TITSZZZ

The office Christmas party started when Josh opened a bottle of Moet, tools were downed, glasses found, cakes taken from the fridge and party poppers let off.  It was Mad Friday and by 6pm the judgement of Josh, Simon and Derek was completely skewed.  When they went on a perfume sniffing mission, involving them burying their heads into the décolletage of every female, the office manager promptly suggested the three leave for town.

On their way out, they noticed a whisky bottle in the kitchen and decided to take it.  They piled into the room laughing at their audacity.  The cleaner, in an extremely bad mood, was putting glasses into the dishwasher.

“Hello darlin’!” shouted Josh, looking at his mates giggling, “I’m gonna sniff the cleaner’s tits!”
She straightened to protest, but he swept her slight frame up, sat her on the counter and buried his head in her tiny chest; “Peanuts!” he yelled.
“That’s what she smells like?” Simon laughed.
“Soap is what she smells like, peanuts is what she has.  You need a boob job, love!”
Simon thought it was hilarious, but Derek intervened, pulling Josh off; “Town,” he said and mouthed an apology to the cleaner.
“Wait,” she said, without hesitation, “there are women with better tits at eibmoZ Club.  It’s where WAG’s and models end their night.”
Simon handed her his smartphone, “Plug the postcode in, sweetheart.”

Later, they found themselves in a graveyard.  Puzzled, they suspected it was a joke, but were willing to see it through.  Then they saw a crypt with fairy lights round it and a neon sign – eibmoZ CLUB.  The bouncer wore a hooded coat that rendered his face invisible.

“You can’t come in,” he grunted at Derek, “you’re drunk.  You two are welcome.”
It was a fair call, probably was Derek’s home time, he stumbled away, while Simon and Josh entered, walking down steps into a wall of thumping R&B music.  The club was dark, but they could see females in silhouette writhing on the dancefloor, long haired, thin with huge tits and curvy behinds – perfect!

They skipped the bar because they still had the whisky bottle and headed straight to the women; “Wanna sniff your t ...” Josh stopped mid sentence, staring at the redhead in front.  She was wearing a mini skirt and low top, but her flesh was hanging off her thin arms and decaying, her rib bones stuck through her exposed midriff, her face was slack and her tits were huge lumps of silicon yellowing with age.  She grabbed his head and pulled it against her, the overwhelming smell of corruption causing him to puke.  The music stopped; Simon, aware they were surrounded, pulled Josh up; “Ladies, excuse us, it’s the end of the night.”

“The night never ends here,” they chorused.
One of them pulled up her skirt to flash her silicon enhanced bony behind; “We’ve been waiting for lads like you!”
There were too many too push past, Simon and Josh gave up and let the wall of surgically enhanced women in various states of decay close in.  At least these girls were up for it.

Outside the cleaner leaned against the crypt wall, sharing a large cigar with the bouncer.  She gave the starlit sky a contented look and said to nobody in particular; “Merry Christmaszzz.”

THE NARCISSISTIC NAVEL GAZING OF A MURDERING BITCH

Well, I’d been out with the girls before the party, hadn’t I?  Had a few pinots and got into the car.  Fucking husband’s works party, in the middle of Dorset nowhere.  Sorry about the swearing, really didn’t want to go.  Weaving through all those tiny lanes and suddenly bang!  Didn’t even see him, just went into him.  Stopped of course.  Got torch out of glove compartment, terribly organised.  High heels pattering round the car.  Torchlight.  Man, young, not out of adolescence, lying there, really fucking badly injured.  “Don’t worry love, I’ll call for help,” I reassured him, but then I suddenly had a thought.  Been drinking, hadn’t I?  What I would lose flashed before my eyes: husband, house, cleaner coming in once a week, successful job, cats, champagne in wine rack ready for Christmas, friends who held me in high esteem.  You’ve got to do what’s right for yourself in this life, haven’t you?  I didn’t call for help.  I stepped on his neck in my Cavellas until he stopped breathing.  Then I changed into my wellies, got out a spade we keep in the car in case of snow and buried him in a field.  I work out regularly, so it was quite easy to drag him round behind the hedge.  Harder to dig his grave and cover him over like he didn’t happen though.

Then I drove over the county border to the party.  What happened in Hampshire stays in fucking Hampshire, right?  In Dorset now.  Did best to smile at party, drank shed loads, I think.  No-one suspected what I’d done, told them I’d hit a deer.  They treated me like they normally do, like I’m a saint because I listen to all their problems, don’t I?  I’m a regular Mother Theresa.  I recall crying in the toilets at one point.  Then husband told me I looked ill and took me to our hotel early and everyone was terribly concerned.

I became addicted to the news and newspapers, his family were there, appealing for him to come home, just another lost boy on his way between parties, like I’d been.  I was terrified they’d find him, but the days passed and they didn’t.  I began to realise I GOT AWAY WITH IT!  Yeah!  I danced round my room, got away with murder!  Get me!  I searched for traces of the sin on my face, blue eyes still innocent, smile still warm.  I’ve got it going on.  I’m scot free.

But then, then, then, I wanna tell people about it, don’t I?  I want to be forgiven, but I can’t.  I can’t share the pain in my heart, that accompanies the euphoria of getting away with it.  I killed someone young, who had yet to develop fully, who was on that brink before life gets really good, someone who could have been really really special.  I see the faces of his parents on the TV, they want him home for Christmas.  I didn’t just kill him, I killed his future ... No-one will ever know how he would have turned out.  However, murder is socially unacceptable, isn’t it?  I keep silent and continue to be treated like an angel by everyone, as the days continue their relentless march towards Christmas.  My husband thinks I’m wonderful, our friends think I’m this fantastic, supportive person.  But I’ve killed, I’ve buried and if I’m asked, I’m sure I’ll deny it too.

A WINTER'S PARTY

I met you at some random party.  It was so warm inside, loads of people, all crushed up together.  Alcohol, food and talk, talk, talk, much of it boring.  I guess if you go to enough of these doos you hear the same conversations over and over again and they all morph into one.  Money, mortgages, property prices; the things that stick us to our commitments until we’re paralysed.

I was happy enough until you touched me.  I can’t remember when or how, but I looked into your face and that was it.  I saw amongst that talk of work and wealth, the freedom of winter - you changed the season in my soul.

“Come and play in the snow,” you said or maybe I did.

We left the warmth of the house and crossed the road, just the two of us.  The black ice made the going treacherous; I had to hold onto your arm.  The Church was opposite us, you kissed me under the lych gate.  I glanced back at the house, afraid my husband had come out to look for me, but he was still inside, no doubt he was engrossed in discussing his pension plan.

The cold was bitter, it was snowing in the graveyard, the flakes made a shroud that concealed us as we made love on a tombstone.  I was scared to look at the name on it, in case it was mine.