Pongo #33

Andaw

Done. My mouse hovers over the Send button, then investigates the Scrap button, then flits back to Send. I tug on the premature wattle hanging from my neck. I get up, boil the kettle, forget my drink, sit back down. The screen is still bright. I consider ringing Insa. I want her here, want to stroke her treacle curls for comfort. But this is something that must be done alone.

Just not yet. I poll my parents from beyond the grave. My mother says I'm an idiot for getting mixed up in this in the first place, but that's no surprise. My father, snorting like a hog, tells me to do the right thing. The dead are no help in such situations. My hand comes to rest once more on the left clicker, the smooth plastic of the mouse fitting snugly into the upturned cup of my palm. The light from the monitor oozes radiation, warms me with it. Some bloke doling out pamphlets on Werder Way the other day was trying to warn us about chunky monitors frying our brains. I suppose I should have listened, but it's not like it'll matter if I send this message anyway. Perhaps sometimes these people are trying to help us, rather than just bollard up the road and waste paper. More often, I wonder if it's them who are asking for help. Listen to me. Give me a slot on some midnight radio station and let me talk to the world with a big voice. Help me, I'm fading.

Another read-through, but this is just a diversionary tactic: I know it backwards. Test me.

From: A.Mikpo@farserve.net
To: Florin.Jukkson@gilligannet.com
Subject: Overtime

Message: Dear Florin, please pass on this message to Ms Gilligan if you get the chance. My reference number is PAC06843550 if you need to verify who I am.

I would like to volunteer for Overtime, and am available immediately. Anything considered.

Yours,

Andaw Mikpo.

Click after all. And now I wait for the postman.