Thick and Fast



  THICK AND FAST

  By Tommy Dakar

  Copyright 2013

  Other books by Tommy Dakar

  Balls – a full length comedy novel

  The Trap-Door – literary fiction

  A World Apart and other stories – A collection of short stories, most of which have been chosen for publication in literary magazines

  Falls the Shadow – Twin stories, separate but inseparable. Literary fiction.

  Visit TOMMY DAKAR’s website.

  www. tommydakar.wix.com/tommydakar

  Table of Contents

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  ‘Proclaim human equality as loudly as you like. Witless will serve his brother’

  Thomas Huxley

  ‘Is there such a thing as wisdom, or is what seems such merely the ultimate refinement of folly?’

  Bertrand Russell

  This is a true story, which means that not a word of it is to be trusted. All of it has been made up, none of it actually happened, the characters never existed as portrayed. The minute we open our mouths to speak or put pen to paper, the lies begin. We edit and falsify, underline and undermine, put words into people’s mouths that were never said, imposing on events a retrospective order to make everything more comprehensible.

  Once recounted, everything is invention, pure fiction. Even so, it makes more sense to us than the chaos of fleeting reality.

  This is a true story. Don’t believe a word of it.

  1

  He could have been born in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could have been born into the wrong coloured skin, the wrong sex, the wrong social class. No such luck. Ambrose Ork was born thick.

  Which meant that ahead of him lay a life of drudgery, humiliation and ridicule without the slightest chance of anyone championing his cause. For nobody pities the dimwitted. Quite the opposite, their inferior IQ is exploited mercilessly, because ignorance is bliss, and it is reasoned that if they are too slow to realise that they are being taken for a ride, then no harm done. They are euphemistically referred to as unqualified labour, and have been brought into this world to clean, haul, dredge, and serve. Brave New World, it would seem, was not a futuristic novel after all.

  He was not retarded, had no medically recognised syndrome, was not mentally disabled in any way that needed special treatment and care. Had that been the case he may have received professional attention, some sympathy, compensation even. No such luck. Ambrose Ork was average thick.

  Who will fight for the emancipation of the boneheads? Unlike other victimised groups they can never have a clear-sighted leader, they will never be able to organise themselves effectively. Even if they did by some miracle manage to achieve that, they would still not necessarily realise they had been freed. Quite as easily they could be duped, informed that the good fight had been won, liberty restored, their worth recognised, and none the wiser. Discrimination based on race had no future, as it was inevitable that the unjustly stigmatised would eventually rise up against their oppressors and claim their rightful place in society. Women around the world will one day put a stop to glass ceilings and illogical differentiation. Minority groups will bang on doors and demand to be heard until at last, often at long last it is true, their revindications are finally satisfied. But what hope is there for the simple-minded? They are no longer children, to be loved and cared for. They are responsible adults, accountable for their actions, and have to prove their worth before rewards are offered. There is nothing about them physically that provokes pity or understanding, or suggests specific aid. Indeed Ambrose had been a very attractive, athletic man in his youth. They are just big oafs, slow off the mark, easily led, inarticulate and gullible, and therefore, according to the majority of humanity, deserve what they get - the shitty end of the stick.

  Slow, dull-witted, half-sharp, there were any number of unflattering adjectives to describe Ambrose's under average intelligence, some of the harsher versions even slipping into insult. Over the years he had become accustomed to hearing those words applied to him, sometimes mumbled, sometimes thrown into his face, and although they still often hurt, as much as sticks and stones despite what they say, he no longer automatically accepted their implicit accusation. It was his humble opinion that on more than one occasion he had been used as a scapegoat, that maybe he wasn't as stupid as some people thought, that some finger-pointing people were not as clever as they'd like us to think. Apart from the obvious case in hand, (today’s plan, his long awaited revenge), Mr. Cummings, the world's greatest head waiter, sprang to mind. Perhaps, looking back, more than one of them should take the plank out of their own eye.

  He turned the corner and was delighted to see how the dusty red bus strained to a halt under the shade of the huge trees that lined Newby Avenue, trees whose names Ambrose never could remember. His father had pointed them out to him many a time, showing him the difference in the shape of the leaves, the texture of the bark, the variety of seed pods and the like, but he had never been very good at that sort of thing. Elm, beech, birch? He let it go and boarded the bus. He was pleasantly surprised to see that virtually all of the seats on the left side of the vehicle were free, the other passengers preferring to cram themselves into the row on the right for some reason or other. That was fine by him, as he still saw getting a window seat as a kind of prize. It wasn't very far to Chester Drive, just a few miles along the coast, but he would travel in comfort and style, with a view of the sea to boot. Omens, Pet, and all on my side.

  As he waited for the driver to finish his spreadsheets and start the ride, he thought back to Mr. Cummings. He had been working in the kitchens of the Golden Nugget, a fast food franchise that gave short term, low paid employment to whoever was desperate enough to take it. Most of the staff were students, washing dishes or taking orders at the counter to pay for their whims and vices, and very few lasted more than a couple of months. Except for Alex, Mr. Cummings to his underlings, who was the full time, reasonably paid overseer. It was his task to see that all those lazy, slovenly, cowardly students were pushed just a little too far, made to do chores and hours above and beyond the call of duty. That way the bosses, three smug, interchangeable brothers whose main concerns in life were profit and leisure, would keep him on, maybe even give him a Christmas bonus.

  It was a symbiotic relationship. The brothers could never imagine ever finding such a loyal, hard working, nasty supervisor in a million years. On his c.v. it even stated that he had, for a time, worked in an exclusive French restaurant in Vernon. He was perfect. For his part Alex enjoyed every moment of his new gained power. He had been ridiculed in that fancy restaurant, humiliated, made to look a fool, and eventually squeezed out. That would now be the fate of his arrogant, on-the-way-to success student work force. Once bitten, twice a biter. Thank you Mr. Cummings, the brothers would say once the monthly accounts had been successfully completed. It is my pleasure, he would reply, sincerely.

  Ambrose had taken the job on his sister's insistence. Their parents were both dead and although they could manage on her wage for the time being, a little extra income would be much appreciated. Anyway, it was time for Ambrose to earn his keep.

  He soon became the arse to be kicked. The students acted towards him in much the same way as Mr. Cummings, bawling him out, never giving him a minute's peace, leaving the worst jobs for him, the dibbo without exams. He was also expected to be first in and last out, and if anything went wrong he was almost sure to take the blame, guilty or not. Ambrose lived in fear of losing his first job, and did everything he was told to do, and more if he had the time and energy. He saw how the students came and went, some fired, others after a shouting
match with Mr. Cummings, others through boredom or sheer fatigue. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before this Mr. Cummings called him to his office and threw his cards at him. Then what would he say to Petunia? He need not have worried. Alex Cummings was overjoyed with his new staff member, it was what he had always coveted. A semi slave who lived in fear of him, who never answered back, who never refused to do even the most menial, degrading task. A dog to whip. It was too good to be true, and although in public he tortured Ambrose with snappy sarcasm and sneers, in private, and to his bosses, he sang the man's praises. Alex Cummings and Ambrose Ork were set to last for a lifetime.

  The bus swung out onto Ocean Way and he soon understood the seating plan. The midday sun burnt into the window of his side of the bus like through a magnifying glass, quickly heating the metal and plastic bus seats until they were almost impossible to touch. Ambrose began to sweat, his T-shirt sticking to his back under his green, gardener's dungarees. He considered changing seats, but was somehow reluctant to recognise his mistake. He had made his decision, now he would have to stick to it, or the others would laugh. 'Can't stand the heat, eh?' 'You've been sitting in the hot