Ding-dong, ding-dong, the doorbell rang.
‘Damn, blast,’ Mr. Crotchet cursed. He was elbow deep in flour and didn’t need to be disturbed by Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Couldn’t they read the notice on the door: NO JUNK MAIL. NO COLD CALLERS. NO RELIGIOUS GROUPS. What was the point of spending all that money if people ignored it.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Persistent buggers, he fumed to himself since there was nobody there to hear him.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
‘Ok, Ok, I give up!’ Mr. Crotchet roared and wiping his hands on a tea-towel he slithered to the door.
‘Well!’ he cursed as he opened the door to find a young man with a badge around his neck. ‘What are you selling?’ he didn’t wait for an answer, ‘I don’t give to charity on the doorstep.’
Mr. Crotchet was shabbily dressed and even from a distance the caller smelt the piss. He slammed the door shut and went back to his bread.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.
Mr. Crotchet picked up a bread knife and went to the door. ‘Bugger off before I call the police.’
The young man retreated a couple of steps. ‘But… but,’ he stammered.
Mr. Crotchet closed the door firmly and with heartbeat soaring, retreated to his kitchen.
The young man was shaking. He found his mobile phone and called HQ. What was he to do? He’d come to tell the old geezer he had won £32 million on the Euro-Lottery.
Inside the house Mr. Crotchet fumed and pounded the dough even harder.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 