the butt mutt

Once upon a time, not long ago, I was sitting in the office of our little theatre trying to come up with a good idea for a story about food. I had chosen the theatre because in those days, the days between Christmas and New Year, it was quiet and secluded. That, and very, very messy, as I found when I went into the kitchen to prepare myself a nice cup of tea. Used coffee mugs, dirty dishes, a pot with residues of mulled wine and quite a number of ashtrays bristling with cigarette stubs and burnt matches. Exasperated, I threw up my hands: Did nobody ever clean in here? I sighed and said to myself: “I wish there was any other way to get rid of this mess than me tidying up yet again.” Then I shook my head, put the kettle on and left everything as it was.

The next day and the day after and the day after that, everything was fairly much the same. I sat and smoked and thought, occasionally getting up to fetch a cup of tea. The mess I ignored. But every evening when I closed the kitchen door, I muttered to myself: “It would be really nice if at least these bloody ashtrays weren’t always so full.”

As I passed the kitchen on my way to the office the next morning, there was a faint rumble in the closet in which we keep the paint. But you see, this is an old building and strange noises are fairly common. I ignored it and sat down to work. It was only when I lit my first cigarette that I noticed that the ashtray on the desk next to my screen did not contain any stubs. I was startled. Had I emptied it the previous evening? I couldn’t remember, and so I decided to ignore this as well.

After an hour or two of smoking and thinking about a suitable plot for my story, I went to the kitchen to make some tea. I searched the sideboard for my Earl Grey, and noticed that all the other ashtrays were decidedly less full than the last time I gave them a closer look. Waiting for the water to boil, I looked around. Everything was just as I had left it.

Then the rumble returned. A queasy feeling welled up in me, but for once I was brave and went over to the paint closet and opened the door. Nothing unusual. The paint pots were neatly stacked on the shelves, and the paint rollers lay peacefully in their bucket. The only disarray was a grey piece of fabric lying on the floor under one of the shelves. I bent down to pick it up and throw it away. As I stretched out my hand, the shelf said, “Don’t you dare.” Dumbstruck, I withdrew my hand and tried to stand straight, but bumped my head against the shelf. I squealed.

“There you go.” The voice said in a complacent tone. “That’s what happens when you try tugging other people’s tail. Hah!”

Again, the rumble was heard; the tail disappeared, and instead a head the size of a football appeared and looked at me reproachfully. It had two floppy ears, tiny yellow eyes, and a wrinkled snout protruding from under grey, tangled fur which seemed to cover the whole … thing. The creature was about half a meter in height and just as long. It had four legs and also a tail, with which I had first made acquaintance. Now, it wiggled and waggled its way from under the shelf, out of the closet and into the kitchen.

“What are you?” I asked.

“I am the Butt Mutt.” It said and vigorously started wagging its tail and drooling a little. “Sorry, I can‘t control this; it seems to be an inbuilt feature.” The Butt Mutt looked mortified.

“What is a Butt Mutt?”

“Not A Butt Mutt. The Butt Mutt.”

“Ok, The Butt Mutt. So what are you – some kind of dog or something?”

The Butt Mutt sighed. “Well, it seems I resemble a dog. However, I am not. I am the Butt Mutt, although my physical appearance…”

“Ok, fine, you’re a dog.” I cut him short. “What are you doing here?”

“Always full of questions, eh?” The Butt Mutt sneered disdainfully. “I am here because apparently someone wanted me to… And I can already very well imagine who that might have been.” He gave me a nasty look.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t even know that you existed, how could I want you to come here then? We’re not in some modern fairy tale or something.”

“Oh, the enlightenment has struck again. Wonderful.” The Butt Mutt coughed. He spat up a blotch of grey goo and coughed even harder. Disgusted, I made a step backwards and earned a reproaching look. “A little squeamish, aren’t we? By the way, this is all your fault.”

“What?”

“Yes, yes. All your fault. Did you even bother to think about my name? Eh? I am the Butt Mutt. I am here because you complained about the full ashtrays. Thrice. In a row. I have to eat your stubs. But,” he coughed, “I can’t stand the ashes.” The creature worked himself into a rage. “Have you got the faintest idea what it is like to eat from an ashtray? The dust, and the stink? And then the aftertaste it leaves – disgusting.”

I didn’t know what to do with the Butt Mutt. He was irate, shaking with rage, but somehow this looked very funny. I smiled, sat down on one of the chairs and lit a cigarette, while listening to his rants. However, once I had taken the first drag, the Butt Mutt’s tail started to wag uncontrollably. I could see he was trying to keep his composure, but then his snout began to twitch. By the time I had finished my fag, he had drivelled and drooled all over the kitchen floor. He was yipping and yapping and whimpering and whining. I stubbed out my cigarette, looked at him questioningly and raised my right eyebrow. He started to scrape at the chair. I took the fag-end and flicked it away into a corner. The Butt Mutt chased after it and swallowed it whole. Then, he instantaneously calmed down. He turned around and gave me an indignant look.

“Did you have to do that? This was mean.” And the Butt Mutt started ranting and raving again. I listened to him and mused what a funny little creature he was. His character, though, I found utterly disagreeable. He shouted and railed at me and my smoking, spluttering his grey mucus all over the kitchen. Then he interrupted himself.

