A letter. Why did I send a letter? I could have spoken to her, or then again, maybe not. I could have sent a text, email, a DM but no I had to send a fucking letter. I guess I was in what she would call my “letter zone”. I don’t know if I even fully understand what that means but the boxes of unsent letters are maybe testimony to it.
Why the fuck did I send her a letter? I guess I didn’t know what was coming but it would have still made sense to try and engage with her, talk to her, use a more spontaneous approach. Even if she didn’t reply immediately there would have still been that expectation that I would receive a response, she’d tell me how she feels, how she misses me. At least that would be my hope.
“Oi! What the fuck are you doing just standing there?” says a man dressed in a leather jacket, faded black, Ramones t-shirt, skinny jeans and cowboy boots.
“Yeah, we need every one we can get to man these barricades,” says a man in dirty overalls and reversed baseball cap.
‘What do you mean barricades?’
‘I know you were over there fucking day dreaming but you can’t have forgotten?’
‘Where are my kids?’
‘Like you seemed to care thirty seconds ago. They’re behind the counter with some others. It’s probably the safest place.’
Overalls checks a pistol that I hadn’t noticed him holding. What the shit is going on? All the furniture that isn’t bolted to the floor has been put up against the broad expanse of glass at the front of the restaurant. The two doors to the car park have been barricaded. I peer through the window and our situation comes flooding back. My momentary escape completely chased away.
The carpark is a scene of absolute carnage. Many spiked poles sporting skulls have been somehow rammed into the ground, the number reminiscent of a visit by Vlad to the Steppes. Animated skeletons and human beings dressed in Nazi era uniforms are traipsing through variously dismembered bodies, marshalling them into piles as they splash through the pools of blood.
‘Look, look. They’ve even crucified the fucking clown, and, Grimace is helping.’ Ramones shouts.
To the right of the carpark there is a person dressed as Ronald hanging from a crucifix by nails in their wrists. A large, furry, purple creature is poking the man in the side with a stick, a disconnect from the carnage surrounding them. A bird lands on the clown’s head and shits unceremoniously down his face, merging parts of his red mouth with the white of his skin.
‘What the fuck is this? What is happening?’
‘What? Where the fuck is your head at? Somehow this appeared about half an hour ago and we’ve been prepping since then.’ Ramones says.
‘Sorry, it’s all a bit of a blur.’
‘Blur? I’ll give you blur. It’s something, but a fucking blur? A rat fuck, a shower of shit maybe but no blur. Get a fucking grip.’
‘Sssh,’ Overalls is peering through the barricaded glass.
’I think this is it. Those fucking Nazi skeletons seem to be grouping together and pointing in this direction.’
Ramones and I rush to the window. Overalls is right. The skeletons have picked out unused spikes and are moving towards the restaurant. I jump as Ramones slaps me on the shoulder.
‘Here, take this. Whether it will stop the shitting skeletons I don’t know but it’s better than nothing.’
He has pulled out a small pistol, concealed in his boot, and handed it to me. Smiling, he looks at me and says,‘what I do know though is it won’t be as good as this little fucker.’
Ramones swings round a gun that was slung across his back under his jacket.
‘What‘s that? Where’d you..?’
‘This little beauty? Soviet era Widow Maker. Ever reliable and you never know when it’s gonna come in handy. Now face up.’
Before I can acquaint myself with the gun Ramones has given me, there is a sound of breaking glass. Overalls has made a hole in the front window, pulled his pistol up to it and started firing.
As Overalls reloads he shouts across, ‘Come on you two. This is it. Let’s fucking take ‘em down. Remember the Alamo!’
‘Daddy, can we go now?’
‘McDonalds. We’re hungry.’
‘McDonalds? Really? Can’t we go to that little bistro in the arcade? The food is much nicer.’
‘Aah Daddy. We want a Happy Meal. Alex wants to get one of those cars this time.’
‘I’d rather not. I’m sure you mother wouldn’t approve. I don’t want you smelling of rancid meat and cheap ketchup when I return you.’
‘What Daddy? What you mean? I won’t tell her daddy. Promise!’
‘I can’t take you there again.’
‘MaccyD’s, Maccy D’s, Maccy D’s, Maccy D’s,’ the children chant in unison.
‘Okay, okay. Keep the noise down. The hell that is McDonald’s then but don’t you dare tell your mother.’