Angus Tickle (637 hits)
Category: Business & FinancialRating: 1 on 6 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by conrad <ball0395.at.rogers.com> (View user info) at 2004-05-10 17:49:38 EDT
Things had not gone well for Angus Tickle from the very beginning. Actually, that is a slight exaggeration: the birth had gone relatively without hitch, but immediately afterwards Mrs. Tickle (who was, after all, chairperson of the local Neighbourhood Watch, founder of the Peacehaven Bridge Club and general Pillar of Society) could hardly conceal her disappointment (despite not being given to outward displays of emotion for the aforementioned reasons) when the surgeon, forearms dripping with afterbirth, held up the nonchalant babe for her approval, and babies remember things like that. Said approval, reputedly a given in such cases of birth, was not forthcoming primarily due to the wine-dark birthmark that traversed the disgruntled, bulldog-like face common to all newborns, and the alarmingly limp, laissez-faire posture quite uncommon to the normally waspish, screeching neophytes. Both the splodge and the posture would remain with him for the rest of his short and undistinguished life. Angus, or the baby Soon to be Known as Angus, was clearly unimpressed:
"Are you sure this is alright?" said she to the surgeon, as if enquiring as to the efficacy of a toaster, or a goldfish that swam only counter-clockwise.
"I think so", he said. "One cannot, after all, expect perfection in children. The fact is that they are almost invariably faulty: that this child appears more faulty than most is simply bad luck. There was really nothing that you could have done differently."
Nonetheless, she took the babe in arms and cooed appropriately, for she had made all the right noises during the conception, and saw little difference in doing so at the conclusion. Mr. Tickle was similarly nonplussed: Tuesday afternoons ostensibly saw him shooting eighteen holes with clients at the local golf club. The reality saw him weakly shooting his watery seed into the gaping and well-used orifice of any one of the three pudgy, aging whores who lay idly on their backs in a local bungalow whilst suburbanite middle-management coughed and grunted their way through ten minutes and twenty pounds. One could only wonder at the depths of their depravity.
The conception of Angus was one of two miraculous events of his life: the fact that it occurred before he could possibly have been aware of it typified his humdrum existence. It happened after Mr. and Mrs. Tickle returned from a wedding reception, (again on a Tuesday, much to the chagrin of Mr. Tickle), he being very drunk due to sexual frustration, his wife being a little tipsy due to two white wine spritzers. These two spritzers, coupled with Mr. Tickle's poor eyesight (rendered still poorer by copious whiskies) and the well-established weekly cycle of his libido, culminated in a desperate, fumbling fuck, the first in years, possibly a decade, as Mr. Tickle had quite forgotten where he was, and with whom. And so it was, that at the moment of climax (his, not hers - she was, after all, the founder of the Peacehaven Bridge Club), he called out, at the top of his lungs, "Lola!", Lola being his slight favourite of the three whores, not that it mattered much. Mrs. Tickle froze at once as one in the glare of the Medusa, and so it was that Angus bore the brunt of her malevolence, and for it, and despite not possessing an ounce of Celtic blood, he came to bear the name Angus.
Of course, nothing could be done about the Tickle and the birthmark, as if they weren't enough to ensure a boyhood of beatings on the parts of his fellow boys, and enough to be roundly ignored by even the most callow, pimpled females, but the convergence of "Angus", the birthmark and "Tickle" were tantamount to having a penis growing out of his forehead. It is a matter of purest speculation as to whether he could have achieved much scholastically, but those who are relentlessly bullied more often than not retreat into worlds of fancy, managing little more than scholarly competence due to becoming preoccupied with such things as Tolkien, elves, mythology or Star Trek. After all, there are only so many puns on "Anus" and "Dickle" one can take before devoutly wishing that one could simply wave a magic wand, recite an incantation and rain plagues down on the lot of them. Or do something with a photon torpedo. So it was that he did moderately well at everything, for it wouldn't do to further shame his mother, but, as one would expect, he only excelled at classics, for he lived them rather than merely studied them, seeing himself as Achilles, Jason, Thor, or even Prometheus. Especially Prometheus actually, as that hideous name was as the ghastly eagle that descended daily to rend his flesh, gnaw at his liver, and at which he was as powerless to fight as if bound by the irons of Tantalus. And so it was that he gravitated towards the only career path ideally suited to the immoderately bullied, cruelly-named, absurdly average boy who sought refuge in the Norse fables, in Beowulf, in Ovid, in Apuleius: accountancy.
