Fuck Me!

He was awake…again! Malcolm lay in his bed. He was in no hurry to get up, not anymore. He looked over at the clock glowing on the nightstand. It was 4:24 a.m.

Less than two hours since he woke up the last time. It was his new normal, waking up every few hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept through the night. Had he ever?

He wanted to get up. He really did. The pressure on his bladder had increased since he last woke up, but getting out of bed would require too much effort. So he just lay there, hoping he could make it till six a.m. While he lay there, staring up into the darkness, he thought about the day nearly six months ago when his life changed forever.

Six Months Ago

"It doesn't matter."

As the taxi pulled away from the police station, Malcolm's professional life flashed before his eyes. He smirked. He thought that flashbacks only happened during near death experiences. Sure, his career might be dead but he wasn't. Of course, his career was his life...so maybe? Nah. But five minutes later, when the trail of the media vehicles now following his taxi grew into what looked like an impromptu funeral procession, he thought perhaps he might be dead after all.

He laughed out loud, startling both the driver, who glanced up at him in the rear view mirror and his lawyer who gave him a sidelong glance. Ok, not dead…maybe a little crazy. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, private joke." The rest of the drive he regulated to staring out the window. It seemed safer than any more retrospection.

Once he arrived home and made it through the throng of reporters waiting outside and the ones chasing him down from behind, he made sure his front door was securely bolted and went to secure the rest of his home from prying eyes. Twenty minutes later he was sitting on his couch in the quiet of his darkened living room cradling a scotch and soda. The quiet unnerved him and he felt truly alone for the first time in his life.

For past twelve years, since becoming the Director of Communications, his work had been his life. He couldn't afford distractions. And for him, people were distractions. Even his wife had become a distraction. April 17th was our wedding day, but I can't remember what day she left. Looking around the room he noticed for the first time all the furniture they'd bought together when they first moved in to the place. Everything was still there. She hadn't taken a thing. He'd never noticed. "Fuck." He downed his drink in one gulp and went to fix another.

Two weeks later, Malcolm was sure he was going bat shit crazy. Other than a brief visit from his sister who brought him some well needed supplies two days after he'd gotten home, he hadn't seen another human being. He'd sequestered himself inside to wait for another domestic cock-up to shift the spotlight off him and on to someone else. He knew from past experience he wouldn't have long to wait. Problem was, the only time Malcolm had spent alone with himself for any length of time was the time it took for him to take a shit. Introspection was something he hadn't experienced for a long, long time and after two weeks of navel gazing he'd had enough of himself. If something didn't happen soon he was afraid Ollie might be right. And when he found himself arguing over which would be worse…his bloated body being found hanging in his closet, or Ollie Reeder being right, he knew he had to get out of the bloody house!

Looking in his bathroom mirror, he tugged at the hairs of the patchy beard that had been trying and failing to fill his face. He looked like some fuckin' apocalyptic survivor whose hair had begun falling out from radiation poisoning. Grabbing a pair of scissors, he went to work. An hour and a half later he was standing in his bedroom looking at himself in his full length mirror. Other than the longer hair trying to curl over his ears and at the back of his neck, he looked like his old self again, suited up for battle. He'd spent some time debating what he should wear; a suit or something more casual. He decided that if he was going to be ambushed by reporters on his first outing, nothing would protect him better than one of his battleship grey suits.

He stopped in the kitchen to scoop his neglected set of keys out of the small porcelain bowl that was their home. Poking his finger around inside, it looked like he had also dropped twenty seven cents in there; he left the change to nest in the bowl along with a small accumulation of pocket lint. He made a quick stop in the living room to turn off the television. He'd left it on day and night, channel hopping from one news program to another, waiting for a day when his name wasn't mentioned. It hadn't come. He grabbed up the remote and pointed it at the screen. He was about to press the off button but stopped short when he noticed a banner running across the bottom of the screen. He had to let it scroll through twice before he believed what he was seeing.

