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LARGE MCDONALDS MEAL half-eaten strewn along the
curb. This didn't have to happen. . .
If it happened during the day someone might have
done something about it. But it was night. A foggy
night forbidding all but the lowly likes of him. It
always fell on him. All the low tasks everyone left
discarded in their wake saying well someone else will
do it. Well fuck them all. Council paid litter-pickers for
a reason. And he had places to be. Had to salvage a day
stolen by others. He was better than all the others.
White plastic bag a little further ahead. The
McDonalds would be cleared up come tomorrow
morning. But the bag? He had heard tales of cats
getting their heads stuck in plastic bags. Well it was
unlikely any of the cats in this lovely neighbourhood
would be stupid enough to do such a thing.
A spit of rain. They said that meant God was crying.
For him.
If I don't do it who will? A cat might die. That didn't
have to happen. I could've stopped it.
He peaked over death's ledge. From the abyss he
could see this moment reflected. Him walking away.
The cat suffocating. Its dead hollow eyes judging him
for his needless sloth. Sure he was better than the
others. But how could you be better than a cat?
The bag lay waiting for its victim. No cars around
to judge. He went for it.
There was something inside something light. Paper
maybe. He didn't linger to look. People might be
watching through the windows. People might think he
was a bad man doing bad things in their lovely
neighbourhood. So he threw it into one of the lovely
neighbourhood bins and walked off.
He had done a good deed. He was among the few
who didn't ignore a bad deed. He was a good man.
He froze.
Papers maybe. Maybe something else. . .
The bin wasn't far back. He could turn back and
check. No one would think much of it.
One of the rooms in the bin's house lit up. Someone
peeked through the blinds. No chance of checking
now. It was done.
And he would never know what was in the bag.
The bedroom ceiling kindly asked him not to ignore
the question.
Not ignoring anything serious. It was just a bag.
Would he bet mummy and daddy's life on it? He
knew what might have been in that bag—anything.
Because he didn't look. Not really. Could have been
labels from delivery boxes thrown away by some
malevolent actor. Labels with addresses. Bin man might
be an identity thief. Might track down which bin it
came from. Innocents would get scammed lose all
their savings because of him.
Dumps can't look for that sort of thing.
Was he certain of that? Was he certain it wasn't
something else? Something more sinister?
He laughed. Of course he laughed. That was all he
did.
Sure. Some dealer's going to drop off a bag of
cocaine at the side of the curb. With cars passing. With
rain on the forecast. Sure.
Was he a dealer? How could he know how it
worked? How could he know the intentions of the rain?
It might have started as a sign to face his cowardice
and do the good deed. It might also have started
because God knew he would do the opposite. That he
would get bad people involved over a plastic bag. That
the next morning he would find mummy and daddy
bloodied and grey-eyed on his front porch.
God had tried to stop him. But people never
changed.
And he turned to his side sank his face into the
pillow thought about what all his friends might be
doing tomorrow. Fun things. And mummy and daddy
were going to die. Because he couldn't just walk on.
Because he had to be a good man.
It didn't have to happen.
It was a growing brighter outside. But all the bins
were still there. There was still time.
He approached that bin the cursed bin lifted the lid
quietly. Bag was still there. He nabbed it out and
walked away checked his pocket for the lighter. Still
there. All was well. Whatever its dark contents would
be turned to ash. Unsalvagable. Untraceable.
He trotted on home sang a sweet sweet song. An
ode to himself—a good good man. His song went
'All's well in Hope Town my love. Doves sing of the
hope in town. And I bring you my love. So why the
frown?'
A sharp bang shattered his beautiful song.
Something warm wet against his skin. His shirt
soaked red. A stabbing pain throbbed in his chest and
he fell to his knees. Shouts slurred. All was slurred. He
tried calling for help. But he could barely hear his
voice.
A pair of boots stood before him. In a muffled voice
they said 'That'll show you lot! No more of you
fuckers will fish through my bins or step near my
house again.'
Strange that boots could talk and walk off on their
own. Strange thing that cat. It just sauntered by like
nothing was happening like it were deaf. And it didn't
suffocate. It was alive. It was purring.
It lay by his head and licked his cheek.
'Thank you' it meowed.
Then it closed its eyes. And so did he.