As befit Angus, he was a very average accountant, and as such fit in very well; he bought his suits at Marks & Spencer's, three at a time, all identical. He bought a hatchback with good fuel economy, and a cat, to compensate for his still-intact virginity. He was never sick, and enjoyed the company of his colleagues whom, as befit adults, only mocked his name, his manner, and his birthmark behind his back: he was aware of this, of course, and it was much to his liking. Years passed, and Angus even gained a promotion to head of department, on which occasion his new underlings decided that it would be good form to go out for a night on the town. On this night was to befall the second, and last, momentous event of Angus's life.
The night began at the local wine bar, where the more daring employees of Smithers, Smithers, Smithers & Sons would crowd in after work to unwind with alcopops and swap tales of narrowly-avoided errors. It was, after all, midsummer, and it was extremely difficult to guard against miscalculations in the humid conditions, so the place was abuzz with talk of dropped decimals and lost files. Angus was high on the euphoria of it all, and within an hour had consumed five Bacardi Breezers, a heroic amount as far as he, and his colleagues were concerned, and his prowess was noted and admired by all. It seemed to him that, what with his promotion and the new approval glinting in the eyes of his staff, together with the fact that he'd managed to put more drinks under his belt than ever before, he was on the verge of something fine, away from fantasy and on the brink of a new manliness. Even as he was voiding the contents of his stomach into the pub urinal an hour later, this new optimism remained with him, and the rictus of his smile made it tricky to spew forth the big bits.
It was decided that they'd go on to a nightclub that they occasionally frequented of a Tuesday in King's Cross, as it was Eighties night and drinks were to be cheap. At length, Angus, being held upright by three colleagues, hailed a taxi, and they got in. Angus immediately passed out, and as was customary, the magic marker came out, for though he was their superior, he was not immune to the custom of being drawn on whilst unconscious. They did, however, go easy on him, limiting themselves only to a big swastika on his forehead, and "Love" and "Hate" across his knuckles. Going through Kilburn, Angus regained consciousness, and seeing through his blurred vision a pub, he shouted to the taxi driver to pull over: when drunk, he occasionally dared to smoke, especially when going to a nightclub where the opposite sex might be present. He felt that it gave him a James Bond aura, and indeed, after much practice, he had managed to adopt a louche manner of smoking that made him look more like an underwriter than an accountant. A chill went through Steve, the junior: Kilburn was a dangerous area at the best of times, predominantly black, and to be wearing a swastika on one's head, together with "Love" and "Hate" on one's knuckles, made it the worst of times.
"I don't think you should get out here Angus," said Steve. "It's not safe."
"Fuck safe," drawled Angus, fuelled with rum punch and pride. "I can handle Kensington."
"We're not in Kensington. Kilburn. KIL-BURN."
The name itself, which should rightly strike fear into the hearts of even the strong, meant nothing to this Prometheus unbound, and he lurched from the halting taxi whilst the driver shook his head and tutted - taxi drivers are blessed with unnatural prescience, and yet do nothing. It's not known what happened next, but ten minutes later, the second momentous moment of Angus's life occurred: he came stumbling through the double doors of the Bricklayer's Arms, bleeding profusely from the carotid artery, and collapsed in the street.
Angus awoke, entirely devoid of bodily sensation, in a room of hospital green, a colour used only in police stations and hospitals, and a colour calculated to instil fear. A high-pitched drone could be heard, and faces came and went overhead, some sympathetic, some fearful, some indifferent. He felt something under his tongue and removed it, examining it closely: it resembled a coin the colour of gunmetal, though it was stone, and had a slot in the middle. With his classical bent, he recognised it for what it was, an obol: it was gratifying to know, if to know for certain that that one was dead could ever be gratifying, that the ancient Greek religion was therefore the one true faith. He rose from his bed, unplugging the various intravenous leads as he did so, and walked out of the door to be confronted with a swirling, dark, reddish melee, dark, sonorous groans cut with atonal screams. So this was Hades. It did occur to him momentarily to wonder what exactly he had done to merit eternity in the underworld, but he imagined that this would become clear on the other side of the Styx, and besides, it was a distinction of sorts. He struggled down a shale slope, his feet bare and bloody, paper hospital slippers affording little protection against the shards of stone. Finally he reached a path and followed it, avoiding leprous hands that would grasp from foetid ditches on either side, to the Styx, where Charon awaited.
