Hi all,
this week’s flash fiction is based on a news article. Read on after the piece for a link to the article and to find out why I needed to write a story about it.
He couldn’t choose. The machete or the brush?
Steve kept smacking his lips after every sip of coffee. It sounded like the machete slicing into skin. He chose the brush. ‘Mate!’ said Steve. ‘Not nervous, are you?’ They were in Steve’s rust-orange van. The light went off in the house they were watching. ‘This is it,’ said Steve.
They got out quietly. Walked around the back of the house. Birds were singing, drowning out the rasp of Bill’s breath. He didn’t like this. But he needed the money. They crouched at the back door and pulled stockings over their heads. The material was cool for one second, then warm. Bill was already sweating.
Steve pulled at the back door handle. It opened, and he slipped inside. Bill followed. The house smelled of air freshener and deodorant. He could hear a shower running upstairs. Steve motioned him to the living room. They sat on the leather couch.
‘You know what to say?’
Bill nodded.
‘Mate?’ Steve sounded tense.
‘I know: “You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I saw—”’
‘Seen’
‘”—seen the way you’ve been looking at me.” Et cetera.’
‘Good. Here.’ Steve went over to Bill. Tugged his stocking. ‘There was a bit sticking up, mate. Made you look like a condom.’
Bill smiled, then a laugh escaped him. ‘Well, I wanna be safe, don’t I?’
‘Yeah.’ Steve was laughing, too. ‘You don’t know where this dirty bugger’s been!’
The water stopped running and they stifled their laughter. Bill leaned back. They were being paid $1000 for a Tickle Home Invasion. Steve was to threaten the guy with the machete until he stripped. Then Bill would tie him up and tickle him with the bristles of the broom. Brand new from Bunnings.
‘He doesn’t half take his time, does he?’ said Bill.
‘He wants to look good for you.’
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps creaked across the floorboards of the Victorian building to the bedroom.
’10 minutes,’ said Steve. ‘Let him get his money’s worth of anticipation.’
‘I’d love a ciggie,’ said Bill.
‘Have one after,’ said Steve and they started giggling again.
‘Hello?’ The voice came from upstairs. ‘Is there someone there?’
They stopped laughing. Birds outside. The guy worked night-shift, was getting read for bed. Just wanted a little something to give himself sweet dreams.
Steve’s phone vibrated. The noise was immense in the strange room. ‘Mate,’ said Steve, showing Bill his phone. ‘We got you.’
Bill looked at the text: ‘Happy Birthday, Darling!’
Steve tugged the brush. Bill let it go. Over his shoulder Bill saw a figure on the stairs with another brush.
‘Strip, mate!’ said Steve.
‘No, please!’ said Bill, but he was already tugging his shirt over his head.
The BBC featured an article on two guys hired for a home invasion, which went wrong. After reading it I knew I would have to write about it. It’s not the titillating nature of the home invasion which grabbed my attention but the questions the article raised:
“He was willing to pay A$5,000 if it was ‘really good’,” – How does this work? Is there a baseline minimum for the callout and then a bonus depending on how good it is? Who decides (and what are the criteria) to fairly determine how good is good enough to get the $5K? What if the client decides it was bad and the contractor (who has a machete…) decides it was good?
“the client moved to another address 50km (30 miles) away without updating the two men” – How do you forget an appointment with a man with a machete? Which is costing you up to $5,000? How long in advance do you need to arrange this sort of thing? (#AskingForAFriend)
The 2 men therefore go into the wrong house where ” the resident … assumed it was a friend who came by daily to make morning coffee.” – At 6:15 in the morning. We lived in Australia for four years so I know that people there get up disgracefully early but still. A friend who comes by to make coffee at 6:15 every morning? Okay. Hands up everyone who has a friend who pops by to make coffee while you’re still in bed? Exactly.
“one of the pair said, “Sorry, mate”, and …[t]he two men then drove to the correct address,” – How come they now have the correct address? What’s going on?
“the client noticed one man had a “great big knife” in his trousers” – you’re expecting me to make a joke about this. No. Shame on you.
“The client then cooked bacon, eggs and noodles, and a short time later, the police arrived at the property” – ignore the second bit for now. Never mind who called the police and how they knew where to find the two men. We’re concentrating on the first part of this sentence.
Picture the scene: you’re in bed. The doorbell rings. You get up. Could it be…? Oh, shit! No, it can’t be them because you forget to tell them you’ve moved house. But it is them. They look a bit worried.
‘What’s up, guys?’ you ask.
‘We broke into the wrong house. I shook the guy’s hand but he got a bit of a fright.’
‘Right, yeah, I forgot to text you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It is what it is.’
‘You’re probably not in the mood to tie me up and tickle me right now though?’
‘Nah, mate. Sorry. I just thought we’d sit here for a bit in case the police happen by to arrest us.’
‘Hey! How, actually, did you know where to find–‘
‘Sorry, mate. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Fair enough.’ The three men sit in silence. It’s hard to say who is most embarrassed by the mix-up. ‘Would you like some breakfast then?’
‘Oooh! Yes, please!’
So my completely fictional version of events, which contains imaginary characters (any resemblance to actual persons, whether, living, dead, tickled or otherwise is purely coincidental) was an attempt to work out a version of events which might actually make sense to me.
Actually, that’s what all my writing is about.
