One late Friday afternoon at work, I had the job of laying down some rat poison: Soviet Army-Surplus rat poison, a toxin so lethal and inimical to life that I’d had to order it off the Dark Web. I waited for everyone to leave for home and made as full a coverage as I could in the hope of dealing with the pests in one fell swoop. Well, I THOUGHT everyone had left for home, but as soon as I’d finished the job, who should I see sneaking out of my boss’s office but his wife, Mary.

I had been employed for over twenty years as general gofer and dogsbody to Mick McDonald, Managing Director of MAC Civils Ltd. Both he and Mary were hewn from the mean streets of Dublin and each possessed a combustibility of temper that would have drawn admiring glances from Bruce Banner. On a good day, you couldn’t want better company; a hilarious anecdote was never far from their lips, and an invitation to join them for a round of drinks never far behind. However, the less said about the bad days, the better, when a hilarious anecdote and an invitation to the boozer were about as likely to leave their lips as an ebullient run-through of Rule Britannia.

“Mr. Twitch!” Mrs. M exclaimed. “I thought you’d left for home!”
“I’m actually just leaving, Mary. What can I do for you? I’ve not seen you down here for ages.”
“Well, Brendan,” said Mary conspiratorially. “I wanted to keep Mick’s wedding anniversary present a secret, and I couldn’t think how. Then I had a brainwave: hide him in the office until the ‘big day’ on Monday.”
Confusion descended: “’Him’?” I asked.
“The present’s a hamster, Brendan: difficult to keep a hamster a secret.”
Mick McDonald had always struck me as being more of a sabre-toothed tiger owning sort of bloke, but I let it go as there was a more pressing problem at hand.
“Yes, but you can’t leave a hamster here, Mary. You see, I’ve been laying Soviet—”
“Just you make sure that the hamster is there on Monday morning, Brendan,” she commanded, and with that, she was gone, her car driving off and merging with the rush-hour hum.
I edged into the office, fearing the worst. As I said, this Russian poison was lethal and a mere sniff might have rendered the hamster kaput, but I immediately spotted him, happily tucking into Mick’s desk diary.
“Hello,” I said, bending down for a closer look. “Aren’t you a cute little fellow?”
“Who’s a cute little fella, Mr. Twitch?” came a voice, and I stood back in shock.
A growling burp announced Mick McDonald’s entrance. I slammed an upturned mug over the hamster and turned around.
“Go on, Mr. Twitch, who’s a cute little fella?” Mick repeated.
Terror froze my brain and I could think of nothing that would get me out of this fix.
“Oh, I just caught a reflection of myself,” I said weakly.
“I never had you down as the vain type, Brendan; and don’t take this the wrong way, but you ain’t cute, scary lookin’ fecker that you are.”
“Yes, boss.”
I gave the mug a nervous glance. Mick had owned it for nearly thirty years, refusing to part with it as it had been a present from his late mother. It bore the faded slogan ‘World’s Best Son’. For now, thankfully, it remained still.
“I didn’t expect to see you again until Monday, Mr. McDonald.”
“I need four cranes pronto,” he announced, taking a seat at his desk.
“Cranes, boss?”
“Yes, cranes; four of ‘em; red, green, yellow, and black.”
To my concern, the mug began to inch across the desk: I had to think of some way of distracting him.
“Okay, boss, but I wouldn’t have thought I could get four cranes to you before Monday,” I said.
“That’s feckin’—” Mick stopped mid-rant and stared at the mug.
“Sorry, Mr. M; that’s feckin’ what?”
“My mother’s mug!”
“Yes, that’s your mother’s mug. ‘World’s Best Son’: a lovely gesture.”
“Don’t feckin’ patronise me, you arsehole – it moved!”
“The mug? No, it can’t have done; mugs don’t move.”
“I’m telling you that feckin’ thing moved!”
“Your mother’s mug?”
“Yes, that mug! It just moved about three inches across my desk!”
“Yes, I noticed it had been doing that.”
Mick had now gone puce.
“Sorry, Mick, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick!” I said desperately. “It’s your desk, it’s a bit wonky, and I’ve noticed things sliding across it all week – look, there it goes again!”
The mug moved off, this time in the opposite direction.
Mick looked at me like he wanted to commit murder, but then stared intently back at the mug and deflated like a bouncy castle with teeth.
“Mr. McDonald, are you okay?” I asked concernedly.
“Ma?” he replied.
“Sorry, Mick, I didn’t quite catch that?”
“Is it you, ma? It’s me, Mickey!”
“No, it’s me, Mick: Brendan Twitch. I’m not your ma.”
“I was talking to the mug, you spanner!”
The mug didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry, ma, for all the things I did!” cried Mick, clasping his hands and sinking to his knees.
“Mr. McDonald, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, then stop, I can explain!”
“Ma, knock twice if you can hear me!”
“Please Mick, this is nonsense, it’s not your ma, it’s just—”
“A wonky table, Brendan? The feckin’ thing – sorry, ma.”
Mick moved away from the table, came up close, and whispered, “That feckin’ thing just moved the other way!”
I couldn’t argue with him; it had.
“Well, the table must be wonky on both sides.”
“Wonky my arse; it’s me ma, she’s trying to contact me! It’s not any old mug, Brendan, it’s the ‘World’s Best Son’ mug that she sent me on her deathbed. She put her soul into that mug!”
“Yes, okay, but if you go around saying that your dead mother has taken possession of your mug, people will talk, Mick. They’ll say you’ve lost it.”
He looked back at the mug. Thankfully, it didn’t move.
“Lost it, you say?” he asked, rubbing a stubbled chin.
It seemed that finally, he was beginning to see reason. He took a deep breath.
“Maybe you’re right. Okay, I’m going for a drink, so just make sure you get me those cranes first thing Monday, alright Twitch?” and with that, he picked up his car keys and left, giving the mug a wide berth.

