No Dog Poo

He squashed passion fruits in his fists until the red pips splattered out in a yellow bloody pulp.
It was a warm day. There were normal people out doing normal things: washing cars, mowing lawns, trimming hedges, playing with themselves behind the net curtains. He was sat in the front garden of my parents house wearing a Dan Dare tee-shirt and Y-fronts that cut off my circulation. But he didn’t care. Whiskey made everything okay. Girls around his age pushed prams along the road and gawped in horror and disgust. And he just smiled like a man who’d had his heart broken. Except, he hadn’t. Which was something. One particularly heavy in chest and lumber poked a bloated tongue out at him. He blew her a kiss and grinned like a buffoon. She stopped, yanked a small, metal ‘No Dog Poo’ sign from the grass verge and threw it at his head.
The cat sat by the front door hoping for its owners to return. Fat chance kiddo, he thought to the cat believing it to be not only evil but psychic too. The cat blinked at him, infuriatingly. He crawled on all fours like a tot to the site of a dead pet and began digging frantically. The dry earth flaked apart and, underneath, gave way to more moist, yielding soil. He placed odd clumps of chalk, flint and wood to one side in case, for some reason, he decided they might come in useful later. Perhaps to lob at leering ladies. Then his hands felt out something like a tree root but harder, though not as dense. He yanked at the object and held in front of his eyes. A rib bone. “Ha! Aha!” he screamed at the cat and went about digging up more of the bones.
In the dying sun, he laid them out on the immaculately trimmed grass. The scene resembled a desperately domestic forensic dig lead by a psychopath. His hands were scratched and bloodied and covered with mud and some kind of grease. He became tired. Farted into the grass. Hope he hadn’t woken any sleeping worms.
He had the following thought: If a worm became lonely and depressed would it cut itself if it could? And if it did, and did it bad enough to cut itself in two, might that not solve its original problem?
Exhausted by his exertions, both physical and mental, he decided to call it a day. Also, the police had arrived and he thought it only polite to assist them in any way that he could.
“Doing a bit of gardening, mate?” One policeman said, wishing that he was sat in front of the tee-vee with a beer instead of having to deal with these clowns day in day out.
The policemans voice echoed in the mans skull. Before his now heavy eyes, the evenings colours swam into one another before beginning to fade. The voice, lost in oscillations, was saying “You’ve got No Dog Poo stuck in your head, mate…”


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