Black Sunday - Fiction - Part 4 of about 6

Tweet

his is a monologue. You need to imagine an Aussie bloke standing in front of you telling you a story. The photo has nothing to do with the story. Black Sunday - part 4 But firstly I need to prioritise - get a bucket organised for Arnie or try and remove the blood from the carpet? I decide I’d better start on the carpet. The cream carpet that I didn’t want in the first place. Do you think she’d listen? Not her. Anyway, all on my own, I find this little bottle of stuff that is supposed to remove red wine stains. If it will remove red wine, it should remove blood. They’re about the same colour. So I pour this stuff on and start rubbing. But now I’ve got red stains with pink patches round the edges – and the carpet seems to be matting a bit. So I pour salt on the stains and rub that in. Someone knocked red wine all over Karen once then rubbed salt over the stains. I had my doubts at the time – this hunk rubbing salt all over Karen’s breasts. But I have to admit the stain came out. Then I go looking for Arnie. He’s sitting very quietly under the willow out the back, chewing off his bandage. I grab him by the collar – again - and drag him off to the garage. There’s an old wooden workbench running across the back and I hitch Arnie to the leg of this with a bit of old rope. I find a bucket and my hacksaw and I’m about to tackle the job when there’s a scuffle under the bench and the neighbour’s cat streaks out and hightails it past us and out the door. This is like a red rag to Arnie and he takes off after the cat. Two big tugs and the leg of the workbench comes away. It's nearly rotten at the bottom and only attached by one rusty bolt at the top. Arnie’s off, dragging the leg. The workbench does a slow-motion dip and power tools, bolts, spanners, and a bench drill I haven’t bolted down yet, avalanche to the floor at ever-increasing speed.