Week 3: Record

He waited for them. Another ten minutes. And then another ten, twenty, thirty, another fucking hour, he still waited.

Where the fuck are they? Fucking cunts. Another fag. More internet. Fucking Facebook. He was too old. Too old for perving. At his son’s friends on the piss at uni no less. Some rides there but.

He was on the clock so it was nothing to him. It was just the fucking waiting; the shitting, cunting, fucking sitting around for a bunch of dickhead fuckwits; that’s what got to him.

He rang the office but again, no answer. Cunts.

The wife had packed his lunch so the feet went up and the sandwiches came out. Egg. He stuffed his face. He was fat as fuck this weather but he’d stopped giving a shite years ago. The kids were grown, there was no sign of grandkids, he couldn’t play football anymore and he hardly ever fucked his missus so why shouldn’t he be fat?

Smelly farts from the egg. It would have been typical for that shower of miserable arseholes to show up just as he stunk the place out but they didn’t.

More waiting.

Pornhub. No wanking: just a watch of some filthy one. Younger than his daughter he thought. Too much. X out fucking quick-smart. Delete browsing history. Too old and fat even for porn now. It was shocking anyone in the business still wanted to work with him.

The last sandwich and a slug of Coke. More gas.

Maybe they weren’t coming. He felt like a right thick cunt for not realising that earlier. Sure why the fuck would they be, really. Did he ever think, honestly? The call had come out of the clear blue sky. He hadn’t questioned it. Dope.

He fingered a bit of egg that was caught in the corner of the lunchbox, gummed it and drained the Coke. Both were warm.

The buzzer from above and footsteps and banging. They were here. Hide the lunchbox and a spray of Lynx. Down they came, offering apologies. He waved them away and he slunk off to make tea.

Back in his chair he slurped and watched them set up. This lot were younger than his daughter and all.

A press of a button and the main one spoke to him, looking through the glass, looking like a kid.

“Mr Jenkinson, we”

“Call me Jenkin”

They liked that.

“Jenkin, we just wanted to say how much of an honour it is to work with you.”

“Thanks son. Now, get yourself comfortable and let me know ready to do your thing”

The light went off and he watched them look at each other, happy to be there. This could be good, he thought. A few adjustments later he got the nod. He leaned forward, raised a thumb and pressed the red button on the right:

RECORD.