“Excuse me, would you mind turning around for a second?” I looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Now, will you turn around already?” It was obvious he was going to throw another fit, so I did as he commanded. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of water trickling on the floor. The Butt Mutt had pissed in our kitchen! I had enough.

“Butt Mutt,” I said. “Would you mind leaving now?”

“I can’t,” he whined. “You ordered me here.”

“Ok, so now I order you to leave.”

“No, no, no! It doesn’t work like that. You wished for me, three times you did. I exist because you wanted me to. I was willed into existence to eat your filthy, disgusting cigarettes. You can’t just kick me out!” He shook his head and looked at me. “I will have to stay here.”

This didn’t sound promising at all. I asked, “So, I willed you here? By saying something thrice?”

“Yes. It’s the days between Christmas and New Year belong on either side, that’s why it worked…”

“Butt Mutt?” I said. “Fuck off.”

“What?” He gasped.

“Fuck off. Fuck off now, will you.” I grinned and waited. Nothing happened. The Butt Mutt smiled.

“It doesn’t work like this. No, no, no. It’s important that you say it unwittingly.”

“Hm. So what do we do now? I can’t write here with you coughing and spitting your phlegm everywhere. We’d need someone to clean this up.” He looked at me. “I don’t know. Just someone, I guess. To clean up this mess.” He grinned at me.

“Have you anyone particular in mind?”

I thought for a second, then looked at him. “A cat, maybe?”

“A cat? What for?” He was taken aback.

“A cat. To lick up the …” The Butt Mutt gasped and shook his head, frantically. His left ear slapped against one of the chairs. But it was too late. Before I could raise my hand to my mouth, we heard a loud rumble in the closet and then a long, drawn-out wail. The Butt Mutt sighed.

“Great. Just great. The Mucus Puss.”

things to do with food

1. Buy your vegetables at the supermarket, special offer. Fuck the local farmers, fuck the food miles. Walk.

2. Stash it away in the fridge and forget about it.

3. Finally, remember it. Carry it over to your room, keep it near your bed until it goes off, keep it some more. Ignore the smell.

4. Offer some to your friends, preferably if it has lots of calories, preferably if they’re on a diet, smile.

5. Take your time to cook until you’ve none left to eat. Leave everything to rot on the stove.

6. Throw it at road signs and see if it sticks.

7. Give it away to poor-looking people on the bus.

8. Build little men out of matches and vegetables and decorate your neighbour's garden. Find out if he’s going to sue you.

9. Cut a hole in a pumpkin, then use it with your body parts.

10. Try the other way round with a cucumber.

11. Don't eat it.

the meadows

The morning after the storm I left my pad without locking the door. The wind had been raging all night and the rain beat hard against the window panes. Now, everything was quiet. The wail of the sirens had long died down. The downpour had turned into a slight drizzle, and the trees, relieved of the weight of their leaves, were slowly swaying in the breeze. I had a headache.

I stepped into the corridor, grey and smelling of piss. Shards of broken glass were lying around. I live in The Meadows, one of those dreary blocks of flats hovering over the city like the dreaded towers of sorcery in the fairy tales of old. Dingy, drab, dreary, the three magical d’s describing the reality of the tenants and their surroundings.

I walked down the corridor to the stairway. The lift was out of service. Someone had smashed the call buttons some time ago, but nobody bothered to call the proprietor.

I climbed down the stairs, all fifteen floors. Some of the windows had been smashed by the debris that was now lying peacefully at the bottom of the stairs. The air was fresh and chilly. I got the first good glance at the havoc that the storm had wreaked when I reached the entrance hall. The ground was full of leaves and torn-off branches, plastic bags and broken glass. The wrapping of a Yorkie bar sailed through the air and slowly settled on the lower step of the entrance to Mr. Nehru’s corner shop. Much to my surprise, Mr. Nehru was nowhere to be seen. I had expected him to be the first to show up here to inspect the damage, but the shop was closed. What really astonished me, however, was that no one had taken the opportunity to go on a little plunder and pillage spree, looting the shop and marauding the neighbourhood. It was very, very quiet.

I walked down to the ring road, but the usual noise of the traffic was missing. No cars, no traffic, nothing. At first it didn’t really get through, but after I had passed the subway and emerged in a Mediaeval Spon Street which was devoid of any sign of human activity, I began to feel queasy. The leftovers of the weekend had spread all over the street, and the drizzle was slowly soaking the burger wraps and leaves. Here, too, windows were smashed, cars parked in the middle of the road, a streetlight was perpetually flickering, on and off. I headed towards Corporation Street and the Belgrade. Nothing. On through the Burges to the Cathedral Lanes Shopping Centre, where all the youth gather and drink by the statue: nothing. No one. Just debris, broken flowerpots. Not one fucking human being in this town.

I turned left into Priory Row, passed through Cuckoo Lane and walked to the Cathedral. No sparrows, no pigeons, no tourists, even the grey squirrels were markedly absent. The floor was slippery with the grey drizzly rain that wetted the altar and slowly seeped through my old parka.

