" she exclaims.

"For the comedy factor, I suppose?"

"Why not, gent," says one of the men at the table. "Why not. Go right ahead!"

"Carry on, chap," says another man. "Let us know."

"In time," I say, rising from the table and moving for the toilets. "Excuse me; won't you?"

• • •

"I just can't do it," I quietly cry, into the mirror. "Why can I not do it? Why?"

I remain in the toilets for what seems like hours, chain-smoking by the window as I let my tears loose upon this night's air.

• • •

"Kyle?" Maria calls, knocking at the door. "They're closing. Are you alright? I have been so worried!"

"Then why didn't you come in earlier?" I, snivelling, ask.

Now she rushes in and hugs me fiercely. She attempts to kiss my mouth; I reject her; she instead goes for my neck, once, twice; she, done, withdraws, and stares into me.

"Why were you crying? What's wrong, Kyle?"

Uncontrollably I shove Maria away from me; she stumbles back some distance, slowing down in time to avoid the closest sink.

"Kyle, what is wrong?" she, annoyed, asks.

"Maria," I suddenly say, drying myself off with a paper towel, and walking across to try to embrace this woman's withheld hand. "Would you like to have some cheesecake with me?"

"What?"

"Cheesecake: would you like to have some with me?"

"I -"

She will decline my offer.

"Please say yes," I almost beg.

She will never again wish to see me.

"Goodnight," I, embarrassed and defeated, say, leaving.

She will completely forget me in just a few days.