Jane Blythe was having the strangest and worst day in the whole of her twenty-seven-year life. Fates were conspiring. Nothing could get much worse.
She’d been petulantly trawling through the cruddy array of second-rate jobs. It seemed that the only people wanting executive assistants right now were no-hoper crooks or low-life bums running shitty scams in backstreet dives – nothing remotely in line with her worth. Life looked pretty grim. Jane was experiencing an all-time low. It seemed that there was no way out of this hole.
A few days earlier, out of nowhere, Jonas had coldly announced that his company was suffering difficulties and she was surplus to requirements. She’d stood there stunned. She could have argued; she had enough on the slimy turd to have the Inland Revenue crawling all over the place. First mistake. She’d petulantly tossed her stuff in a box and stalked out with her head in the air, not saying a word. She hadn’t even negotiated severance pay.
She knew that the firm was doing OK. For crissakes, she managed the budget. She oversaw everything. It was an excuse. Jonas couldn’t find his own arse without a torch and a map. She’d been too furious to speak. She knew exactly what was going on. Jonas had his eye on the blond in accounts. She’d be sitting at Jane’s desk before the day was out.
That was only the beginning.
To top everything she returned home, inwardly fuming sufficient to blow the top of Vesuvius, to find her scuzzy, skunky, ratbag of a limp-dicked boyfriend in bed, in their bed, with that painted-faced chavvy tart from next door.
That’s where she made her second big mistake.
Instead of storming straight over, punching that garishly caked-up floozie straight on her bottoxed button nose, kneeing the whining creep Jack in the balls and booting the pair of them, as naked as day one, down the stairs onto the cold, wet street, she’d once again turned tail and stormed out, still stupidly clutching the tawdry box of her office possessions.
That’s how she’d ended up in this grimy little cupboard with no cash and no prospects while Jonas got his end away with the blond scrubber and Jack was probably gallivanting away to his heart’s delight, in their beautiful soft bed, in their gorgeous bijou apartment, with the brazen harlot of tinsel-titted scrubberiness.
Now, cramped up in this dingy cell, her blood undergoing superheated aeration, a continuous hundred megaton blast vaporising the effervescent volcano erupting behind her eyes, she was finding it hard to breath. Her teeth hurt she was grinding them so hard!
Not only that but the news was further winding her up. Someone had it in for her. The loathsome arrogant sexpest, whining liar Trump was visiting Peckham. Her town!! Apparently the lapdog, wanna-be megarich dictators Farage and Johnson were going to be there to pay homage to the petulant orange, overgrown baby of a conman! The fates were certainly conspiring! She couldn’t imagine anything worse! What were those three fascist clowns doing coming to fucking Peckham?? Why now?? Weren’t things bad enough?? The whole circus of corporate greed and populist crap was going to play out on her own doorstep!! She couldn’t bear it.
On top of everything both Jack and Jonas were big fans of the triumvirate of incompetent narcissistic clowns! That figured!! Jane could picture it: they’d be there cheering like the stupid tossers they were!
She simply could not bear it!!
On the day when her world imploded she been down the pub pouring it all out, and in, with a bunch of her friends, luridly describing in detail what she’d like to do to each and every one of the five most hated scumbags in her world. Crushed gonads were far too kind for the four arrogant creeps! And as for that vacuum-packed badly-painted tart……. Her descriptions of what she’d like to do to each and every one of them tested both the extent of her vocabulary and bounds of her imagination.
Now, here she was, nursing the mother of all hangovers, with molten lava spouting out of the top of her head, still running through the torture videos playing in her mind. Seething. She could not control it. Her thoughts kept churning over the stomach-curdling sycophantic scenes shortly to take place in the Town Hall two minutes down the road. They’d all be there – the five most disgusting apologies for human beings. Six if you counted Jack’s slapper of a slut.
That’s when the inappropriately cheerful postie delivered the parcel and left, deafened and bewildered, wondering what he’d said.
The parcel felt heavy.
She ripped the packaging off with all the venom she wanted to apply to ripping off Jack’s absurdly tiny procreative appendage or wrenching Trump’s throbbing liver out of his blubbery guts.
She found herself holding a sleek, brand new 9mm Glock Trump edition pistol complete with Trump’s image on the handle and a magazine containing six gleaming bullets.