Rubber Gloves

Tony had bought the rubber gloves from Sainsbury’s the day before yesterday and they were still in the cupboard under the sink when his dog started convulsing. The dog was a small white dirty horrible little thing called Rovis that didn’t get enough exercise – this was Tony’s fault of course. Rovis barked all day incessantly and miserably and nastily. Tony was currently blind drunk off cheap vodka and could not remember what day it was or whether he had a job at the moment or anything like that. He shook his head which seemed to go left when he shook it right and right when he shook it left. He may have passed out again at this stage. But eventually he looked down in a jumble of happy and friendly irritated and frustrated emotion and stared fascinated and dumb as the dogs pulsing intestines and stomach emerged some more in splats of gore and brown from either end all over his carpet and rug and Rovis was choking and his canine eyes were doing terrible things. Rovis made pitiful sounds of choking and panic “What happening cruel master!?” he seemed to moan in choking dog voice. He started rolling around in agony in his own filth and the part of this filth mixture that was dog dirt was in impossibly large and smelly amounts and was of a reddish colour that would repulse anyone. Looking away Tony eventually said

“ I, I,” serenely to the realisation that everyone dies in every way but nothing ever dies as in each branching life, even in the dark ages, the secret to immortality is discovered by the human race. Then darkness came and he went away from all senses and obligation. But didn’t stay there permanently as waking up a bit with a terrible sniff he cried out in charitable panic “I, I don’t know waa WHA! ROVIS! ROVIS!” his hands shaking dumbly and unplanned. He looked down at his only pal Rovis the dog and felt genuine love rise from the pit of his soul in a way he had only felt for the dog once or twice before, like when he was a puppy and Tony had just brought him home from the pound. He turned and half jumped into the kitchen and got a bin bag and then the packet of rubber gloves from under the sink. What was he doing with the bin bag? but he couldn’t think. ‘Vets?’ he thought. And ‘Neighbours help?’ there were other thoughts encompassing his thoughts but ‘vets’ is the one he told himself that he thought he noticed in his drunken state. Still the bin bag was tucked under his arm. The packet had two sets of yellow gloves. He somehow opened it and clumsily and with great effort and hurry put one pair on and threw the others to the side of the room where they fell behind the fridge.
He hurried and stumbled wide mouthed, drunkenly and quickly into the lounge again and the dog was shivering and blood and the dreaded dog dirt and also other substances were everywhere, all over the walls and ceiling the TV and chairs etc in thick dripping loads as the dog had momentarily regained it’s feet while Tony had been away in the kitchen and had shaken it all over like when getting out of a river. This had shaken more intestines out. But it had also dislodged the clotting blood and stomach bag portion in his throat loose and that was on the rug with the rest of his stomach etc. Now though, Rovis was on his side and was just about managing to breathe and was shivering and a brown streaked kidney was emerging from the rear end on a string of dog artery. Dog dirty blood was spreading at Tony’s feet and he was in a state of wondering how he could revive Rovis when suddenly, with another sniff, a sense of pure emotion, like a dagger to his brain hit and he realised the dog dirt issue, could feel it soaking into the floorboards and possibly dripping down into the flat below and the smell was almost visible. No, he told himself, he could see it, he was sure. A cloud came over swaying Tony as nightmares suddenly filled his head and… … … HE REMEMBERED! THE NIGHTMARES! The nightmares were thus – over the past years his dreams had been filled with this smell (currently mixed in with smell of dying dog), wherever he went and whatever happened while asleep and dreaming there was the smell, the smell of dog dirt! Like when he was young and he and his pals had made a base out of old doors and tables on a rugby field and when it was completed they all went inside but somehow dog dirt had gotten in and the smell was fresh and powerful. Young Tony had looked around inside the den at his pals but no one had said anything but their expressions were scared and terrible. And because the base was so good they stayed in it all day breathing in the fumes and playing in a state of nightmare. Well his night time had been that nightmare for the foreseeable past and now he realised this and also that in the back his mind it was there always, festering and steaming in his nostrils: while at work at differing jobs, while at football matches on Saturdays, even when at the petrol station with his favourite petroleum fragrances – a smell ruined by Tony’s dog dirt infested subconscious. His expression and mood he realised in his current drunken state, had been permanently wrenched by this half realised abomination, all since…. Now he smelt in the gut wrenching smell of dog dirt and he blinked hatefully remembering all the times he had half noticed Rovis not watching where it was going and what it was treading on (piles and streaks of dog dirt everywhere, on every street corner, a lot of which was Rovis‘s unpicked up doings) when plodding around the block for his miserable little walk once very few days. And then it would trample on his carpets and bed etc with those same darling feet, molecules or worse all over them. And the brown and red stuff now all over the walls and then he saw how the trotting nasty little thing would lift it’s tail up offensively into its usual position, offensive thoughts drifting through Tony’s mind each time, thoughts unnoticed all these years. NOW! He had awoken to the constant nagging of having the thing around, the grating responsibility and selfish cost cutting on cheap tripe, the viciously hostile thoughts colliding between the two of them over and over at the edge of things, more vodka consumed to force away the presence as if everything hunky dory. Now stood over his dying, pleading pet these thoughts were suddenly realised in sharp focus and his eyes were narrowing and his chest was heaving slowly and his eyes became more narrow and the smell and the mess and the constant nips and waggy tail, dog farts and barking… JUSUS WEPT!! THE BARKING!! SHADDAP FOR JUST FIVE MINUTES! AAHHH! And the threatening neighbours constantly banging on the walls and ceilings and the stupidity of the low canine, the repugnance and the ten years and the memories of before, of being peacefully alone and the nights were filled with clean adventures and he had been happier until one day acquiring lovely little happy companion Rovis and all of this… Rovis…

