Tag-o-rama

As an ongoing Angel experiment, I’m going to try and write a story out of the generated words that come up when I hover over the World of Sheds RSS feed. These are the words that were generated today:

Baking
Fat Heads
Sky One
Bank Account
Sky Plus
Wire Rack
Hair Plugs
Game Puzzle

Here goes

The Game of Life, Part One

Janowski coughed.  This event was not unusual in itself, but today it brought its own problems.  The pain shot through his head and he raised one meaty hand to his scalp.  It was as he feared, his coughing had loosened his hair plugs.  One of the hairs became wrapped around his fingers and he delivered the dislodged plug from his fat head to a wire rack for safe keeping.  He put his fat, beading head in his meaty hands and sighed.  That’s where she used to put his favourite lemon drizzle cake.  She loved baking.  The Bitch.  He loved her and now all that was left from their six years together was this fucking wire rack and the Sky plus that she had ordered so she could watch America’s Next top Model on sky one.  She’d cleared out his bank account and spent it on a boob job to keep her latin lover, Armando, happy.  Armando told her she looked like an ironing board.  Janowski loved her the wiry, bony frame, and what he wouldn’t give to iron a shirt, or maybe some pillow cases, on her once more. 

Janowski himself had the hair plugs done to excite the interests of younger girls.  Those blank, staring, glossy, blonde bitches with their heavily laquered eyes and their square nails at Speed Dating night. They regarded him much like one would regard an annoying crawling insect.  They looked past him, through him.  Looking around to see who was next.  It had to be better than this guy.  Meaty, sweaty, past-his-prime. His paunch sausaged into too-light-to-be-trendy Asda denim and a shirt straight from the Officer’s Club.  Where were their heroes in Dolce and Gabbanna, smelling of Issey Miyake with feathered, indie boy hair?  Alls they had shaking in front of them was a broken man, with a whiff of desperation, chip fat, cigarette smoke.  What their mums might have called ‘the smell of dirty houses’.

Janowski didn’t know how to do anything for himself.  Even the washing machine seemed like the most enormous game puzzle, especially when he had to remind himself to breathe as the pain of his loss engulfed him.  He gagged. Hot tears stung his eyes.  Those plugs had cost a couple of grand and now his head resembled that of a baby doll. Tiny Tears. 

More soon…

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