Electric Sheep

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Jools, come here a minute, would you?” Ron said. “Something really strange is happening and it's spoiling my enjoyment of The House Doctor, I can't concentrate on how hot Ann Maurice looks when she's telling householders how shit their precious houses are.”

“I can't come right now,” his wife replied from the kitchen, “I'm making pastry because you want hoss and kidney pie for dinner and my hands are all floury. What sort of strange something are you talking about this time?”

“There's a herd of electric ewes in here, a dozen or so of the wooly gits. They climbed down the chimney dressed as elves, and their leader makes a pretty convincing Santa Klaus even though it's bloody March. The one dressed as Santa grabbed me by the scruff of the neck in a somewhat threating manner and said 'Do androids dream of electric sheep?' I said 'I don't bloody know, madam, I've seen Bladerunner several times, including the editor's cut, but I've never bothered reading Phillip K Dick's original story. Have you got a prezzie for me in your big red sack?' I don't think she appreciated that reply, because she pulled a huge overripe codfish out of her bag. 'I'll give you a prezzie, you fucking Phillistine,' she bleated rabidly as she knocked me senseless with it, and now I've gone all dizzy.

The sheep are mooching behind the armchair by the fire, the tatty one with the hole in the back where you hide your stash. They've found the bin liner of mind bending goodies and emptied it out on the hearth rug to check the contents, kicking the cat deftly out of the open window.

Tiddles landed on Mr. Thompson's head while he was weeding his garden over the road, and she dug her claws into his hairless scalp and screeched with unmitigated terror. Mr. Thompson pulled a little make-up mirror out of his pocket to admire the musical wig that for reasons unknown and probably unknowable God in His infinite wisdom had granted him – he's a bit short sighted, you know. He ran in the house and plastered poor Tiddles with Brylcream and gave her a neat central parting, then he proudly walked off down the road waving confidently to attractive and not so attractive female passers by. Oh, and an occasional male passer by, I think he's copped off with Selena Spragget, that skinny, rather unconvincing transvestite with the gammy leg who lives in the flat above the chippy.....

The electric sheep are having a good sniff of your common or garden marijuana, Jools. Oh dear, the bastards have turned their twitchy noses up at it in disgust, emptied it on the carpet, took turns to shit and piddle on it and now they're cutting your Charlie into lines on the coffee table and snorting it. The one dressed as Santa is checking out your various strains of skunk - you know, the really top whack gear. Oh, and one of them has spewed up in grandma's lap, but she's not complaining, she's snoring her head off.”

“You're pulling my leg again, aren't you, Ron?” Jools said from the kitchen. “You must think I was born yesterday. Last Saturday while I was at work you told me that a trio of shape-shifting hamsters climbed through the letter box, pinched my fags and escaped the same way, but I know very well that you smoked them while you were drinking Kestrel Super and watching the match with your mates. When I found the stubs of my forty Lambert and Butler Superkings in the ashtray next to your armchair you tried to fob me off with the tall tale that the hamsters smoked the fags here because they were watching the match, and they buggered off in a huff when Liverpool lost to Ackrington Stanley.

A couple of days later you told me that a gender confused Orangutan wearing a black basque, fishnet stockings and a rubber Anne Widdecombe mask knocked the door claiming to be a British Gas engineer checking a suspected gas leak while I was out playing bingo with fat Sheila from down the road, not fat Sheila who lives opposite the Post Office, the other one, the one with the lazy eye who lives opposite the canal. You let the supposed gas man in and you realised straight away that he was an Orangutan, you said, because his arse smelled like Clint Eastwood's cock, but when I enquired how you know what Clint Eastwood's cock smells like you muttered something about being an extra in Dirty Harry, and you went all red and tongue tied..... You rushed off to the bog for an urgent dump because the mountain of chicken vindaloo followed by a huge peach flavoured blancmange that you scoffed the night before was taking its toll, and while you were out of the way the Orangutan devoured my Vanilla slices that I'd only bought a few hours previously from the reduced section in the supermarket and hidden at the back of the fridge behind the economy sized tub of value range margarine.

And yesterday I sent you to Asda with my last thirty quid before the cannabis plants in the loft are ready to harvest to get a bit of shopping. You rolled in four hours later pissed as a fart and reeking of Carling Black Label and whisky chasers, but you expected me to believe that a gang of limp-wristed Elk dressed in Doctor Marten boots, tight pink PVC jumpsuits and 'I Love Dale Winton' t shirts made a pass at you on the supermarket car park. When you explained that you were a happily married heterosexual man and you weren't interested in a bit of homoerotic entertainment in the local park even though it was going dark and no one would be able to see you they kicked the living shit out of you and stole the cash. You can be a right devious bastard sometimes, Ron, you know that, don't you?”

“Yeah, on those occasions I crumbled under pressure and admitted that I was lying my tits off. I apologised profusely, bought you a bottle of Canal No. 18, your favourite perfume, a big bunch of flowers and a box of Black Magic, and while you were eating them I tenderly kissed your lady lumps and eventually you granted me a full written pardon, remember? If you don't remember I'll refer to my fancy filing system in the back pocket of my jeans and prove it to you. But this time I'm telling the gospel truth, Jools, I cross my heart and hope to die. A herd of electric ewes are munching down Ecstacy tablets as if they're frigging Smarties, and they've sniffed out your best stuff, they're rolling joints with your AK-47 – get your arse in here and see for yourself.”

“How do you know they're electric?”

“Because they're clanking around mechanically like robots, they talk in bland digitised voices like Gordon Brown and they have coloured lightbulbs instead of eyes that are flashing in increasingly pretty colours the more stoned they get. A couple of them have wired themselves up to the mains to recharge, the next electricity bill will cost us a bleeding fortune, no doubt, and the shower of blue sparks coming out of one of them's arse is dangerously close to setting grandma's shawl on fire. Their antigravity devices seem to be on the blink because every now and then one rises slowly up into the air and floats around somersaulting aimlessly..... Plus the fact that they've got Mitsubishi stamped on their cheap pressed steel buttocks, the drug fuelled tarts.”

“All right, Ron, give me two minutes to wash my hands and I'll come and have a butchers.”

“Two minutes might be too long, Jools, the fleecy fucks are demanding my Cream eggs and my family sized bar of Galaxy, and they're nibbling on my tender nether regions. Aaagh! Aaaaagh! I wants my mumsie!”

When Jools walked into the living room a few minutes later Ron was lying on the floor beside an overturned armchair amongst a mess of scattered pills and powders. He was wearing just his underpants, and the words 'Electric Sheep' were printed backwards in indelible marker pen on his forehead. A couple of ballpoint pens were sticking out of his nostrils and a half smoked joint hung limply between his lips, and when his eyes eventually focused on Jools he gave her a big smarmy grin. “Where are these electric sheep then, dipstick?” she said.

“I guess I must've imagined them,” he replied. “This sure is good stuff.....”