My Trip to the Tobacconist

I was waiting in line at the tobacconist, hoping to get some rolling papers and some hardcore pornography, and there was this kid, must’ve been about 4, standing at the till.

“How many penny sweets can I get for £1?” the kid asked.

“That’ll be 100,” the woman at the till replied.

“100 penny sweets,” the kid requested, peering over the till with his comic shortness.

The cashier then began taking single sweets, one at a time, and putting them into a bag. And she counted them, too. “One… two… three…”

She reached about 34 when I roared. I wanted fucking porn and fucking rolling papers and I didn’t want to stand here like a fucking idiot waiting for this stupid woman to count up to 100 for this selfish kid. For deliberate atmosphere, I started unleashing my disapproval on the kid.

I picked him up with an expected ease and threw him against the chocolate display. He slammed into the Mars Bars at impressive speed, dropped to the floor, and got covered in a torrent of Twix and Double Deckers. The cashier stood rooted to the spot, penny sweets spilled over her and a ghostly whiteness to her now shocked face, as I stormed over to the little rascal and picked him up.

His elbow was prodruding a bit through the skin, a bit of bone peeking out in a bloody and ugly mess of torn skin and splintered enamel. I put my hand on the back of his head and swang him down, smashing his face against the floor and splattering his nose. “FUCK YOU,” I screamed at his sobbing and writhing body. “FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.”

He tried to lift himself up, moaning and convulsing with pain. Blood was streaming down his face from his nose like a tap. With a swing to the temple, I sent him back down.

Shit, I thought, looking at his body. His head was facing the wrong way. He was gurgling and rasping for breath, his neck twisted 180 degrees. Oops.

I turned to face the cashier, sweat dripping off my fingers. She had ducked and was hiding behind the counter. Fuckin’ bitch. She didn’t even try to help this poor child as I accidentally killed him. I stormed over to her and dragged her up by her hair.

“100 SWEETS?” I shouted at her. “ONE AT A FUCKING TIME?” I stamped on her leg. With a ferocious crack, it snapped and she fell to the floor.

She tried to drag herself away as I towered over her. “All I fucking wanted,” I uttered slowly and surely, “was a fucking copy of Razzle and some Rizlas. This was supposed to be a fast journey – I didn’t want to have to wait in your shithole of a shop for any longer than I had to.”

“I’m sorry,” she blubbered, a pathetic wreck beneath me. I spat on her.

I picked up a biro from her desk and took off the lid, examining the nib. I poked it into my finger. It felt adequately pointy, I thought.

I leapt on top of her and shoved the biro in her right eye. She started screaming and struggling. I laughed and shoved it further in.

It was about two inches in, now. She was starting to bleed from the eye. I felt a bit of resistance, so pushed harder. Whatever was causing the resistance gave way and it slid straight through her eye-socket and into her brain.

She was screaming and crying hysterically. There was still a bit of pen sticking out of her head. She was wailing like a stuck pig. I stood up and took a few packets of rizlas and rolling tobacco, a few porn mags, and set off on my merry way, kicking the dead 4-year-old squarely in the face on the way out.