A 5 foot 9 and a quarter inch story

I realise I have nothing to write about or say today. Some would argue social media and blogs is predicated on people with nothing to say, but doing so anyway...

Regardless I appreciate what I've done today (go to the shop to buy bread and salad to make my packed lunch next week) isn't going to make the most interesting read. I'd agree, though I'd still take it over a Shakespeare comedy. Either way I've taken my day and like a war dossier, I've sexed it up. See if you can spot the slight exaggerations in the yarn.

Hell is other shoppers. And Supermarkets. And shoppers in supermarkets.

The room takes on a gloomy light, informing me the day approaches as I lie there. I’d say the gloaming robs me of any notion of sleep, but truth be told I’ve been awake all this time. I feel the bourbon I took the night before in the futile attempt to block out the future, swilling around my body and coursing through my veins, hitting my head with a muffled staccato thump.

I hear the familiar ping from my phone on the table next to the bed, Control confirming the mission is on, its time to start. I didn’t need the reminder. Its going to be an eternal day in hell.

Habitual reflex means I grab the phone and scan the contents without really reading them. Its happening, that’s all I need to know. I’ve been training for this sort of moment all my waking life, and a few minutes of my power naps too. An extraction, ideally with a little bit of extreme prejudice thrown in.

I take off my Batman pajamas and pull on my action clothes (blue combat trousers and a red T-Shirt with the picture of Darth Vader in a humorous Banksy style on it). I slide the shoulder holster containing my .45 on, and place my brown suede jacket over the top. A few minutes later I take the jacket off and put the gun holster on the right way around.

I draw the curtains, the light in the room increases none. Manchester weather at its best.

I take my jacket off and put my gun holster back on the way I had it originally.

I leave the house, being careful not to slam the door and incur the wrath of the locals in the housing committee again. I’ll destroy that committee yet, when I figure about the infernal members locations. Maybe I’ll just drop a bomb on the housing estate, the loss of my home would be a small price to end the fiendish levels of bureaucracy. But no more of that now, more pressing matters await.

I forgo breakfast, but allow myself a fruit polo as I fire up the engine on my car. I start to pull away when I realise I’m still wearing my slippers, I toy with leaving the engine running, but realise its illegal to do so if I’m not in the car, so I turn the engine off. I go back and put on my combat boots. The ones with the steel toe cap I’ve sharpened especially and ‘eat this’ written in tipex across the side.

The drive clears my mind, I stick on the Radio, I curse as I realise its still stuck on the Radio One factory setting and I’ve no idea how to retune it. Still the music may aid the clarity I need to get me in the heightened state of awareness required to pull off a mission dripping with the threat of violence and fatalities.

‘Once upon a time, I was a ho

I don't even wanna ho no mo'

Zero nine hundred hours, I reach my destination of Sainsbury’s, I kill the engine and freewheel into a space some distance from the store to allow reconnaissance. I leave the car and clamber into the flowerbed where I lie flat in some daffodils as fitting camouflage. I ignore the passersby staring at me.

The zombies are already milling outside waiting for the doors to open, more of them that intel had estimated. My hand greedily flicks towards my holster. Why aren’t they inside? I get up my data slate and google the store. Sunday, it doesn’t open for another hour. Bollocks. I must have a word with Intel, whoever he is. Or she.

I creep out of my hiding spot brushing off the soil and what I suspect might be fox poo. I retreat the car. I’ll have to wait a short while longer, use some breathing techniques to get my adrenalin down back to the requisite levels. I sit in the car and stare at the store front, I know my mission, and I visualise all that I must do. I see my mission, I am my mission, my focus is laser guided.

I wake 3 hours later. Shit, that’s a fine for parking more than 2 hours in the car park. I ease the sleep from my eyes and refocus on the store front. Still a number of zombies, but not the numbers before, they must be inside. This is going to make the extraction more difficult than my initial plan. I’ve lost all elements of surprise. Nothing for it, its going to have to be a fast, full frontal assault.

I exit the car and lock the door. I charge for the shop front screaming my fearsome battle cry “You can all get fffffuuuuccckkkkeeeddd!” I have to repeat this a few times as I’m further from the shop than I thought. I close on the door, my hand yearns for my shoulder holster, a zombie shuffles in front of me blocking the door, could be an old lady, I can’t take the chance I put my full shoulder weight into their back sending them sprawling to the floor.

I’m in, bland muzak assails my ear, it’s a step up from Radio 1.

I hit a sharp left at a sprint, the salad section greets me offering my first checkpoint for the mission. Which salad though? Classic? Green leaf, Bistro? Italian? Caesar? Butterhead? They’re making that last one up surely? I hear the shuffle of zombies in all directions their groans lamenting a world they don’t understand, or fully engage with. I grab as many salads as I can, but it’s no use they keep sliding from my grip. I’ll have to get a basket, I burst back to the door, I push that first zombie back to the floor just as they’re picking themselves up, some things don’t know when they’re beat.

