Knight Work
"You can stick your fucking job up your arse, sunshine!" I said, as I walked away from my latest employer. He looked a bit pissed off, but I really couldn't be bothered with his weirdness anymore. Anyway, he was bleeding heavily and probably wouldn't last the night.

It all started about a week previously. I'd found a job in the paper for a general helper for this incredibly rich bloke who lived in a big mansion. It paid £500 a week, so I thought, fuck me - I'll have a bit of that.

And I went along, had an interview with the outgoing hired help - an old posh English fella who was finally retiering. He kept asking me if I was affraid of the dark and if I minded working the occasional night. He also asked if I was any good with a needle and thread and if I knew first aid. I sort of blagged my way through.

And I got the fucking job! Woo!

On my first shift it started to get a bit weird. I hadn't even met my boss yet. And then at about two in the morning, after I'd done a bit of cleaning, polished a few old swords and suits of armour, I heard an almighty fucking BANG from downstairs. I rushed towards the basement and suddenly remembered: This place doesn't have a basement.

I was stood in the library feeling a bit weirded out, when suddenly the big bookshelf moved to one side and in walks my new boss wearing a rediculous costume - he looked like a camp twat in a mask. He looked at me for a moment and then swished past me, his big black cape flapping about.

"There's a bit of mess down there," he said. "Would you mind clearing it up."

I shrug, fuck it, £500 a week. And I walk through the secret door in the bookshelf and down some winding stairs. Into a great big underground cavern. Wish I'd brought my fucking coat.

My boss had one of his many cars down here - a big black number with huge fins and shiny bits. And then I saw what I assumed was the 'mess' he was refering to. Strapped on the bonet of the car was a man. A man in a purple suit and green hair wearing makeup. He was brown bread, like a doornail, he was well and truly dead.

Oh fuck! My boss is a fucking pshyco!

I was suddenly very scared. I went back upstairs, picked up a big heavy poker, and went to have a word with my boss.

He was in the bath, his costume tossed to one side. I could see he was bleeding himself and heavily bruised. Also looked like he worked out alot, I admire that in a man, not in a gay-I-want-to-pump-your-arse way, but just asthetically speaking.

"What's going on?" I asked, standing in the doorway.

He replied without looking at me: "These things happen. Have you cleaned up the mess?"

And I replied by sneaking up behind him and smacking him on the head until his skull was well and truly stoved in.

Fucking mentalist.

That's when I told him where he could stick his job. The cunt. If you see an advert in the paper from a bloke called Bruce Wayne, avoid it like the fucking plauge.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 7 Apr 2009, 13:26, 2 replies)

Chance'd be a fine thing
He's hardly likely to put an ad in the papers if you've killed him, is he? You big spastic.
(Helixdaunting, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 1:24, closed)

Correct -
I am a big spastic. An incredibly spasticated full on drooling spaz with added spazziness and a helmet to protect my spaz brain from hitting the pavement when I fall out of my spaz chair spastically...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 10:52, closed)