Intergalactic Terrorist (New Dimension Book 1) Read Free Page B

From the back of the room someone muttered, “Pinwright? So that was what that guy was called. I did wonder.”
        Within five minutes Charlie’s name had been completely forgotten, including his face and that he had ever worked at King George’s Electrical Repairs at all.

Chapter 2
     
    Peasant wagon. Scum train. Disease carriage. In other words… the local bus service.
        Charlie sat on a chewing gum infested seat in the centre of the bus. A smelly, twitchy lady sat next to him constantly elbowing him in the ribs. In front of him sat a man who was clearly drunk, shouting random profanities at the school children on the bus, who were the worst of all. Small people. Charlie had never connected with small people even when he was a small person. His dream of a better world would be to gather up all of the children and place them on a desert island until they reached adulthood and were allowed back into the rest of society. True most of them would have died of starvation or thirst or even boiled in the hot blistering desert sun, but Charlie wondered if that would be such a bad thing? At least the only ones that made it to adulthood would be fighters, strong folk who had learnt the harsh realities of life at a young age and would succeed. Unlike the folk on this bus – including himself. Charlie often wondered if life would have treated him better had he been sent to a desert island as a child. He doubted that he would have survived all on his own. Death would have been quick for him. Either that or he would have gone insane and eaten his own feet.
        A schoolboy twanged an elastic band that hit Charlie on the back of his head. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and pretended as though nothing had happened. Children were different these days. True, there were plenty of little shits when Charlie had been young, but these days they all seemed to be little shits.
        As he stared out of the window, attempting to pretend there were no smelly or drunk people, no annoying children and definitely nobody playing their rubbish music really loud from their phone, Charlie took in the beautiful landscape of his city.
        Empty, boarded up houses. Burnt out cars. Vulgar graffiti scrawled on walls. He wondered if he would miss the world should he no longer be a part of it. He was sure that the world would not miss him.
     
        Ping!
        The microwave door opened and the smell of fake cheese and melted plastic hit Charlie’s abused nostrils. Another microwave lasagne. Microwave meals were all he had. That and spam and eggs, but as strange as it sounds Charlie had never learned how to fry an egg, and didn’t have a clue what to do with spam. He didn’t even know how to open the tin with that strange little key that came with it.
        The slimy ‘supposedly’ pasta slipped off the tray and slopped onto Charlie’s chipped plate with a sickly sound usually heard in toilet cubicles. He prodded it with his fork, watching as it almost seemed to squirm and move out of the way. Charlie sighed. He hadn’t had a proper meal since his girlfriend had moved out, not that she ever cooked. They usually ordered take-away food but now Charlie found himself unable to face ordering it. Too many memories, like the time they ordered Chinese in Chinese voices. Hilarious times. She always did make brilliant cakes however. At least he thought she did. Recently he realised that she was probably given all of those cakes by Stavros her Spanish cake decorating lover. His mind raced as he imagined them making love on the work top, icing licked from their naked bodies, cherries on nipples, their bodies entwined making them appear as one large two-headed cake monster.
        Suddenly Charlie was no longer in the mood for microwave lasagne. He threw it into the bin and picked up the last remaining iced bun from the cake tin. A final reminder of his ex-girlfriend and her sordid affair. He wondered how safe the bun was to eat after