Hole Punch Simmons, Garth (10 best books of all time .txt) 📖

Leaning back in my chair, I shove another handful of snacks noisily into my mouth from my plate of free office meeting room food. The redundancy doesn't bother me. I'm a temp! So it's gratifying to see them feel the same way as me, to see them reduced to my professional level.

Emmett Corcoran, the office manager, is up there now, showing some diagrams and graphs, all badly designed and lacking in context. They could mean anything, they could mean nothing, they probably mean nothing.

"This shows that a large percentage of us don't need to be worried," said Emmett.

I scoff loudly, bits of crab stick stuck to my chin. Emmett looks at me hatefully then carries on speaking.

"We don't need to worry," repeats Emmett. "Those of us facing redundancy will be given four months’ notice. So let’s try to enjoy Christmas and have a look at our Secret Santa presents."

I shove slice of prawn toast in my mouth.

"I already looked at mine! Tacky and tasteless!"

Everyone tries to ignore me. I look at Julie from accounts, pulling the wrapping off the little gift I found for her. I remember how I picked it up off the street, still hot and steaming.

Why aren’t I laughing? Why am I suddenly ashamed of myself? Not for the dog shit in Julie’s wrapping paper but for playing along with their festive games in the first place! For eating their Third World abusing food!

I spit out a mulch of crab sticks, Chinese snacks and half a cheese sandwich and wipe my chin with Emmett's new Secret Santa tie, tossing it on the floor.

"I'm off outside to kill myself with solvents!”

I light up a cigarette and stamp out of the room.

At the stationary cupboard I hear footsteps behind me.

"What do you want now Emmett?!" I ask him. "Don't you see I'm busy?"

"You've gone too far," said Emmett. "You have to come back and apologise to Julie for the present you just gave her."

I grab all the permanent markers from the stationary cupboard.

"I hope these are strong enough!” I turn to Emmett. “Do you have any lighter fluid or nail polish remover? I think they would be better to sniff than these marker pens?"

Emmett looks at me all appealingly.

"I said come back to the meeting and apologise to Julie," said Emmett.

"Shove it!"

I stamp out my cigarette.

"Leave me alone, or else I'll tell them you've been sexually harassing me."

CLONE MEATS

A clone meat automaton sat on a bench and gazed mechanically.

<“There is a house party this weekend. What will I wear? What will I wear?”>

They arrive in small secure clusters at the front door of the house party.

<“My name is <insert name here>, I work at <insert job here>, my age is <insert age here>.”>

<“It is so nice to meet <insert name here>, have you met <insert name here>?”>

<“I like your <jumper/ moustache/ jacket/ dress/ trousers/ skirt/ shirt/ glasses/ beard/ make up/ shaved head/ hair colour/ shoes/ trainers/ other/ other/ other/ other/ other/ other.”>

A faulty brain is standing still.

<“Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance?”>

Twenty-three years and eight months later, a clone meat automaton stares at a nearing death.

<“It’s not worth worrying about, at least I had fun with my mates.”>

BEACH

Eight-year-old Jeremy looked down through the hotel window at the sunny beach. Jeremy saw people. Jeremy shuddered.

“The utter trash of humanity,” he said.

Jeremy didn't want to interact with them. He felt safe from his vantage point in the hotel. Safe from the fat, old, ugly, poor and stupid. A million greased warts on the fag-end sand.

“Jeremy,” called his mother. “We're going to the beach. Have you got your bucket and spade ready?”

“Fuck off won't you mother?”

“Jeremy!”

Jeremy pointed out the window.

“Look at them mother. They are diseased. Why do you insist on degrading me? Please mother! I can't bear their existence. I don't want them to see me. It will merely serve as confirmation that I am one of them. A stinking, bleating animal dragged dumb and bludgeoned towards oblivion. Why would you do this to me? Your Golden Boy?!”

“Where would you like to go Jeremy?”

“Somewhere I can transcend!”

SPLIK

The children of the underground complex had been genetically and surgically modified from birth. Eyes, arms and legs removed and noses and ears plugged. Their brains repeatedly subjected to controlled gamma ray bursts. Their mutilated heads became throbbing, veined beach balls. Their jaws hung slack and toothless underneath their migraine-heavy brains. All of this achieving a higher state of consciousness. They would give the universe a voice with which to speak.

Alpha One was the oldest of the children and the first to talk.

“Bleugh blurggh blah blag splik,” said Alpha One.

The scientists tried to ascribe meaning to Alpha One's words.

For many years, Alpha One and his siblings spluttered sounds of a similar nature to the above. When their voices were all listened to at the same time, it was just like the static frequency of Big Bang radiation, the only difference being there was a lot less static and a lot more bleugh, blurggh, blah, blag and splik.

ORBS

I would have stayed indoors but I'd ran out of canned fish.

The world outside didn't look any different but the people did. Instead of heads they had featureless metal spheres.

I saw myself reflected in their orbs.

In the supermarket I used the self-service machine.

DULL GREY LINE

Harry Dove was the manager of Environmental Services.

“We are the dull, grey line protecting the public from noise pollution, food complaints, trading standard issues and impromptu planning consultations,” said Harry Dove.

* * *

Mr HW Soil picked up the phone and called Environmental Services. His eyes bulged with petty, pedant, pensioner rage.

"Everyday and ONCE a day a car will park