I didn’t have time to dwell on how close I had come to calamity as I had those cranes to organise, and I took to my task with vigour. I came into the office on Saturday and spent the entire day making phone calls. My first mistake. That afternoon, there was a knock at the office door.
“Brendan Twitch?” enquired a suited man with a moustache.
“No, he’s at home, it’s a Saturday,” I lied, wanting to keep things short.
“Dear oh dear,” he replied, then silence.
“Look, he’s at home, it’s a Saturday,” I repeated, trying to remain calm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy….”
“Very well, but I shall return on Monday. Kindly advance this letter to Mr. Twitch at your earliest opportunity.”
Closing the door, I hurled the letter into the bin: nuisance callers! My second mistake.

Anyway, Monday morning came and after admiring my cranes in the yard, I went inside. A loud crash came from Mick’s office. Imagining burglars, I edged up the corridor and peeped through the gap in the door.
Mick was there, scrabbling about on all fours with a frighteningly fevered expression. It seemed that his encounter with the ‘spirit world’ had turned him into some sort of maniac. I felt pity welling up in my stomach, and I knew that I had to reveal the truth.
“Mick, if it’s your ma, then I think I can explain!”
“What?”
“The mug, I can explain everything.”
“Oh, I know all about that! Where are those feck

in’ cranes, Twitch?”
Mick was further gone than I’d thought if he expected to find cranes on the floor of his office.
“Well, Mr. McDonald, I arranged for them to be delivered outside.”
“Delivered? Outside? What in the name of fiery feck are they doin’ there?” he screamed. “Mary will be here, and I’ve got to get this finished: they should be on my ruddy desk.”
I thought it best that I got him some fresh air as quickly as possible.