After two hours of aimlessly mooching around the city centre, I was feeling nauseous and tired. Debris was lying around everywhere. A street sign had been snapped off. Somewhere further away an alarm was wailing. Brown’s was closed, but I sat down on the doorstep and watched the empty street, the bus stop, the gift shop. It all looked slightly twisted, with no one about. Empty, lifeless. I thought of what had happened. What if there was… an accident? What if everyone had died, suddenly? What if the apocalypse had come and I missed it because I decided to get pissed last night? My mood grew decidedly worse now that I came to think of the fact that maybe people were queuing up for Judgement Day while my brain was soaked with cheap whisky and my legs unable to move. The thoughts kept coming. Visions of doom unravelled before my eyes. Words like karma and kismet suddenly acquired a whole new meaning. Although I was staring blankly into space, an agitated feeling was spreading from my chest to my arms and legs. I got up.

As I stepped into the road and turned downhill, I saw a lonely figure walking up Gosford Street. Relief mixed with the irrational fear that… the situation somehow reminded me of those horror flicks I used to watch when I was younger. It turned out it was no Zombie, but a suit in his late forties, which basically doesn’t make that much of a difference. At least the nausea disappeared. I stood in the middle of the road and watched the man approach. I mused that if my life were a movie, this would be one of the long, wide-angle shots.

The suit got nearer. He was breathing heavily from walking uphill, his glasses were steamed up, and he, too, was soaking wet. I nodded. He offered:

>> Terrible weather, this is, isn’t it?
>> You name it. I wouldn’t ask, but have you seen anyone of late?
>> I’m afraid no. Have you?
>> No. Don’t you think this is a little weird, the way everyone disappeared?
>> Now that you mention it – yes.

He nodded and gave a wry smile.

>> I just thought it was because I had slept in. My wife leaves the house quite early, so at first I didn’t take notice. But in the office there was no one about…

His voice trailed off. We watched the wind turning the pages of a newspaper. Amid the stillness of the scenery, the continuous motion seemed strangely out of place. The sound of flapping paper unnerved me. I suggested:

>> Have you already tried calling anyone?
>> No. I’m on my way to my mother’s, but I guess it won’t be worth the effort.
>> No, I don’t think it will…

Silence. The paper had disappeared down the road. The murmuring of the wind was faint; it felt as my head was stuffed with cotton wool.

>> Well, I guess then I might as well go home…

His voice came from far away. The queasy feeling returned.

>> I guess so.

I was at a loss for something to say. I still had a splitting headache, and the conversation was beginning to feel like a job interview. I ventured:

>> Er, say, do you by any chance happen to have a mobile?
>> Sure. Would you like to make a call?
>> No thanks, not really, no. It… I guess it won’t be worth the effort.

He was standing there, in the middle of the road, and didn’t stir or move. He was as inert as the parking cars. I didn’t dare hope that it would make a difference, but I decided that I should still try.

>> Would you mind… making a call for me?

He gave me a puzzled look, but got out his mobile.

>> What would be the number, then?
>> 0796 06 07 750. A friend.

He dialled. Raised the phone to his ear. Listened. I was waiting, patiently. He looked strained, somehow on edge. Then he shook his head and lowered the phone.

>> He doesn’t answer.
>> Oh, ok…

He was searching for something to say. In the end, he just gave up.

>> Ok.
>> Thanks.
>> You’re welcome.
>> Ok.
>> …

This was going nowhere. I said:

>> What will you be doing now?
>> I don’t know. Do you have any plans?
>> I don’t know.
>> Maybe I’d better go home; my wife might be home by now. I’ll have to repair the roof. Some of the tiles came down.

I was speechless. For a moment I felt the urge to slap him right across the face. Or maybe laugh out loud. Then again, what was the use? We’d missed the apocalypse, and that was all there was to it.

>> Oh, I see. Well…
>> Well…
>> Thanks then. See you.
>> See you…

The man looked around. On the backside of his head there was a barely visible bald spot. The wind had gathered force again, tousling the man’s thinning hair and whirling about wet leaves. It looked as if it was going to be another dark and uncomfortable night. I turned and went up the road. The man didn’t move, he just stared at the clouds. I left him there, grey suit on grey tarmac and made my way back through the city and the rain, back to Spon End.

When I reached The Meadows, the Yorkie bar wrapping had made its way down from Mr Nehru’s steps across the open space over to the stolen shopping cart on the concrete paving. A tiny blue dot amid the brown leaves and the white Tesco bags. I unlocked the entrance and walked up the stairs, all fifteen floors. The hallway smelled of piss and wet leaves. The door to my room stood open; I stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the heating. As I opened a tin of soup, it occurred to me that I probably wouldn’t see the suit again. I had asked for neither name nor address. The storm was raging; the rain was falling; black clouds piled up in the west. Twigs and branches were flying against the green-tiled façade of my own private tower of sorcery. I am a magician ruling over a kingdom of wind and nothingness. Somewhere in this town there is a man waiting for his wife to come home… I shake off the eerie feeling, sit down in the armchair beside the window, light a cigarette, and eat my soup.