A Box of PAIN

Aye aye.

I stopped in my tracks and looked in at the shop window I was passing.

There were various items on display draped over bored-looking mannequins and whilst what I could see was largely shit and only fit for an emaciated buffoon to wear, it did remind me that I needed some new duds.

I trooped into the shop with a maskless belligerent strut like a Northman who has been told he can't shag his sister.

Pawing through the gaudily coloured rags that passed for streetwear these days, I noticed that the trend in trouser legs seemed to be not to be long enough to cover the ankle.

Fucking diddies

I murmured to no one in particular.

Diddies of course being that fine Scottish slang for breasts, most notable in its fame for its slightly wince-inducing use in the laddish phrase diddy-ride. Which, though rare, is one of the more splendid of penile diversions to be had.

Oho, what's this?

My garment rooting had come up trumps and I had found a fetching looking T-Shirt, it looked like a fine thing.

This is getting tried on.

I spied a shirt also then another T-shirt and picking them up, skipped toward the changing rooms with the mad grin of a handsome man about to be made more handsome.

In fact, I felt excited, like Mr Ben hoping for a pirate adventure.

Some spangly youth gurned at me as I swished in.

Can I help you with anything?

He asked with all the vim of a wilted lettuce.

Can you fuck, matey-chops but thank you!

I breezed into a cubicle and pulled the curtains closed smiling to myself with the knowledge that in mere moments I would pull the curtains apart and emerge like a beautiful butterfly.

My top was off in moments and I fumbled with the hanger on the shirt which I had decided to try on first.

Something weird-looking shifted bulbously in the corner of my eye and I turned to face the thing head on.

Hot shitting bats?!?! What the fuck was that!!

I backed away from the beast that stared at me from the opposite wall of the cramped confines of the changing cubicle.

It was like something from a medieval painting, all doughy boobs and drowned corpse skin.

A monster! No doubt sent from the Deep Kings as a punishment for stealing one of their Salt Wives so long ago. Damn, they had long memories.

I raised an iron hand in a killing blow and made to strike.

As I did the beast opposite me did the same.

Sweet quacking Jesus?! Was that a mirror? Was that thing in the mirror me?

It simply couldn't be, it was all breasts and rolls of flesh like a Russian man in an ill-fitting tracksuit.

Was this store playing a jape on me? Had they installed funhouse mirrors in their changing rooms? Desperately I lunged for the curtain and swept it aside, stumbling out like Johnny Depp exiting a private jet.

I staggered into another cubicle and pulled the curtain shut behind me.

Slowly I opened my eyes which had been clenched shut.

Noooooooo!!

It was the same, each mirror showing me to be a pendulous toad-like creature in semi-human form.

Slowly I turned and looked in each of the ever so helpfully supplied mirrors on each wall.

It was no use. Fighting back vomit, I realised that each one showed the same half-naked beast, the beast that was me, from many different and unflattering angles.

I wiped the disgust sweat from my brow and set my mouth in a grim line.

Some minutes later I emerged from the cubicle and strolled casually to the simpering Gollum that I had passed only minutes ago when life seemed like a happy and hedonistic adventure and not a crushing black void of doom.

Are we taking any items today, sir?

It simpered.

I thumped the items on the desk before him and growled unhappily like an old dog remembering when it once had testicles.

No, these are all rubbish. Thank you.

I thumped out.

Fucking clothes shops.