Two Advertising Agents Sitting on a Bus

Two young advertising agents sat on a city bus, analysing billboard signs and symbols lining the streets.

“Let’s get to know each other,” the agent with gelled hair said, breaking the solemn silence. “Really dig under the surface.”

“Ok,” said the other agent, closing his eyes tight, “what am I thinking?”

“Um, you’re hungry, you want a burger.”

“How did you know?!”

“It’s innate, my friend. Now how about we try some Rorschach tests. I have some in my briefcase.”

“Now we’re talking, you don’t mess around.”

The agent with gelled hair held up a series of abstract images for the other agent to interpret.

“I see, uh, erm, a beautiful flower. Now, the next one looks like my uncle Albert—lovely man. Next I see a fourteen year old girl with great tits.”

“What?” the agent with gelled hair said.

“Fourteen, great tits—it’s right there, clear as day.”

“Okay,” the agent with gelled hair said, packing up, “I think we’ve dug a little too deep. Everyone’s different, I guess. So…what you up to tonight?”

“Dunno,” said the other agent with a sigh, “probably do a helluva lot of hard drugs.”

“Yes, yes I think that’s probably for the best.”

Two Conspiracy Theorists Sitting on a Bus

Two young conspiracy theorists sat on the top floor of a bus travelling to their university campus. They nodded their heads to a ramshackle live performance by Rage Against the Machine, playing on an iPhone hooked up to a Bluetooth speaker.

The conspiracy theorists turned the music up loud to stop Illuminati from eavesdropping—secret societies in this area were known to sacrifice students to the owl god, Moloch. And yet was there any point in resisting? The conspiracy theorists had already been microchipped by government agents and chemtrails lining the clear afternoon sky were poisoning their every breath.

As they neared the sleepy suburbs many commuters disembarked and all was quiet except for the hysterical rap-metal and the bus engine clearing its throat.

Feeling free to rant, one of the conspiracy theorists said, “It’s all very depressing. You can’t trust anyone these days—pregnant mothers, left-wing governments, afternoon soaps.”

“Soaps?” said the other conspiracy theorist, with a birthmark shaped like Stalin on his cheek.

Guitars and drums continued to crash around the bus like a hammer hurled at an electric fan.

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!

“Oh, absolutely, they unpick the mind with their relentless portrayal of insidious emotions. Not to mention the sexualisation of car mechanics and divorce lawyers.”

“I guess you’re right. I’ve got beef with Dr Phil, myself.”

“Totally get that.”

The conspiracy theorists alighted at the next stop and strolled to their uni dorms, passing a polluted lake where students hid in the reeds, smoking weed. Most of the other students were crammed inside the bar drinking watered down German beer, choking on Bombay mix and playing beer pong on taped-up leather couches. The conspiracy theorists had nothing in common with these wasters—they had no idea about the reptilian overlords plotting earth’s destruction.

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!

“So, what you doing tonight?” said the conspiracy theorist with the Stalin birthmark.

“No idea,” said the other. “I might just take a bubble bath.”

Substitute

The delivery guy steps out of his van an hour late, clearly hungover, clutching a half-empty tin of cider, wearing aviator shades and a cowboy hat. He gives me an I shagged your sister type look using just his eyebrows.

“We don’t have everything you ordered, okay? There are a few fucking substitutes,” he says.

“Like what?” I say, massaging my temples, expecting the worst.

Rain begins to patter down and the delivery guy’s fringe is flattened like a limp piece of iceberg lettuce.

“Well, you ordered crinkle cut chips, instead you get a peregrine falcon.”

“Huh?” I say.

“Yes, it’s in the passenger seat with a bag over its head. And then there’s the battered cod which we’ve swapped for a set of oversized beach pebbles. And your juice pops we’ve swapped for a long, experimental novel by an extra from Seinfeld.”

“To be honest, I’m struggling to find the logic in all these substitutions.”

The delivery guy sighs, “Fine, there’s one more, would you like to hear it or not?”

“Go on then.”

The delivery guy places his cider on its side by my feet and I don’t dare ask why. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled tissue and flings it over his shoulder like a magician. It flutters in the breeze. He ruffles about in what seems like twelve other pockets and finally finds something small and glinting.

“You ordered sponge scourers. They’re in stock but that’s not the point. Anyway, instead of, you know, whatever, we’re giving you a gold locket with a strand of your late mother’s hair inside.”

The delivery guy wipes a bead of moisture from the tip of his nose and lobs the locket right at me.

“Gosh,” I say, as I deftly catch the jewellery in midair. I hold it up to a spinning shaft of light breaking through the brewing storm. Welling up, I say, “how beautiful!”

Tim Frank’s short stories have been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Rejection Letters, The Forge Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook of experimental prose poetry is called, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press).

Twitter - @TimFrankquill