"What the blinking 'eck do you want?"
The front door of 62 Adelaide street swung open violently. Pensioner Harry Goss stood rampant in slippered feet, his face frozen in an expression of permanent suspicion.
"I'm........I'm selling cloths and dusters to raise money for the Day Centre," stammered the bespectacled youth who had inadvertently found himself trespassing on Harry's doorstep.
"I'm a pensioner, why don't you collect money for me?" barked Harry.
"I er..." stammered the youth. "Well in a way I am......you can use..."
"I don't go down the blinking Day Centre do I!" snarled Harry reading the boys' thoughts. "God's waiting room in there.... You been in there?"
"No actually I..."
"Thought as much. Well where's my money then? What about me? No one ever collects money for those who really need it do they?"
"I...I."
"Give us a tenner."
"What?"
"I'm entitled. Give me a tenner. I'll make good use of it."
"I don't think I can...."
The young collected was very near breaking point, Harry could feel it. He smiled to himself as he delivered the final words he knew would break the boy's resolve.
"I'm entitled. If I'm not making use of the facilities I'm at least due some of the funding."
The collector handed Harry a ten pound note with a shrug of defeat.
"I should think so too!" barked Harry slamming the door in the confused boy's face.
-------------------------------
"I told you.... If you want it back then you can blinking well come and collect it yourself!"
Harry leant menacingly over the counter of the electrical retail store and eyed the young assistant beyond with distain.
"I'm sorry Mr Goss," she replied tartly. "But I'm afraid you are contractually bound to...."
"Am I now?"
"If you read the contract Mr Goss, you will note that you are legally obliged to keep the dish and receiver box for a period of twelve calendar months."
The assistant highlighted a patch of small print with a yellow pen and returned it to the irate and primed for conflict Harry Goss.
"Look!" spluttered Harry. "Look at that writing!" He pointed at the printing with a gnarled finger stained by contact with at least one million Woodbines. "How can you expect an old person like me to read print like that? You lot type it like that on purpose don 't ya? I got that dish in good faith I did. You came knocking on MY door, I didn't come round your house asking did I?"
"But you signed..." broke in the girl.
"Course I signed!" Only to get them off me doorstep. I'm eighty you know. Can't be standing on me doorstep all hours of the day and night, Anyway it's all bleeding repeats on there. What's the point of three hundred channels if they're all repeats. I might as well have a video recorder running all day. Con merchants that's what you lot are. In my day we sent people like you off to Australia!"
The sales assistant could only watch open mouthed as Harry Goss unleashed a stream of unprintable obscenities at her.
"I am going home now and I am going to pull that ruddy dish down and I am going to throw it in my front garden. So, if you want it, you better send someone round double quick before it's nicked."
He turned to go, then spun around.
"And if you think you're going to get a single penny from me you are very much mistaken. I'm going to write to 'Watchdog' about you!"
He turned on his heels and left, knocking a carousel of DVD's over in his wake.
------------------------------------------
Harry Goss sat in his careworn armchair contentedly sipping a cup of tea. Behind his shoulder and through the old curtain netting that hung in darkened windows, a pile of twisted metal lay in the small front garden, an innocent victim of Harry Goss' spite.
The afternoon fitness show, 'Get Fit with Fiona' came on screen. The lithe frame of Fiona bounded into life much to the delight of the visually enraptured Harry.
"Cor," he breathed. "I'd sell me soul for some time with you darlin'."
The doorbell rang. Harry's face took on its usual mantle of suspicion, this time coupled with annoyance. He rose slowly from his armchair and shuffled down the hallway of his dark terraced house. Through the frosted glass doorway a dark menacing shape lowered. Harry opened the door.
"If you've come for that stupid dish it's over there," he pointed to a pile of twisted metal, barely recognizable as a once state of the art satellite receiver. "I've saved you the trouble of taking it down."
The occupant of the front step smiled broadly, his eyes narrowed and twinkled.
"Mr. Goss," the stranger began. "I have something in my briefcase I would very much like you to see."
"I don't buy from doorstep peddlers." snapped Harry.
"Oh no," smiled the stranger seductively. "What I have here inside my briefcase is not for sale...."
"And I don't accept charity either, not my way! said Harry resolutely. "I've worked for everything I ever had. I take nothing off no one. I'll tell you something..."
"Mr. Goss," began the stranger again, cutting off Harry mid flow. "What I have in my briefcase isn't for sale and it isn't free either. It's a sort of...." he searched for the word carefully, "Exchange..... Please Mr. Goss, let me have a few moments of your time..."
Perhaps it was the way he emphasized the word 'time' that Harry let him through his front door.
Harry Goss collected his weekly pension every Thursday at 12:20 from his local Post Office. Every Thursday at 12:10 staff at the Post Office would draw straws to decide who would serve him.