~PM Dismantles DOSAC In An Effort To Cut Governmental Spending~

"Yes! Yes! You DOSAC douche bags! Oh ho! Take me down will you. It's karma! Fuckin' karma! You fuckin' twats!" He scrolled around the channels for a few more minutes trying to glean more information from the news, but gave up and called the one person who'd bothered to call him during his isolation. Jamie McDonald.

"Hey you cocksucker! Why didn't you tell me?…Yeah, yeah…I know...Can we meet somewhere for lunch?"…Ok then, how about my place…tonight?"

After a brief exchange of some homo-erotic name calling and scurrilous banter, he hung up on the Scotsman and headed out the door with a smile on his face. He even grinned at the two photographers still lurking about on his doorstep. Take that you fuckin' societal leeches! Why don't you fuck off back to whatever shit encrusted bung-hole you crawled out of! The two men were so taken aback by his uncharacteristic smile he noticed that one of them had forgotten to take his picture. As he headed off down the street the photographers followed him at a distance.

He didn't know where he was going. He was just glad to be outside. Soon he was feeling like one of those clichéd Hollywood vampires as he found himself squinting into the sun; he half expected the warmth he felt on his skin to start burning. He'd actually been compared once to Max Schreck's Vampire in the silent film Nosferatu …though now, he couldn't remember by whom. He didn't care. As long as it served to scare the children, he thought.

He wandered aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city he loved to hate. London. A whore's daydream and a politician's nightmare! After walking for a quarter of an hour he realized his stroll was taking him directly to Number 10. Twelve years of working there had his automatic pilot stuck in the on position. Shit! It was the last place he wanted to be seen. He took the next left. Eventually, he found himself approaching the British Museum. He hadn't been inside since he was a boy, but he quickly dismissed the idea of going inside. I've spent my life working around dead carcasses; I don't need to see any more.

The smell of curry was the next thing that caught his attention. His stomach growled. He'd been living off the prepackaged food that his sister had brought over and something fresh smelled too enticing to pass up. He found himself entering Curry Creations. It was a small eatery wedged in-between a shop selling clichéd touristy knick-knacks and a corner store selling mostly crisps and candy to the fat American tourists. Judging by the similar paint scheme of all three he was sure they were probably all owned by the same Pakistani family.

The café was no frills but seemed to be a popular with the locals. Most of the small tables were full and there was a line snaking back from an overhead sign that read: Place Your Order Here, with an arrow pointing down. Not that a line could ever form anywhere else from what he could see. There was only the main aisle from the door to the counter and from the counter to the door. He smirked to himself when he thought how he could technically place his order in the bathroom, but it would have to be after it was digested.

As the line moved forward he was eventually close enough to see the pictures mounted on the wall behind the counter of the ten curry dishes that were offered. He still couldn't make out the dish names or their descriptions. My distance vision really is going to shit! As he strained to read the menu, he never noticed the woman who stepped in line behind him. She noticed him though. It was hard not to. After working for him for five years Samantha Harrington knew the back of his head as well as she knew the back of her own hand. She spoke his name twice trying to get his attention, but he was too engrossed in squinting at the menu. She sighed. He never did go to the eye doctor.

Sam didn't think twice about touching him on his arm to get his attention. She did it all the time when they worked together, her hand on his shoulder or arm to get him to focus on an important document. But they weren't at work and when she touched his arm and spoke his name Malcolm flinched and spun around at her on the defensive. She took a step back and bumped into the person behind her. She didn't know who she should apologize to first so she just blurted out loudly "Sorry, sorry!" and hoped it covered them both. The lady behind her didn't seem to care, but Malcolm was already apologizing to her.

"Oh, Sam! Sorry, I'm so sorry!" He reached for her arm to pull her away from the lady she'd bumped. "I thought you were a reporter."

"Nope, just me," she smiled up at him.

Malcolm smiled back. It was so good to see a friendly face, but was surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

She couldn't help herself. "Having lunch; and you?"

Ask a stupid question, he thought. But still gave her a quick smirk. "The same."