“…Rovis… Rovis,” mumbled Tony and the bin bag rustled more sober than before.

He knelt down carefully, squelching stuff beneath his knees. His gloved hands reached out and the bin bag was at the ready under his arm. The strangulation was brief and went to the very heart of the matter in an intensely gratifying but miserably unfulfilling and also pleasingly emotionally empty moment. He loved it. Swaying from side to side and chattering and grimacing Tony slid the corpse into the bag with ease and left the flat leaving dirty footprints all the way down the communal carpeted stairs and as he descended he grimly muttered “Socialising” under his breath. It was dark outside and Tony floated down to the end of the road probably unnoticed. On the way down the road he saw a pile of trodden in dog dirt that someone had trailed down the pavement. If it was daytime he would have seen where that person had tried to scrape it all off on the kerb. But instead he thought of his old Dad’s quest and vision of inventing the spray that completely eliminates dog dirt… he stepped carefully over and around the dog dirt. At the end of the road there was a public council bin opposite a pub and the bony black bin bag was dumped immediately. Tony’s yellow gloves were filthy and he half wiped them on his tracksuit pants and headed back looking around to see if there were any onlookers, he couldn’t see any anyway.

Back in his flat he surveyed the carnage and slippereraly picked up a bottle of vodka off the table that was still half full – there were also three unopened bottles on there as well. Such carnage, and the smell of course – dog dirt odour rising above. “F-ffuck it.” he said. He stood there for several minutes shifting from one foot to the other and came to the realisation that … … … and all of this happens at the same time. And somewhere Tony was being chased by a giant spider but Tony has a plasma rifle. “YEAH!? why not eh? All very clever and good Tony fucksake … … … I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.” announced Tony so loud that his neighbours could hopefully hear. Eventually all four of the small bottles were dry and his thinking had drifted nicely away and the ringing in his ear that had never started and would never end, had become more pleasant than when he last noticed it yesterday – he opened his eyes and he was dimly aware of seeing a collage of colours and shapes that changed perspective as his head moved. Then his nostrils became noticed again and they were becoming and anticipated a new future. He sniffed deeply and with vigour – it still stank now though. Then he stumbled into the kitchen falling into the washing machine in a state of uncaring, knocking several unfamiliar bottles over with an arm. Then he opened a fresh bottle of vodka that heralded in a new age and went to tell his mum on Facebook that Rovis had died of old age at the vets. He opened his sleeping laptop and it got more dog waste and blood splashed onto the screen from his hands that still wore the gloves. The trackball mouse got coated again too when his hand rested on it calmly. And he refreshed his internet browser and looked at the last page he had been on God knows when, probably earlier today, as a smile and awesome joy of his realisation of a definitely clean and relaxing future (must be alone in new flat) enveloped him, and it was a web page devoted to the subject of “How to murder your dog with poison.”

THE END

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