"You have to keep them on their toes." Explained Gladys. "You have to remind them that, no matter how much they think they own the place, they're only renting. And one day, no matter how many facelifts they have, one day no one will want to see them because they'll smell like piss."
Direct action called and so Natasha's moment in the sun loomed before her. She'd had the foolproof idea a few moments before, switching diet food for chocolate cake. People on diets never seemed happy, people eating cake did. It made perfect sense. Admittedly there had never been scientific studies, there had never been published PhD theses or bun fights on The Guardian's website, but it was clear for all to see - Natasha knew it deep down in her waters, the incidents of people on anti depressants had risen exactly in line with the purchases of crisp bread. It was science! And she was going to cure the world.
The supermarket was moderately empty, filled only with a few (deliberately) slow moving pensioners and some tired looking new parents confusedly sorting their way through the gobbledegook splattering the packets of baby formula, terrified that if they used the wrong type then they might end up breaking their babies.
The health food revolution hadn't rocketed its way into this particular branch - Jamie Oliver's tears had yet to form a river of low sodium diet muck in the centre of the store so the crispbread section was hidden away in its shame with the gluten free biscuits. The freaky food aisle.
Crouching low Natasha slid along the floor like a ninja, grabbing a packet and deftly slicing it open with a letter opener that her granny had bought her for Christmas when she was 11. She poured the cardboard content on the floor disdainfully and then ripped the top from the Tupperware container, refilling the contents with Kat's amazing cake.
"I was born to do this!" thought Natasha, as she reached for a second packet. She envisioned the delighted looks on the faces of the dieting masses, free at last. She took a quick couple of photos of the operation for all the armchair eaters and assorted blog freaks - well if they wanted to hero worship her she might as well let them….
This was what she'd set out to do, this would really get them talking. Here she was, an outlaw, an ass kicking, Nazi fighting, women's libbing outlaw who was going to change the world.
She'd star in a Marvel comic. She'd be played by Drew Barrymore. She'd get to sleep with Adrian Brody and then she would ignore his calls because she'd be on the road in her own Ken Kesey style bus - only instead of handing out acid they'd hand out cakes. They'd storm Hollywood and feed cakes to the starving starlets. Fat would once more be sexy, sumo would be king ……………..
"Would you please put down the Ryvita and come with me miss?"
Asked a freakishly young Policeman, who had probably been standing there for quite some time. Had she been speaking aloud? Natasha's stomach flipped. Which outlaws ended up being told off by 14 year olds?
……………………………………………………………………………
The cell was more like a really bright community centre bathroom than the goo dripping, light buzzing, threatening rat holes on telly. Not only was she caged, her spirit broken, but Bad Girls had lied to her.
They'd put her on her own, possibly because she was a well-known revolutionary and a threat to the other, more vulnerable prisoners, or possibly because she hadn't stopped sobbing like an infant who'd crashed her roller skates, ever since they'd picked her up.
A kindly policeman called Stuart had been bringing her cups of sugary tea and lending her his Christmas handkerchief on the promise that she might stop soon, they were trying to get some work done in the other room and wailing was distracting them.
Unfortunately, the very process of attempting to stop crying made Natasha choke a little bit, uniting her with fresh tears of frustration blending with sadness. At some point in the last three hours she'd realised that maybe she wasn't ready to be a martyr the cause yet.
"I'm too middle class to go to prison!" she wailed, as if somehow they'd understand and let her go.
"It's okay" said Stuart, three hours later, patting her with as little of his actual hand as he could, whilst painfully aware of the thing that was about to drip out of her nose. "The supermarket aren't pressing charges, the only damage you caused was to half a packet of crisp bread, so not only are you free to go but there's a car here to pick you up."
Natasha sniffed long and hard and Stuart gagged a little. "You can keep the handkerchief" he added.
She'd been expecting Glady in a Metro, or possibly Kat in a taxi. Instead she was pleasantly surprised. The cars in Natasha's mind were smaller and had Magic Trees in them. This was a limo. A big massive shiny limo. This was what happened whenever drug runners were released from prison. Did someone want her to become a drug runner? She wasn't sure how many condoms full of heroine she would be able to swallow, although she had once fitted 23 Maltesers into her mouth at a party.
A chauffeur wound down the window:
"Mr Richards would like to meet with you immediately."
She considered the stranger danger aspects for about two seconds, whilst it started to rain.
Well it was the limo or the bus, and the bus wasn't there.
………………………………………………………………………….
No comments:
Post a Comment