New year at the Pastry House

I was alone when I saw them. He was an old decrepit and the other; an old English sheepdog. I took upon myself to introduce them to the pain which mixed fantastically with the moisture in the air, so eloquent and distasteful that I just had to put my foot straight through the glass. Which came as a surprise after all and suffered no misery nor deceit. I hated them when they came to dinner. They took the glasses close to their beaks and lowered the wine onto the floor. I had to clean for several years to get that stain off of me. But when all was said and done I knew that the Irish stew was ready for consumption, I floated into the kitchen with such a relief that I could barely breathe and handed out the ladle to the sheepdog. He lapped it up as if it was nothing and I wept, for years and years over such a trifling lack of reality. How could this dog be so cruel to the elves next-door? I hated him for this; eating my stew. Never mind I thought, this problem shall surely cease when it is cured liked the beef platter in the larder. Ill cut them up for minimal servings and use the dog ligament to tie my shoelaces. What an idea!, I thought. Then I keep the old mans brain in the fridge and in summer ill put it into goodie bags for all the wonderful children of the area. But something of infinite demise moved me, shifted my efforts elsewhere. I became nonchalant and sifted the flour instead and thought of how I could dispose of the bodies. I knew that the local policeman is rather insincere and I knew from previous experience that I could get away with it, he lives on the island, three kilometres away, so, why would all this skulduggery be a problem. I meant to say how could the pineapple sitting upon the mantelpiece ever neglect its duties as prime investigator of the local police force? A pineapple, why did I call it that? I don’t know what came over me, I meant to say his head.
I dropped the camera lens on the floor and miraculously it wasn’t broken, then I stuffed the remainder of the stew into the old mans briefcase, leather and full of holes, the kind of holes that pencils slip straight through. I knew from then on that this was to be a challenging pursuit. Whenever I get the urge to do this kind of devious deed my mind goes blank. As if taken away to some distant place where I am not myself, id continue to press the floors down to stop the crushing of my limbs and distil the wine for more purity. The stew was in itself tasteless, perhaps I put too much water into the mix. My spine was aching by now and all around me was blissfully peaceful and quiet. Not a crow in the tree. I decided then that I would go to take a much needed rest and proceeded to walk the flight of stairs in the centre of the hallway instead of the main staircase. All because I seem to sway to and fro all the way up it. When the payphone rang, I nearly toppled over with excitement for only when this does appear to be written shall it ever soothe the endless clanging of the mind, with all its barren haunting and forbidden territory. It was the old man from downstairs, I left them at the table, why could this fool be ringing me now, just I was about to slip off to my slumber land. Of all the wishes I could’ve borrowed, of all the lies I seemed to love the idea of fateful vengeance, make sure I dig three holes for our graves. I make them in the back garden, when they come back home from work, Ill shoot the dog and drive a screwdriver through the old mans temple. Then the house is finally mine and I will sigh. With all the intricacies of his plan I wish to resort to sleep, afterwards I will claim to the ascent, a noble granite steed and with this I shall reign a thousand days. Then after I have put in what I came for, I shall live for a an age, an age in which brutal terror reigns and I am master.
I went downstairs to see the two of them quietly sipping tea and exchanging a surprised glance when I came down from my artificial slumber. What are these clowns still doing in my house anyway, bang! The bullet shot through the air right into the dogs head, bang!, and another, this time in the old mans head. I did it! No more uninvited guests, no more triviality or murder. I shall be an isolated being from now till my death, I am sure it will be fine. I never needed people around anyway, all I needed was an income from my writing. You see I write articles and short stories for magazines and I can get quite a good amount of money from doing this. The local policeman knocked on my door and I whimpered, to think how I could get these bodies out of the kitchen so our kind, warm hearted minister of local defence could sit down and have a cup of tea with me and again interrupt me from my daily habit of writing. I spotted a handsaw and cut the bodies roughly into pieces and threw them into the vat of stew, oh dear god, does this policeman have nostrils? For he can surely smell from outside the boiling flesh in the pot. But nothing, the breeze outside was forceful so I invited him in. From the minute I saw him I couldn’t stand just how rude he was, he looked around my house instead of sitting in the chair and awaiting his cup of tea that was on the boil. He had recently been on holiday but he came not with a tan, I hadn’t seen him for weeks. Usually he just comes for tea but this time he didn’t seem interested, he looked around and for a moment wondered as if smelling something strange in the air of my house. He sat down and drank the tea. Delicious!