What's The Story Morning Gory?

I woke with a start and with a painful sense of unease and suspicion just under my ribcage. The lack of light that penetrated the curtains defined the prospect of another malevolent day in the Underbelly. I lay in bed, waiting for the light and a good thought but all I received was further thoughts of impending chaos and uncertainty. Above all it is the silence and stillness of the Underbelly at night that cools the blood. Everyone says as much. It is said that the nocturne valley breeds stealth and mistrust in all the creatures and kingdoms it houses. What was that noise? I checked the alarm clock; 6:30. Zac wouldn’t be stirring for at least three hours; lazy animal. I dressed clumsily in the half light and slipped down the corridor. The television was on. Heart racing, I crept further down the hall towards the lounge. A crunching noise. I turned the corner. Mrs Williams was as close to the television as her retinas would allow. At her feet were the crumbs of half a packet of ginger nuts. Zac was hoovering with his regular efficiency despite the hour. It took me a few seconds, but I soon realized that she was watching the shopping channel. I quietly shut the door, hid my wallet and left them to it.

It didn’t take me long as a youngster to work out that old people can be stupid too. As children, most of us are taught to respect our elders in every sense. My perspective changed the day I witnessed my uncle pour acetone on the bonfire, blowing out all the windows in the house and burning down the entire orchard nearby. He himself gained a new perspective as a modified television aerial on the roof of the house. I have heard it stated that the safest way to approach everyone we meet is with the idea that one should classify as people stupid until they repeatedly prove themselves otherwise and are able to spot stupidity in others. As high minded as it sounds, I have never been able to disagree.

Returning to my bed seemed pointless so I stood, stooped over the tea making paraphernalia and waited for the kettle to screech into life. Zac patiently looked at me expectantly for signs of breakfast. Soon he was to receive the bad news that his clean up operation under Mrs Williams had left him badly out of pocket and he was ejected in the damp garden. The sugar was about to fall into my new tenant’s cup of tea when there was a scream from somewhere outside the house, possibly next door. I rushed out to the front of the house to see Helen, my neighbour, in nothing more than a blood stained “MILF in training” T-shirt come nightdress, screaming like an escapee from the local clinic. I rushed past her at full pace, swiftly followed by Zac in through her front door and into her kitchen. Seconds later I was on my back sliding in a dense pool of blood towards the kitchen cabinets, swiftly followed by Zac. Our attempts to regain our feet were hampered by each other’s scrambling. We were a forensic technician’s nightmare. Zac managed to get up first. He casually wandered over to the open dishwasher as often was his wont usually to clean off the dirty plates as it is loaded. As Zac licked and I wiped the blood from eyes, the source of the goo became clear. Draped over the open dishwasher that Zac now gleaned was Helen’s husband Peter. Occasionally Zac licked the lifeless man’s face, half buried in a saucepan. His trunk was skewered on the upturned kitchen knives still waiting for their nightly sluice.