Howard's Nemesis

[Struff Bunstridge]

As soon as he saw the duck, Howard knew it was going to be a bad day.

 

He left the house promptly at 7.30am as usual, clutching his fake leather briefcase, bought for him on his birthday with a whipround at his favourite bingo hall, and which never contained more than two bananas and a ham sandwich. A short, balding, ruddy-faced man, he lived alone in his twee little house, just a short bus journey from his cosy shop, where he sold collectibles; stamps, coins, cards, anything of that sort.

 

After carefully double-locking the front door as he left – there’d been a spate of burglaries in his neighbourhood over the last month, probably those bloody kids always loitering outside the chip shop – he swivelled smartly on one heel, pushed open his front gate, and began his walk to the bus stop. He was unusually cheerful today; he hadn’t seen the duck the previous night, peering in through his bedroom window as it had done every night for the last three weeks, while he lay quivering in a sweaty ball of pyjamas and bedclothes, staring through the glass into its black, beady eyes. He joyously felt, on this sunny spring morning, that he might have seen the last of it. The first few whistled notes of “The Dambusters” died on his lips, however, as he glanced over at Mrs Petty’s house, and saw the duck perched on top of the neatly clipped privet hedge, eyeing him morosely. A whimper of panic escaped him, and he began to shuffle faster along the empty street, his feet stuttering the world’s most uncoordinated tap dance on the uneven pavement.

 

He heard a brief squawk from behind him, and he cast a fearful eye over one shoulder just in time to catch sight of his feathery nemesis fluttering to the ground, before beginning to waddle inquisitively after him. Moaning, he turned the corner too fast, and overbalanced, his briefcase spilling from his fingers and scuffing on the dirty concrete. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his case and looked up to see his bus pulling up at the stop. He broke into a shambling run, and arrived just before the doors closed, wedging his arm between them and forcing his way onto the crowded bus. The duck was nowhere to be seen through the rear windscreen as the bus pulled away, and Howard breathed a hefty sigh of relief as he jostled his way through the group of bored-looking people standing in the central aisle.

 

SQUAWK!

 

Howard wheeled round, the colour draining from his face. It was on the damn bus with him! It squatted, toad-like, on the head of an old man wearing a tweed trilby hat, and glared at Howard. The old fellow seemed not to notice its weight; in fact, no-one on the bus had acknowledged its presence at all. As Howard watched, the duck began to puff up like a cat, spreading its wings and opening its beak menacingly, baring a set of dirty-looking pointed teeth. Teeth? An unholy fire burned in its eyes, and it cast almost tangible shadows on the walls of the bus and the faces of his fellow commuters, who were still acting as though nothing was happening. The duck began to scream as it continued in its intimidation of Howard, and he stumbled backwards in fright, landing in the lap of a mother with her child. Irritated, she shrugged him away, muttering something about drunks and asylums, and put a protective arm around her young son. Howard began to crawl away from the piercing shrieks, which had by now reached a deafening pitch. He looked around, and the duck pounced on him, pecking and biting. He squealed again, raising his arms to protect himself. At that moment the bus juddered to a halt, and rough hands grabbed him by the lapels of his cheap suit. The bus doors opened with a whoosh!, and he felt the slap of cool morning air, before the ground rushed up to meet him as he was thrown into the gutter.

 

Howard slowly got to his feet, and almost fell over the duck, which was just a normal duck again; no teeth, no fire, and certainly no screaming. Howard gasped as he felt his heart skip a beat, and a warm feeling spread across the crotch of his trousers. The duck’s eyes flicked briefly from Howard’s moon-like, sweating face to the patch of urine on his trousers, and then back again. It almost seemed to grin as it squawked mockingly at him, just once, before turning and waddling to the corner of the street. It turned to look at him, a knowing look in its eyes, and then it was gone.

 

Howard never saw the duck again.

 

[Rhoda]

I can imagine this short story being in a small book of tales to amuse the cynical and the hard-to-amuse. It's an acquired taste, which is probably why I enjoyed it. Hell, even the title made me click the topic. Good show Struff, and keep the short story writing up.

[Warplay3r]

Wow. That was pretty funny. I liked the part where he pissed himself in relief. Very descriptive. Good job.