"Here's my obol. Can you ferry me across to Hades?" he said to the hunched, hooded figure, who stood in expectation by his boat.
"You mean Satan. This is Hell, sonny, but it's a common mistake, what with the obol and all. The fact is that most religions got it fractionally right, but none totally; I was just as surprised as you. The only one that's completely wrong is Wicca - total bollocks. Come on, I'll take you across: here's a sandwich, you're probably hungry. Death does that to people."
He was right. Angus was hungry, but the sandwich was bologna, and none too fresh at that. He ate it anyway out of politeness and tossed the crusts in the Styx, where lost souls fought over them halfheartedly. When they reached the other side, a Border Collie came and nuzzled Angus affectionately.
"That's Cerberus," said Charon. "Satan's dog. You were probably expecting that three-headed monster, but he ran away a few years back, and frankly, we were glad to see the back of him - a bad-tempered mutt. Anyway, in you go."
Angus went through a pair of dark oak doors, which creaked open at his coming. A very tall, handsome man with a dark tan and a fine three piece suit (Savile Row by the looks of it) rose from behind a computer and greeted Angus cordially. He was holding a cigarette in a manner so louche that Angus couldn't help but be impressed.
"Good afternoon! I'm Satan. Satan Smythe. Now, I've been reviewing your file, and it seems that your case is somewhat ambiguous. Please have a seat."
Angus pulled up a chair. "Ambiguous?"
"Yes, ambiguous. You see, you're here because you're an accountant, and accountants customarily end up here solely on principle. But, we feel that with a name like Angus Tickle, the balance is tipped in your favour somewhat as you've suffered a great deal in life, and therefore you could be due for a break."
"Oh good," said Angus. "So what am I doing here? Has the decision not been made?"
"It's very tricky," said Satan. "You see, you've never done anything that could really qualify as either good or evil, and believe it or not, a great many people are the same. The grey area is actually vast, so St. Peter and I do our best to divide incoming souls between us in order to avoid further overcrowding Limbo. St. Peter's terribly busy today - something to do with ambrosia - so I get to deal with your case."
"I had no idea that things were so arbitrary. Does this mean that those who strive for good, and those who are pretty much dastardly, receive their reward in the afterlife based upon who's on duty?"
"Not quite. I mean, we let them plead their cases and all that, and we do try to read the files, but it's terribly difficult to guard against clerical errors in this heat. What with the amount of people that die on a daily basis, I can hardly keep up with all of it now can I?"
Angus looked behind him, through the doors, at a queue that seemed to stretch to infinity: it was most inconsiderate of St. Peter to take the day off.
"I suppose not," said Angus "but I really cannot make my case either way in good faith, assuming that you'll check whatever I say. I really am not beyond, but beneath, good and evil."
"Well, much as it pains me to do so, it's Limbo for you too: have a nice eternity."
Instantaneously, everything pixellated and fell away, to be replaced a moment later with another scene, that of Limbo, a scene curiously familiar to Angus. Desks, swathed in mists, stretched to infinity, and lost souls grumbled in classless monotone about the lack of office stationary or the outdatedness of their computers. Limbo was an accountancy firm.
User Reviews
Submitted by mystiamoon (user info) at 2004-05-22 01:15:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by magical_invisible_torso_man (user info) at 2004-05-11 06:59:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I'm not reading all that, but if they say it's good then i'll just +1 it
Submitted by Fixer (user info) at 2004-05-11 06:41:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
All that to slam wicca and Savile Row.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2004-05-10 22:46:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That is pretty close to how I picture the afterlife.
Submitted by spedmonkey (user info) at 2004-05-10 20:09:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
WTF IM NOT READING AL THAT!!!!!
Meh... i liked it.
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2004-05-10 18:13:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Only because I'm studying Accounting at university and sometimes it is gay.