Sam notice the line in front of Malcolm had moved. "We should move up." He turned to look and she moved up beside him as they tightened up the line.

"How have you been?" He asked.

"Good. And you?"

He went with the truth. "I went into hiding. Grew a beard. Became a hermit." He rubbed his newly shaven face. "You should have seen me."

"Now that's an image," she laughed.

"What about you? You land somewhere?" He was genuinely concerned, especially since he was the cause of her unemployment.

"Nothing yet, I…" Her reply was interrupted by the man at the counter asking for their order. "What are you having?" She asked Malcolm.

Damn! He looked up at the menu. He'd forgotten about lunch. "Uhhh…"

Sam touched his arm again. "Don't worry. I got it." She'd picked up so many takeaways for him over the years she knew exactly what to order. "Two number sixes."

"And I got this," Malcolm said, brandishing a twenty. Sam knew better than to protest.

They didn't speak again until they were through the assembly line and heading back down the main aisle with their Styrofoam containers in hand. Malcolm surveyed the café. He saw one table open, but there was very little privacy in the cramped place. "How about lunch in the park?" Sam nodded in agreement and Malcolm held the door for her.

As she stepped outside Sam found herself blinded by bright lights flashing on and off. The two photographers that had been trailing Malcolm were now up in her face. "Back off, back off!" With his right arm still busy holding open the door he had to resort to waving his container of curry at them to try and block their shot while also pushing them back. They didn't budge. So he pushed his Styrofoam container at Sam. "Hold this." She managed to balance it atop her own before he let go. Sam knew what was about to happen, she'd just caught a glimpse of what he liked to call his 'bollockin' face.

The cold fury in his eyes and the vein pulsing in his forehead made both photographers pause even before Malcolm let go with his verbal onslaught. He pointed menacingly at the closest man. "You! What paper do you work for?" The man gave no reply. "What about you?" He pointed to the other man. The guy just shook his head. "I should have known. A couple of fuckin' freelancers! You can't get a real job at a paper so you go after sloppy seconds. Pickin' over the corpse of fuckin' last week's news! Well guess what my friends? Youuu…," he waggled this finger at both. "And youuu…are going to cease and desist right now or…" The man closest to him had the gall to laugh, so Malcolm reached out and snagged the man by the camera hanging from his neck. With a swift yank he pulled him in close. "I wasn't finished; you don't interrupt me until I'm finished or I'll shove this camera so far up your ass, you'll be takin' picture of your own fuckin esophagus!" He let go and the man stumbled back. His friend backed off too.

He lowered his tone. "If you want to keep on whoring yourselves out in this town I'd rethink keeping any of those pictures you've taken."

The man opened his cake hole again. "You can't tell us what to do!"

Malcolm knew better than to make verbal threats that could be heard in public, so he took several steps forward as if he were leaving, but then stopped beside the photographer at the last second. He placed his hand on the man's bicep and squeezed as he leaned over and whispered sternly in his ear. "I know people who know people. Do you know people?" The man looked worried. "No? I didn't think so. So unless you two want to be known as the biggest fucking dealers of fuckin' child pornography in the United Kingdom, I suggest you both beat it!" The man's eyes went from worry to fear. Malcolm let go of his arm and the photographer stepped over to his compatriot and pulled him away from the restaurant and off down the street.

When Malcolm turned back to Sam she was shaking her head. "What did you say to him?" He just tapped the side of his nose and took his food container from her.

"Shall we go?" He nodded in the direction of the park.

"Sure." She fell in step beside him and they walked without conversing till they reached the park.

"There's a spot." Malcolm gestured to a vacant bench under the shade of a large oak tree. They sat and unwrapped their sporks together. Sam spoke first.

"So…," She cut him a glance. "A hermit huh?"

"Mmmmhmm." He mumbled through a mouth full of what tasted like the best curry he'd ever had. Hunger makes everything taste better. He jabbed his spork at his meal as he swallowed. "This is the first preservative free meal I've had I two weeks."