We entered the yard, Mick walking slowly before me as if wading through treacle. He stopped and stared fixedly up at the cranes and said, “Feck.”
I stood alongside him and tried to read his expression. It was… enigmatic.
“Feck,” Mick repeated.
“There you go, boss: four cranes – red, green, yellow, and black, as requested…”
“Why are four cranes – they could be red, green, yellow, black, or feckin’ aquamarine for all I care – standin’ in my yard?”
“Don’t you recall? Last Friday, you…”
“Oh my good God! Cranes, man! Cranes! ‘Red, green, yellow, and black preferably’ – yes, I remember exactly. So why, in the name of Satan’s forked arse, have I got four cranes in my yard?!”
“Where else could I put them?!”
“You feckin’ feckin’ eejit!”
“You told me to get four cranes and four cranes is what I got – red, green, yellow, and black.”
“You f—” but for the first time in our acquaintance, I stood firm.
“And I got them; outside my working hours; and I don’t expect to get paid…”
“You f—”
“Not a single penny as payment, just recognition.”
He let out a low rumbling groan, and I felt a quaking horror last experienced by a Pompeiian c80AD.
“Oooooh! You feckin’ feckin’ eejit, Twitch!”
“Now, hold on—”
“Cranes, cranes, CRANES!!!”
He was off.
“C-R-A-Y-O-N-S,” he spelt out. “Cranes! I wanted four coloured crayons to draw my wife’s wedding anniversary card, thus saving myself a fiver! Why, by all that’s sacred, would I need four cranes, specifically red, yellow, green, and black? Did you think I wanted to impress a Rastafarian Godzilla?”
“A what?”
“A Rastafarian Godzilla!”
“Godzilla’s not real, boss, and he certainly wasn’t Rasta.”
“You big feckin’ shite, I know he’s not real, I’m just trying to understand the thought processes of a man who thinks I’d want some cranes; and not any old cranes, no, they have to be red, yellow, green, and black ones!”
I started to argue that I had simply misheard his accent and mistaken crayons for cranes, but put in these stark terms, I saw his point.

“Darlin’, why are there four cranes in your yard?” Mrs. McDonald had joined the party, and her entrance did not have the tranquillizing effect I might have hoped for.
“Aaagh!!” screamed Mick, and he ran indoors with his hands wrapped around his head.
“Where is it, Brendan?” Mary whispered, evidently unbothered by the strange behaviour of her husband and preferring to engage in a philosophical discussion. I hadn’t a clue what she was on about, but she didn’t relent.
“I said ‘where is it?’” she continued, a little more sternly this time, it had to be said.
“What, the packet of crayons?” I guessed, desperately.
“Pardon?”
In one go, I had exhausted my options.
“Sorry, Mary, it’s been a trying morning: what is it you’re after?”
“You know, the hamster: where is it?”
“Oh no,” I answered.
My brain tried to muster some clarity, but all I could see was an upturned hamster either full to the gills with Mother Russia’s finest deadly toxins or a hamster suffocated under a porcelain mug. Either way, there was as much chance of said hamster being alive as James Corden being alive after a one-man show at the Murder Wing of Strangeways.
“Oh no?” Mary flared her nostrils like a vexed dragon, and vividly I saw the brevity of my own mortal existence. “Mr. Twitch: think long and hard before you answer. For the last time: where is the hamster?”
“I believe he’s in Mick’s office where you left him.”
“Right, well let’s go and get him, shall we?”

