He didn’t know it yet, but Philip C. Carmichael was going to die. There he would be, sitting on the couch, in the dark, in a thunderstorm, on Friday the 13th, devouring a chicken drumstick one moment, choking on a doughnut with the next. Only to be discovered, weeks later, by paramedics, called to the scene by neighbours complaining about the smell.
No, he would be taking a walk, on a night of the red moon, in a graveyard. Cold, dead eyes stalking him, irresistibly drawn to the scent of his oblivious human flesh. Tiny pink tongues leaving a trail of saliva with thoughts only of dinner. With the moon high in the sky, they would attack. The alpha-Chihuahua leading the charge, of course, ripping into his juicy throat and drinking the sweet marrow from his bones.
No, he would be struck down by the invisible hand of nature’s revenge: flesh eating bacteria. Infected on a Winter Solstice, on a Leap Year, during a snowstorm, on a week filled with re-runs. There he would weep, flipping between channels of infinite boredom, tiny life forms gorging fat on their meal ticket.
Philip stopped talking and looked at me expectantly, his beefy, unintelligent eyes boring into me with expectation. “Where do you go when I’m talking to you?” he demanded, flecking small droplets of spittle at me as if they were his own personal arsenal. God how I hate that voice. “Just thinking of you, my dear,” I replied.
It was a Tuesday, during Egg and Chip night, when I mistook the box of rat poison for the salt. In my defence, I regret nothing.