by Rudy Civello
Auld Granda John was sat in his chair reading his paper with his wee granddaughter Elsie next to him in her cot. A wee angel, he thought, as he leaned over to check on her. He lifted his legs as auld Granny Angie hoovered round about him.
As Angie cleaned she looked on top of shelves and cabinets, under couches and cushions and behind the big plant pot in the corner of the living room. John pretended not to notice, but kept one eye on the wee table next to his chair.
Are ye sure yer gonnae be alright, said Molly, who was lingering at the door.
Ah told ye, it’s no bother hen. She loves her auld Granda John, don’t ye hen?
It’s her ah was talkin to.
Cheeky bastard.
Have ye’s checked bus times?
Whit fur? There’s a bus every seven minutes ootside.
No on Christmas Eve there’s no. It’s a reduced service.
Naw it’s no. Is it?
Think so. It usually is. Is it no?
Molly google that.
Molly chuckled silently as she walked to her bedroom. She seems awful giggly tonight, thought John.
You better no be windin us up, said Angie.
Aye that’s what am dain, tellin yous ye’s might need to wait an extra fifteen minutes for a bus, then hopefully ah’ll win first prize at this week’s prankster meetup, ya daft auld bastard.
Angie picked up the TV remote and started walking slowly towards John, thinking how many hits would it take to kill him, how could she get away with it, would Molly turn her in or would she help her dispose of the body.
He’s right, said Molly. They stop early as well.
How the fuck we gonnae get up the road?
Angie stared at John like it was his fault. John shook his head and handed his bankcard to Molly, then returned his attention to the paper he’d been reading. He was in the middle of an article about a study refuting the widely held belief that cannabis makes people more creative, claiming instead that it only makes them believe they’re more creative. Lot a shite, thought John.
Gonnae lift yer fuckin feet, said Angie, as she started hoovering round about John again.
Fuckin shite everywhere as always.
John smirked at Molly.
Right mum, we goin? If ye hurry up we might catch the bus back.
Aye am comin.
Angie put on a scarf, a long puffy jacket and a bobbly hat.
Whit the fuck you lookin it?
Ye look like that wee cunt fae South Park.
You’re a fuckin prick, said Angie, as the three of them laughed. Then she gave John a kiss.
Thanks again for watchin her John.
No bother hen. Enjoy yourself.
John listened as Angie and Molly made their way down the close, unable to hear what they were saying but recognising the cadence of Angie telling Molly how much of an arsehole he is and Molly half-heartedly trying to defend him. He watched from the window as they joined the group of people at the bus stop either heading out for the night or fellow last-minute Christmas shoppers. Two buses turned up at once.
John swiped everything from the wee table next to his chair and popped it open. That wee bastard Molly, said John. His stash was missing. John ran out the front door, then upstairs to Alan on the top floor. He was having a party. The music stopped as John chapped the door, then there was whispering.
Who’s that, said Alan.
How ye doin Alan it’s John fae doonstairs pal. Ah was lookin for a bit a smoke.
Alan opened the door before John could finish his sentence.
Have ye got that dough ye already owe me?
Ah was gonnae say ah’ll square ye up for this and that the morra if that’s a’right?
That’s over a month John.
Ah know pal sorry. It’s just been tight wi Christmas comin up.
Aye, for everybody, said Alan. Know whit, fuck it, it’s Christmas. Here.
Alan handed John a chocolate truffle.
Whit is it, said John.
It’s an edible. Ah’ve nae bud. It’s better trust me. We take them aw the time.
How long does it last? Am no wantin Angie findin oot. She’s only oot for a bit a shoppin.
How long will she be away?
Few hours maybe.
That’ll be sound mate. Trust me.
Right fuck it, Merry Christmas, said John, and put the full thing in his mouth.
That’s no fuckin ganja, said John, as he tried to catch his breath. He was chased from his own bedroom by his wardrobe and a chest of drawers.
Am gonnae chin that wee bastard upstairs, he said, but he knew there was no chance of him making it upstairs in his current condition.
He searched the bottom drawer of a bedside table. Angie was always good at hiding his Christmas presents so he had to think outside the box.
A black box presented itself to John, inside it a velvet pillow, on it a long black dildo complete with realistic veins. He accidentally pressed a button, activating the vibrate setting. John frantically pressed on different parts of the phallus until it stopped, then he put it back on its cushion in its box and back in its drawer. John walked to the window. He watched the sun setting in the distance over the Glasgow skyline. He watched the snow dropping from the roofs of the tenements onto the carollers smoking outside the pubs below, singing classics like No Pope of Rome or Just Can’t Get Enough by The Saturdays depending on what side of the road they were on. And in that moment, John felt the presence of the Gods.
John slipped out of his slippers, took the box from its bedside table, took the dildo from its pillow, put it inside his slipper and turned it on. And at once, it came alive.
John and his slipper with a dildo in it danced like there was no tomorrow. But there was tomorrow, Christmas Day, the most magical day of the year. John had asked for new socks, a crate of Stella and the big tin of Cadbury’s Heroes, but Angie always got him a surprise as his big big present. He got a text from Angie.
We’ve missed the last bus so we’re gonnae have a few drinks somewhere then get a taxi later. Love you xx, said Angie.
Ya dancin bear.
How is Elsie xx, she said.
Fuck.
John made his way into the living room as fast as he could, playing the dead baby scene from Trainspotting in his head as many times as one possibly could in a five or six metre jog. Elsie was fine, fast asleep.
John took a look around the living room, the domestic heaven Angie had built for herself, a cauldron of slow death to a man like John who had once been such a wild stallion.
John took off his trousers and pants and started peeing all over the floor and walls. It was like a dream. Elsie woke up as she heard him. He grabbed her and held her in his arms like Simba from The Lion King, the slipper with a dildo in it slipped in bedside them and the three of them pissed all upon the place together as one.
Merry fuckin Christmas, said John. Here we fuckin go.
What the fuck is goin on in here, said Angie.
She was stood in the doorway, holding a brand new airfryer. Molly walked in behind her.
Why’ve you got your dick out, said Molly.
Why’s it so small?
Why’ve you got ma dildo?
Why the fuck’s it inside a slipper?
Before John could respond, Elsie slipped out of his hand, hitting her head on the wee table next to his chair, killing her instantly.
Rudy’s on twitter @rudycivello