Basket in had I return and pick up as many salads as I can fit in, I see a zombie bend down to go for one of the bags I dropped on the floor, my hand moves towards my shoulder, instead I kick the bag away and then kick them up the backside for good measure. I can tell by the ‘oof’ the zombie makes; I’ve landed a good connection.

I’m nearly there now, I just need to rescue the bread and I can make my escape via my planned route, the zombies are everywhere now, but they’re directionless, lack focus, not sure what they want. Some stare at shelves of tins of beans unable to decide which can to pick to best meet their needs. I can easily run past them, as much as I yearn to mete out justice. With extreme prejudice.

Another time my zombie friends.

I’m at the bread aisle, my breathing is becoming labored, if fatigue creeps in, I’m finished, I grab the nearest loaf. Gluten free. I’ve no idea what gluten is but this looks a winner. I ram it into the top of my basket, it bends a little as I force it in, that’s going to make toasting it awkward. Shame.

Self-service checkout, that’s the way for me to complete my escape I power through a huge collective of zombies grouped together, seems they’ve been enticed by a shelf containing items with mysterious yellow stickers on. They appear unable to move from the spot. I have no time to investigate this mystery further.

A last burst of energy carries me to the self-service checkouts, there is an oversized zombie in front of me. They have a trolley. And its full. Surely this breaches the unwritten ethos of the self-service checkout. My hand greedily thumbs the .45, no time now, a till has become free. I add the large item number rule bending zombie to my mental list for retribution.

I scan the salad and place it in the nominated area. Nothing. The till informs me there is something unexpected in the checkout area. A slow Loris smoking a cigar would be unexpected maybe, but salad when I’ve scanned salad that follows all logic and the tacit agreement between me and the till. A read siren flashes above me to alert my enemies to my weakened state. Some mysterious guardian of the till area gently eases me aside, I fight the training reflex inbuilt to break her neck. She touches something against the till and the beacon turns from red to green. Whatever this creature is, its on my side, I give them a full-bodied salute.

Just the bread now, the zombies are closing on my position, I can smell their fetid being. I can see the zombie I took down by the door stood next to another zombie in dark blue uniform pointing at me. This looks to be a coordinated attack clearly, and a new tactic for the zombies. If I can’t get out in the next minutes, I’m going to have to start taking some of these numbers down, before they ultimately overwhelm me and I fail.

Shit, no barcode. Ok bread, that’s in the bakery category right? How many screens can you have dedicated to bread? Screw it, I’m putting it through as a ciabatta, wait no they’re 10p dearer, seeded roll it is

I take the cash option and allow myself a moments satisfaction as the coins roll into the machine and the amount left counts down. £4.50, £3.50, £2.50, £1.50, 50p, £0.00. My change? Where is my change? I wait…nothing. I stare at the screen praying for some intervention, time is against me and the creatures zeroing on my position, I reach up into my jacket for my shoulder holster. Wait what instructions are on the screen?

Of course I don’t want a damned receipt!

Now the change comes. And keeps coming. And coming. Christ are they trying to give me it in the most possible coins. I stuff it in my pocket, my trousers sag to one side leaving me badly unbalanced and in danger of showing off a large portion of my underwear.

Right that’s it. Wait where are the bags? The dark blue zombie is close, he seems to have developed some primitive speech. The till guardian re-approaches me. She scans the bag and says something about 5p, no, this is no good, I can see enemies all around me I feel instinct reach up for my gun, but no I grab whatever salad and bread I can in my arms, bag be damned, and make a break. Sidestepping the blue figure my legs grant me one last dash. Spent, I reach my car turn the ignition, mirror, signal, maneuver and wheel spin my way out of there.

‘Boring people, boring lives

Wake up to the same 9 to 5

Drinkin' coffee, fried off the night

'Cause we're boring people, boring life’

With what energy I have left I climb slowly from the car. In celebration I draw my gun and fire a couple of shots in the air. Lets see what the committee thinks of that!

I step inside my house and place my jacket on the back of a chair. My adrenaline wears off. I must write a letter of apology about the shots to all my neighbours tomorrow.

I get to my room and grasp my phone gratefully. I send the message ‘items safely extracted. X’. I instantly regret the accidental kiss, I’m going to get some grief over that.

I slump on my bed staring at the patterns on the ceiling swirling in front of my eyes, offering a form of comfort to my overworked mind. The ping to the side tells me the reply from control. I pull the phone up to my face and read:

“Great work son, thanks for doing that can you pop the milk downstairs so we can have a brew. Mum X”.

Its going to be an eternal day in hell. And its getting longer.