Harry Goss entered the Post Office earlier today, clad in a brand new tracksuit, high definition trainers on his feet. He bounded up to the counter like a young Labrador puppy. He smiled broadly at the assistant behind the counter who was instantly struck dumb.
"I've come for me pension." smiled Harry.
"Er, yes Mr. Goss." stammered the assistant.
"Hurry up darlin," chuckled Harry pointing at a large Rolex on his wrist. "Clock is ticking."
Harry began to jog on the spot. The assistant counted his money in front of him, aghast at the sight before her. At this moment 'Fit Fiona' jogged into the Post Office, taking Harry's hand they ran out together.
Harry and Fit Fiona lived together quite happily for the next two weeks. Harry ate well, mostly health food and smoothies. He told Fiona all his war stories to while away the early hours, she listened with unfathomable interest.
One fateful morning Harry awoke and found himself alone. An emptiness gnawed away inside of him. He climbed out of bed and was met by the familiar protests of his feeble joints; then there came a new unfamiliar feeling. He became aware of a gentle toasting warmth, that lapped at his toes. Then it began to rise, bathing his body in a luxurious heat. It was a few seconds before he realised that it was not the heat that was rising, it was he who was sinking into it. Harry Goss was slipping into hell.
Harry Goss slipped into hell. He came to rest in a grey sprawling mountainous region. Vast ravines lay inches away from his slippered feet. He looked around him, then noticing a sign marked 'New Arrivals', walked along the path indicated by it. The path ended at a small room, not unlike that of a suburban train station waiting room. It was empty when he entered. He picked up a well leafed copy of 'Popular Caravanning', from a small pile on a table and began to read.
The door at the far end of the room suddenly burst open with a fearful roar, beyond it the anguished souls in torment screamed their sorrows. Harry looked up and found himself looking into the evil laced eyes of the devil himself. Harry put his magazine down and stood up. He poked the devil hard in the chest.
"What the blinking hell do you think you're doing bringing me here?"
The devil was momentarily thrown by this unexpected outburst and could only open and shut his mouth a few times.
"TWO WEEKS...that was all I got. Two weeks! What kind of a deal is that?"
"I think maybe," started the devil.
"You think what? What do you think? I'll tell you what I think!" snarled Harry.
The devil decided to take control of the situation. From thin air an ancient scrolled document suddenly materialised in front of Harry.The devil pointed a long thin, elegantly manicured talon at a roll of small print.
"If you read the contract Sir," began the devil cordially.
"How in the name of all that is holy can you expect an old person like me to read print like that? I'm a pensioner l am. I'd need new glasses to read print that small. You didn't thing of throwing in a free pair of glasses with Fit Fiona did you?"
"I er," stuttered the devil clearly thrown by Harry's logic. "The trainers," he added pointing at Harry's feet replaced by his now smouldering slippers.
"The trainers," scowled Harry. "You should see the lump of hard skin they've given me. They are not fit for man nor beast, you should make people down here wear them for punishment!"
The devil closed his eyes and regained his composure.
"Nonetheless," he began. He opened his eyes and regarded Harry with some impatience. "The time has come for you to accompany me."
"I'm not going anywhere with you sonny me lad." said Harry pulling himself erect to a magnificent 5ft 6 inches in slippered feet.
The devil at 8ft 2 inches leant menacingly over him. A look of clear annoyance on his angular chiselled features.
"You've welched on our deal."
"I've what?" said the devil.
"Welched." repeated Harry. "We didn't stand for them in the navy and I'll be blowed if I'm going to stand for one now."
The devil was quickly beginning to tire of Harry. He began to examine his long finger nails, idly picking dirt from beneath them.
"Is that so Mr Goss, well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that doesn't count for an awful lot down here."
"Do you know what we used to do with welchers in the navy?"
"No," sighed the devil. "But I feel sure you are going to tell me."
"We used to scupper them."
The devil opened his mouth to ask what 'scuppering' was, but in the few seconds it had taken him to do this he already knew. He dropped to the ground, clutching his groin in agony. A look of pain and disbelief frozen on his face.
"I will have my soul back now." said Harry curtly.
"Wh..y?"
"My soul please." repeated Harry, lifting a slippered foot menacingly.
The devil raised a trembling finger in the direction of the doorway of the room. Harry's soul appeared there, drumming its fingers impatiently on the doorframe.
"You took your time." it grumbled.
Harry found himself rising into the air. He looked down at the floor bound devil and shouted angrily at him.
"If you ever show your face at MY door again, I will have 'Trading Standards onto you!"
Harry Goss sipped his tea contently in his ancient armchair which creaked almost as much as he did. He looked in dismay at his dwindling supply of firewood, then spotting the trainers threw them on the fire instead. The doorbell rang. Harry opened the door. A young woman stood there smiling, a clipboard in her hand.
"Can I interest you in a free home demonstration of our super dooper pooper scooper?
Harry, who did not own a dog, smiled and happily signed the contract.
.