Sam poked at her food. "You should have texted me. I would have brought you something."

He appreciated the thought. "You don't work for me anymore, Sam"

"I'm well aware of that." She cringed inwardly. Her reply had sounded sharper than she meant it to be.

Malcolm noticed she'd switched from poking to stirring. "Quit playing with your food."

She breathed out a quiet laugh and relaxed back into the bench seat. He did the same and asked, "So what the fuck would you have brought me?"

She paused mid-spoonful. "Your favorite, of course. Shit biscuits and gravy."

They both laughed. It was an expression he started using after he came back from America. Anytime she asked him what he wanted to eat for lunch he'd bark out, "Shit biscuits and gravy!"

As much as he wanted to sit there with Sam and pretend things were normal, he had to nip this in the bud. He didn't want her to be sucked into the black hole of what was now his life. He rubbed at his forehead. The sensory overload of the day was bringing on a headache. "Look, Sam. You need to stay clear of me or nobody in the party will take you on."

"Yeah, about that…I've had offers."

"That's good."

"But…"

Concerned, he looked at her. "But what?"

"They only want me to get to you, or information on you."

His headache suddenly got worse and he closed the lid on his curry. "I'm sorry."

She knew he really was sorry and it made her sad. She closed the lid to her meal too. She looked up at him and saw him rubbing his forehead. He only ever did that when he had a headache. She wasn't at her desk. She had everything he needed in her desk, Paremectol, antiacids, cough drops, caffeine tabs. Sitting there she had nothing to offer him. She felt herself tearing up and looked away. "I'm sorry too."

Shit, he had to go. He was making her cry! He felt like a right bastard that he was going to run off and leave her, but what could he do. He wasn't equipped for this. "I should go," he blurted out. She didn't say anything to stop him so he got up…and almost fell flat on is face. The next thing he knew Sam was holding on to him and helping him to sit back down.

"Are you alright?"

He felt better now that he was sitting and he didn't want her to worry. "I think I've been sitting on my ass too long. The sun and the walk must have gotten to me."

Sam had her phone out. "Let me call you a cab."

He was going to protest but as the dizziness passed a wave of nausea swept in. He acquiesced. "Ok."

"You're a cab." She said as she hit the speed dial number she still had in her phone for his favorite service.

He grimaced. "Ha Ha."

As they waited she asked him if he'd heard about DOSAC. "I have. Jamie and I are having party later tonight. And by party I mean two Scotsmen sitting around getting drunk and railing against the English. I would invite you but Jamie can be very inappropriate after a few."

"Jamie, huh?"

"Hey!"

She laughed. "I'm kidding. You've never been anything but a wonderful boss and a gentleman, and I just want to say thank you."

He didn't know what to say.

She placed her hand on his arm. "Thank you, Malcolm. I'll miss working with you."

"So will I Sam…I wish…," the rest of his comment was cut off by a horn honking from the curb. If wishes were horses, he thought sadly.

Sam took the food container from his hand and held on to his arm as he stood up. He didn't mind. She let go when they reached the cab and she handed him his food once he was seated. When he looked up at her, he could see tears shimmering in her eyes as she shut the door. He flailed at what to say. "Goodbye Sam."

"Goodbye Malcolm."

And as his cab pulled away, he heard her say "Keep in touch."

He started feeling worse on the ride home. It probably had something to do with the emotions he'd been experiencing. He'd excised sadness, empathy and caring from his soul long ago. Fear, anger and intimidation were all that his job demanded from him. He rubbed his protesting gut again. Fuckin' curry pissed off my ulcer!

Back in the safety of his home he headed upstairs to the pharmacy he kept stashed in his bedroom nightstand. Antacids and paramectol and a nap were all he wanted. It was still early afternoon, plenty of time to be back on his feet before Jamie arrived. He tossed his jacket down onto his bed and grabbed a handful of both tablets from the drawer. He munched on three antacids as he headed back downstairs.

He grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, chugged down a couple of pills for his headache and stuffed the extras into his pocket. In the living room, he pulled off his tie and dropped it on the coffee table before snapping up his remote. He turned on the TV, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa. There was nothing new about DOSAC on any of the stations so he let the droning of a pair of newscasters on one of the twenty-four hour news stations lull him to sleep.

Nearly four hours later, he awoke to a ringing in his ears. It took a second before he realized it was his front doorbell. It was now dark outside and TV was the only source of light in his house. He lurched off the couch and stumbled forward into the coffee table. His shins banged against the edge and placed his hands on top to keep him from falling over. He was dizzy and his head felt like a balloon that was being squeezed. His headache was still there. His balance returned and he switched on the rooms recessed lighting as he headed to the front door. He could hear Jamie yelling through the door as he got closer.

"Open the fuckin' door you bent bastard!" The buzzer rang again. "Where the fuck are you?" Ring, Ring, Ring.

Malcolm yanked open the door. "Quiet down, you twat!"

Jamie stepped up to the threshold. "Christ Malcolm! You look like shit. Did you start without me?" He squeezed past and headed inside. Malcolm shut the door and followed.

Jamie stopped in the living room and turned around. "Where's the booze, where's the women. I thought you'd be celebratin'."

"I'm all smiles on the inside."

He eyed Malcolm up and down, his dress shirt was thoroughly wrinkled and his hair sticking out at all angles. "Jeez Malcolm, two weeks into forced retirement and you're already lookin' like one of those old women who wear the same clothes all week because they're too busy sittin' around watchin' the telly all day."

"Fuck you." He replied, smoothing down his hair. "Do you want a drink or not."

"Well, I'm not here just to look at your cunt of a face, now am I?

Malcolm headed to the kitchen. "Your usual?"

"Of course." He glanced at the TV and raised his voice so that Malcolm could hear him in the kitchen. "You're wasting your time watchin' the news! PMs keeping a tight lid on this one. He actually used the phrase 'heads will roll' if anyone mentiones anything to the media other than budget cuts as the reason why DOSAC was gutted." He waited for a reply from Malcolm, but all he heard were some odd sounds coming from the kitchen. He ventured in and found Malcolm throwing up in the sink. "Bloody hell! You alright?"

Malcolm turned on the sink, took a drink straight from the faucet and spat it out. Turning to Jamie he said, "Must be the curry we had for lunch. I wonder if I should call Sam and see if she's ok."

Sam? As in your secretary Sam?"

Malcolm nodded as he wiped his mouth off on a kitchen towel.

"I knew it! I knew that's why she always refused my offers. You two have been getting it on all this time, haven't you? You old dog! What's she like? I bet she gives good…"

"Shut your mouth before you say something you'll regret."

Jamie thought he'd just got the wrong end of the stick. "Oh…so you two are serious? When's the wedding?"

"There's no fucking wedding, there's no fucking nothing!" He threw the hand towel at Jamie's head. "Just don't fuckin' talk about her like that."

"Sorry."

Malcolm fixed Jamie his drink and poured himself one as well. He dug out a couple more paramectols from his pocket and downed them with a large gulp of his Scotch Whiskey. "Gaaah!" I should have had them with water!

"You sure you're ok?"

Malcolm rubbed at his forehead again. "It's just a fuckin' headache."

"Maybe I should go?"

"No, stay. I want to hear the gossip."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. We can talk about Mannion getting fucked over while you braid my hair."

"Ooh, that sounds exciting," Jamie said sarcastically and reached for the bottle of whiskey. As he refilled his drink he heard the sound of glass shattering. Looking up, he saw that Malcolm had dropped his glass and that his eyes were wide with fear.

Malcolm Tucker felt the balloon that was being squeezed in his head finally pop. His eyes went wide as his body went still. It was a profound stillness, like his brain had switched off from his body. This isn't right, he thought. His vision began to darken and he felt himself falling forward. He tried to say "Help me," to Jamie, but all that came out before he hit the floor, was …

"Fuck me!"