We entered the office; the ‘World’s Best Son’ mug was still upside down on the desk. It wasn’t moving now, obviously. I looked around at the floor, but it was free of vermin: neither rat nor hamster had met his maker via the USSR stuff: maybe I’d received a faulty batch.
“I can’t see him, Brendan.”
“He’s probably popped over to the café for a bacon sandwich.”
“Not Mick, you stupid…”
“Surprise, darling!” cried Mick, jumping up from behind his desk like Ben Nevis on springs. “Happy Wedding Anniversary!”
This sudden recovery of composure was certainly curious, but I wasn’t about to argue. What’s more, their embrace gave me the opportunity to peer under the mug. There was nothing there.
“Twitch, what are you doing?” asked Mick, detaching himself from his wife. “Get your grubby hands off my mother, I mean, my mug.”
“Sorry Mick, just checking for spiders.”
“Here’s a small gift,” replied Mick, opening a drawer and presenting a shoebox. “Just a thank you for the best years a man could wish for.”
I was taken aback. I had always hoped that my conscientious graft had been quietly valued, but Mick had never before been one for showing his feelings.
“Why, Mr. McDonald, I never expected…”
“Get out, Twitch!”
“Eh?”
“I said ‘get out’! Now!”
“Mick, I don’t know what to say,” said Mary coyly. “I did buy you a present but…”
I shuffled nervously.
“Twitch, why are you still here?” Mick demanded to know.
I edged out of the room, but I felt I had to own up.
“Mary, did Mick mention I’d been laying poison for rats?”
“Rats?”
Her face reflected a dawning realisation that her hamster was lying dead in a corner. Thankfully, I had now made it to the door.
“Well, I must be going,” I said.
Mary was opening her present, and as she removed the lid, I noticed that her body language was betraying a subtle change of mood.
“Lovely, ain’t he?” said Mick.
“Michael?” she asked calmly.
“Yes, dear?”
“A question.”
For some reason, I couldn’t leave the room. I suppose I sensed that a man was about to die, and I couldn’t, in all conscience, leave him to die alone.
“What is that?” Mary asked.
“You don’t know, and you a country girl, Mary?” Mick replied. “I know it’s a bit bizarre for an anniversary present, but you’re always saying I don’t put enough thought into them!”
“A hamster,” said Mary, matter-of-factly.
“At last, she’s got it! I’ve named him Harry, and I can tell you love him already.”
It was painful to watch, like a cat playing with an injured bird.
“Mr. McDonald, could I have a quiet word…”
“Shut it, Twitch!” said Mary, like the Camp Commander of Colditz.
“Expensive, was it?” she said, turning to Mick, like the Camp Commander of Butlins.
“Well, it did set me back a few bob: a rare breed according to the pet shop owner.”
“Ooh, what breed?”
“Eh?”
“I said, ‘what breed?’”
“Oh, what breed? Ah, you know what I’m like with names, Mary.”
“Think.”
“Right, what was it now? The erm, Natterjack. No, that’s not it.”
“No, that’s a Toad.”
“Erm… I’m sorry Mary, I just can’t remember.”
“Think!”
Mick placed a thoughtful finger on his chin.
“Okay. Right. Think. I’m stood in the pet shop, the owner is saying what a thoughtful man I am and how lucky my wife is, and then… okay, yes, that’s it: the Fluffy.”
“The ‘Fluffy’?”
“Yep.”
“The feckin’ ‘Fluffy’?”

Before the first blows rained down on Mick’s head, I escaped the office and made it to the front door. As I opened it, I came face to face with an all too familiar moustachioed face.
“Good morning, sir, did you give Brendan Twitch my letter?” it asked.
The ground tilted, and the horizon flexed.
“Erm, no, I threw it in the bin.”
“What’s that?” came an irate voice behind me. “What have you thrown in the bin?”
“Are you Mr. Brendan Twitch? I work

for the police, and we believe you have been in receipt of goods bought on the Dark Web.”
Mick gave me a calm and measured look, the kind of look that said ‘all bets are off’, the kind of look that suggests that a man who would have previously given someone up to His Majesty’s Authorities about as readily as Oliver Reed would have given up a bottle of Scotch, was now happy to change the habit of a lifetime.
“Mick, you’re standing on my foot,” I protested.
“Aren’t I just. You ‘rat’!”

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  • David Gardom has been crafting comic short stories for over 20 years, honing a writing style that is light, readable, and genuinely funny. Drawing inspiration from literary giants like P.G. Wodehouse and Jerome K. Jerome, David believes there is an untapped market for lighthearted and humorous stories with a modern twist. His work aims to bring a smile to readers’ faces, blending timeless wit with contemporary sensibilities.

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