Dial 72 for "Snooker Roger"
by Shanethewolf / Fearmoths


I had seen it before somewhere, belonging to some other 
person of some other time and place. It was a buzzard, 
grinning at me like some dirty pervert peering over a 
toilet cubicle and forcing me into the outdoor crowds to 
continue my urinary business. Toilets aren't where I live. 

I am Roger. I'm 53 years old and for most of my life I 
have worn a t-shirt that announces "Snooker" to all who 
gaze upon it. I don't even like snooker. As a matter of 
fact the last time I played I ended up in a bodybag. 
Nevertheless, I became known to my pals as Snooker Roger - 
the defiance within our hearts. 

I knew the kid had a speech impediment, yet I slammed his 
temples with the furious fists of shame. Shame is what I 
feel most when I'm indiscreet. I love to love and to be 
loved, but fame goes to your head if you're not careful. 
That's not what happened to me; I had another problem...
downstairs, if you know what I mean. Her name was Mrs 
Horseflash and she lived in the flat beneath mine. The 
old bitch! I put myself out for her every day, pushing 
my mates onto her flowerbed every time I arrived home 
from the pub. What thanks do I get? A cop car? Not a 
chance. A slice of toast? Hardly. A tin of dog food? 
Well, actually yes. So I paid her a little visit. 

With my arms fixed at my side, I tilted sideways and 
gave her "the look". 

"Oh goodness. What's wrong, Snooker Roger?" she asked, 
like the fascist, baby-eating witch I pretended she was. 

"You wanna go one on one?" I prodded her in her belly 
and she curled up like a pterodactyl and died. 

I am Snooker Roger and this is my story.