The Tw@trix – Chapter 7

The modified electric wheelchair hummed across the floor. The “commode” modification was a stroke of genius, saving the owner valuable hours per day, and stopping him having to get up (which was something he didn’t like to do much anyway, as shifting his huge bulk left him breathless, and it also played hell with his gout).

Having collected his copies of The Daily Mail and The Daily Express from the solid steel (fire-proof and bomb-proof) mail-box fixed to the door behind his letterbox, he set about flicking through them. He stuffed stale cakes into his face whilst scribbling notes about how his beloved country was going to hell in a handcart. The notepad was resting on his well-read copy of ‘Mein Kampf’. Portraits of his heroes – Thatcher, Tebbitt, Powell, Mosley, Mussolini, and of course, The Fuhrer – looked down upon him with what he always thought of as warm approval.

He checked his notes:
HAVE MUSLIMS GIVEN THE MEMORY OF DIANA SWINE FLU?
ARE IMMIGRANTS GIVING THE ROYAL FAMILY CANCER?
HAS THE LABOUR PARTY GIVEN THE CONSERVATIVE PARTY DIABETES?
COULD LESBIANS KILL YOUR CHILDREN?
ARE SINGLE MOTHERS MOLESTING YOUR PENSION?
‘Just the usual stuff then’ he thought.

He was just about to start typing the latest edition of his online publication “The Daily Truth” when there was a knock at the door to his flat. His heart skipped a beat. His wheelchair hummed to life as he twiddled the joystick and whizzed across the room. Next to the door a quick glance at his CCTV camera told him that he wasn’t about to be raided by the ‘p.c. brigade’, ‘loonie lefties’, or a terrorist cell from the local mosque. (You could never be too careful, was his motto). His heart resumed its usual slow thudding when he recognized the figure on the screen as Dave from the opposite flat who was carrying shopping bags, as usual. He checked his black shirt for any food morsels and brushed them off. He always wore a black shirt as a nod to Oswald, and on this occasion his shirt was littered with enough food to feed an Ethiopian for a week. (Not that he’d let them have it, as Ethiopia was definitely foreign). He set about unlocking and unbolting all 12 locks and bolts he had on his front door.

Having the manager of the local Lidl as a neighbour proved a godsend for both of them. Dave’s store had the lowest wastage figures in the whole of Nottinghamshire, as every out of date item was put aside for his neighbour, the poor old sod. He never seemed to go out so Dave figured he was doing him a favour, delivering all the out of date stuff once per week. And he seemed to genuinely appreciate it rather than be insulted. Dave was always invited in, but ever since that first occasion where he was made tea with milk that had gone off, and a sandwich made with bread that had a distinctly blue/green hue and ham that should have been buried, he had always declined. With the shopping bags dropped inside the door, pleasantries and thanks were exchanged, and the door closed, locked, and bolted numerous times.

Packets were stuffed into over-flowing cupboards and freezers. Furry things that were once vegetables were quickly peeled and sliced. Anything vaguely meat-like (sausages, mince, chicken pieces) were also quickly sliced and diced. Both meat and vegetables were thrown into the catering-sized pot that was sat on the cooker, and mixed into the cold brown congealed gloop that was already in there. Throwing in a few random herbs and spices, he gave a contented grin and said (to no-one in particular, as he lived alone) “Mmmm… I’ll call that ‘goulash’. I was getting sick of calling it ‘stew’.”

He couldn’t resist. He hummed over to his computer desk and jacked into the Tw@trix as “FriarTuck”. He just had to tell them all about his culinary adventures. Other users sat listening politely as he typed about his recipes, “his bargains” from Lidl, and his frozen food regime. He liked educating them.

Something nagged at his brain though. He saw the word ‘gay’ being typed and suddenly remembered what he was doing earlier. ‘No matter’ he thought, ‘The Daily Truth can wait. I can tell my friends in here everything’.

The latest edition of ‘The Daily Truth’ was, in fact, the only edition, and it was yet to actually make it as far as a web-page. Things changed too quickly, he reasoned. In this fast-paced world of political cut-throat journalism, people want today’s truth, not yesterdays. Plus he didn’t have a clue how to create a web-page.

So he told them the hard truths they didn’t want to hear. Blacks. Asians. East Europeans. Gays. Dole scroungers. The education system. The judicial system. He told them ‘the truth’ – or at least his concept of it. And the P.C. brigade could go jump for all he cared. He knew they were watching him. They were always watching him. They had probably tapped his phone, and his computer too. But he was exercising his right to free speech no matter what people said about him.

People were typing nasty things to him, so he ignored them, and flicked through his selection of local take-away menus for tonight’s supper (he’d have some goulash in a bit, that would be eaten for elevensies, lunch, afternoon snack and dinner). He didn’t know what to have. Indian? Chinese? Italian? Thai? Ok, he admitted, not all foreigners should go home. The ones that made the tasty food and delivered it to him, they could stay. Just them though.

He then started to search online for motorcycles that were capable of carrying his hefty frame. When he realized that they didn’t construct motorcycles from steel girders, he hummed over to the cupboard, as he was feeling a bit peckish. Again.

Back to the computer he tapped out his daydreams about motorcycling around the country, but deep down, he knew he’d be stuck in the electric wheelchair until the day his heart gave out. Or until the day the commode over-flowed and electrocuted him.