A Life Less Scary
"The interesting and varied life of Scary Duck, Genius, French Cabaret Chantoose and small bets placed."
These things are sent to mock me
My older sister had a boyfriend. He was, to put it mildly, and I'm sure she'll heartily agree with me, an utter cunt who she became attached to in a brief moment of insanity. Thrown out of the Army for acting the wanker, he was far too much of a cunt to work for Top Man where he also got the sack; so he took his mullet, pencil moustache and Noel Edmonds jumpers to his mate's car accessories shop, where he acted the cunt and ripped them off for every Carlos Fandango part he could get his hands on for his ridiculous poseur's car. The cunt.
You can sense some tension here, and why not? The guy was a committed poseur, bullshitter and the slimiest creep known to man, and as far as I know he still possesses a large percentage of my diligently catalogued porno catalogue. Compiled, I might add, at great expense on a student's allowance and a Saturday job at a supermarket that made Lidl look like Harrods.
So, one day, just as half term approached, Cunty approached me with a small offer of cash. Fifteen quid. And all I had to do was deliver some leaflets for "his" shop. Fine. Anything to prevent a week of endless masturbation in front of Samantha Fox Strip Poker, and it was better than walking the streets. Fifteen quid was a small fortune in those days - damn near an entire year's worth of Razzle, I can tell you for nothing. Or I could really push the boat out - Escort.
On the Sunday evening, the Flanged One turned up with the "few" leaflets he had promised. They were in a box. A big, big box. On the side was printed "Tosser's Car Emporium - 1,250 leaflets." I spelled it out to myself. Twelve hundred and fifty. There weren't that many leaflets in the whole world, and clearly not enough letter boxes to post them all through. I leafed through a copy. They sold fluffy dice. Good God, I was doomed.
The next four days were spent tramping the streets of my home village, while curtains twitched, and dogs chased me down the long, long driveways. I hadn't exactly thought this through. I decided to push the leaflets through the doors of the landed country set, so were a) hardly likely to spend their hard-earned on a set of super wide-wheeled tyres and a bloody big spoiler for their Volvo and b) all nicely housed in country pads with drives half a mile long.
If I had gone into the centre of town, where Tosser and Cunty's little retail empire was based, I could have polished the job off in a day round the terraced houses and flats. Honestly, when they were handing out brains...
By Thursday, I was shagged out, sunburned, and the I swear the box had more in it than when I started. I had even taken to posting two or three through doors at once, and the Royal Mail got a spankingly huge wedge in a local post box. Still there were hundreds left, and I had my real job at the Pikeymart to get to the next day.
I was desperate to get rid of the bastard things. Offers for whip aerials and halogen fog lights filled my dreams, my waking hours were cursed by visions of Ford Capri body kits and steering wheels the size of a ten pence piece. They had to go.
A hundred were buried in a clump of trees next to the Old Bath Road. Another hundred were accidentally dropped into the foundations at a building site, just in time to get their concrete boots. A whole stack was wrapped up in a Pikeymart carrier bag with a couple of bricks and thrown into the River Loddon, where they took a distressingly long time to sink, and I was chased up the towpath by the bloke who checks the fishing permits.
In a blind panic, I went home and flushed fifty down the loo, only for the drain to block, sending piss, crap and soggy motor spares leaflets flowing down the gutter. Another fifty were burned, but the house was soon filled with choking white smoke, and the neighbours had to be talked out of calling the fire brigade.
I looked in the box. Hundreds.
Something had to be done, and fast.
In the shed, I found large quantities of garden chemicals, which were packed tightly into a paint tin with liberal quantities of ingredients smuggled out of the kitchen. Using arcane crafts known only to those studying A-Levels in Chemistry and Physics, the whole shebang was buried in the field at the bottom of our garden at a depth of several feet, along with the last of those bloody leaflets.
Taking cover behind an upturned wheelbarrow hundreds of yards away from the prying eyes of civilisation, I connected the terminal on the looted car battery and closed the switch from my 150-in-one electronics kit. There was a satisfying WHOOMPH and a sizeable portion of the field was lifted several feet into the air.
It was most impressive, and would have remained so, if it was not for the shower of motor accessory leaflets that rained down on the field, most shredded by the blast, many smouldering gently.
"Hoi! What's goin' on there?" cried a voice from the back of a tractor.
I fled, leaving behind hundreds of leaflets wafting around on the breeze, not caring where they ended up. I barricaded myself in my room for two days, clutching my fifteen quid to my chest, only emerging to collect trolleys from the piss-stained multi-storey car park for Pikeymart.
The following evening, Cunty paid a visit.
"Finished delivering them leaflets?" asked Man-at-Burtons.
"Want some more? I've got three boxes in the car."
The shop is now a funeral directors. But they've got the hardest, meanest hearses in the business.
While this story is based on actual events in the life of Scaryduck, certain identities and venues may have been changed to protect the innocent.