I spend my days wandering the streets in hope that someone will accost me, giving me some adventure to go on. It's been pretty quiet so far, apart from a couple of convictions for prostitution, but the whole thing was a sham... I mean, I didn't even open my eyes. No court in the land would have convicted me, except that one. I'm appealing - the judge told me so himself. ...Quiet, until yesterday, or last week, or last month. It happened, but I forget the dates: I was too busy living it to buy a watch so that I could look at the date.
As with all rich people who accost people on the street, he wore a top hat. I didn't know what to make of his cut-off jeans, but he was wearing them over his suit trousers, so whatever they said about his character, it was in addition to normalcy. He offered me £100,000; I said it wasn't enough. £200,000? I replied that as it was his second offer I had to decline it, fully aware that his third offer was the one he would mean. He'd heard of that manner of business dealing before, and came back with £4,000. I was sorely tempted to accept, but I help firm and pointed out that he'd offered me £200,000 not five seconds ago. He said times had changed, I said they hadn't, he acceded, beaten. We signed the contract for £250,000 plus a live-in maid with one large breast and one small.
Now I'd find out what I'd agreed to do. The tension was unbearable, so I killed myself. These rich people have a cure for everything nowadays don't they? And they're dashed thoughtful to boot: he'd written down my mission on a piece of paper so that I would be tense no more. "Spy on my wife. Tell me what she does. Infiltrate her inner sanctum in any way you can, but if you need to... well... you know... infiltrate her, then do it with your eyes closed or I'll pay someone to break your legs, then wait for them to heal and break them again."
I stuck a magazine to my back, bribed a newsagent, strengthened the shelf and sat. When sitting supremely still you have some interesting thoughts and ideas, don't you? I found myself contemplating what I later found out where the fundamental tenets of Buddhism, albeit with a more chewing gum, chocolate bar, cigarette slant. The target entered the shop; I switched on my 'buy me' vibes. Nothing. I took the batteries out, blew, put them back in again, and still nothing. It might have been slow, constant thinking, or it might have been no thinking replaced momentarily by quick thinking. It might even have been a three ear pile up on the M4, but I reckon it was one of the first two. I vibed the 'buy me' vibes to the magazine stuck to my back, she succumbed, paid, and shuffled off with her copy of Ovulation Monthly with free life sized doll. Phase 1 completed. Kill rate 0%. Secrets found 0/3. Buddhist Confectionery Multiplier x4. Total score: 840.
On the way home she stopped at the supermarket, the greengrocers, the butcher, the baker, the café, the restaurant, the sandwich bar, the top secret headquarters of an ultraviolent revolutionary group whose name escapes me, the soup kitchen, the health food shop, the junk food shop, the junk food shop, the sweet shop, the used-to-be-sweet-but-then-got-a-shot-of-testosterone shop, back to the supermarket to stock up, and then home. She wasn't fat, she just had a lot of fatty food filling and stretching her stomach.
When she got home, she put her keys on the table, took her earrings off, drooped the magazine, her handbag and me in a corner, had sex with the sofa, made herself a cup of tea, then told me she knew I was spying on her for her husband. First and foremost I'm honest, so had I been awake I would have confirmed that she was correct. I was, however, asleep, only knowing what she said by later listening back to the tape recorder I'd balanced delicately on page 89 of the magazine. I presume to test her suspicions, she drew a skewer from her inside sock pocket and proceeded to stab me in the leg as many as thirty or forty times. "Don't bleed. Don't bleed, don't bleed, don't bleed..." I thought to myself over and over again, hoping that when I passed out from the pain the last word would be 'don't', not 'bleed' for fear that in my weakened state I might forget all that preceded and allow myself to pump and ooze.
The next thing I knew was that all life is pain and there's nothing you can do about anything, but that was many, many years later. In the future if this happened last week, last week if this happened many, many years ago. I awoke, bloodless, targetless, but apparently with enough to report to earn my money and maid. I don't profess to understand, but I'll happily benefit from my actions.