The Alternative Mister People: Mr. Tightgit

Reads: 272  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Mr. Tightgit was other words a mean, penny-pinching, stingy old miser. His greatest wish was to take his great wealth with him when he died.....

Submitted: May 24, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 24, 2014



The Alternative Mister People;   Mr. Tightgit.

  Mr. Tightgit was frugal.  Ok, he was a mean, penny-pinching stingy old miser.  He loved money so much he couldn't part with

it.  He lived on baked beans from Pik'n'Nik - ten cans for a pound - even though he hated them and they made him fart.

  He hung his tea bags out on the line and used them at least four times, and only put his heating on when Good Friday

fell on a Monday. He refused to pay parking fees, and would leave his car on someone's drive and walk a mile into


"Hey punk....woddya think you're doing on my property?"

"Sorry Mr. out of petrol, thought it was my Great Aunt Jabber's house.  Gotta get to the Hospital to see

her, she hasn't got long....."

" sorry...stay there as long as you need to...."

"Thank you so much, can I take a bunch of your dahlias for her?"

" yourself..." That was his Mother's grave taken care of for another month.

"And you wouldn't happen to have a coupla quid for the park and ride would you.....?"


He never went out at night, except occasionally to the Pub if he knew Mr. Poser was about because he bought

everyone drinks, but if he heard the cry:

"Your round!" He felt instantly sick and faint and bolted for the bogs, or hid under the pool table.  It was almost true

because the smell of Pubs and spending money made him puke.  He would say to Miss Manatee behind the bar as she

heaved her bosoms at him and revealed a wedge of bubbling cellulite through a split skirt:

"Don't you EVER close here?  It's disgusting...."

"Nope. Never.   Gissa kiss hunk...."

Every morning he would walk to the shop to read the paper behind Mrs. Gross while she bought four curly wurlies,

then he would put it back. On a Sunday he would read the paper then tuck the supplement under his arm and make for

the door.

"Hey Tightgut!  Are you going to buy that paper?"

"No...was going to but I don't like the news today so I'm not."

"Well put it back then."

"I have."

"AND the Celeb Softwits supplement...."

"Ah....that's FREE.  It says so on the paper...."

"WITH the soddin paper....."

" says FREE INSIDE.  It was. So I took it out from inside. Now it's mine..."

"F***** twat!"  Said Mr. Ripoff chucking a  manky melon at the retreating form of Tightgit.

  Tightgit took great delight in whipping the free pens out of the charity envelopes that came through the door, then

filling in the donation form and sending Monopoly money back to them.

He didn't have friends, surprisingly.  Only Mr. Hypochondriac who lived in the Hospital.  He visited him once a week so

that he could pinch his pudding and have a free glass of squash.  Sometimes he took him a grape that he found on the

floor of Pik'n'Nik.  He collected them up and after about six weeks he had enough to fill an egg cup, it looked better taking

them in something.  He always brought the egg cup back though, couldn't be TOO philanthropic. 

"How are you today?"


"Glad to hear it.   So what's wrong with you then?"

"Dunno.  As long as I've got SOMETHING I don't care."

  Tightgit scoffed his pears and ice cream:

"Next time can you order peaches...don't like pears..."

"There's a programme on the telly tonight I'd like to see, about some disease from Outer Mongolia that I may have

picked up....with a bit of luck...."

"But you've never BEEN to Outer Mongolia...."

"Could have picked it up off a banana....anyway I can't watch it cos I can't afford to pay for the telly's

five quid a night."

Tightgit nearly swallowed a grape.

"Tough shit."

"Can you lend it to me?"

At that he nearly swallowed the egg cup too.

"Sod off.  Don't even pay for my own telly let alone yours..."

"How do you watch it then?"

"I don't.  I visit Mr. Oldgit next door if I want to see anything, pretend I've come to see how he is....then nick the

remote when he's snoring with the cat on his face...."

"That's kind of you."

"Well I'll be off then....hope you don't feel better..."

  "Thanks.  I hope I don't either.....I've just found a spot on my knee.  I think I may have that disease that monkeys get..."

"Good job you told me.  I won't bring my monkey to see you."

And he left Mr. Hypo reading The Nation's Favourite Disease Poems.

On the way out he saw Mr. Downanout in the street selling The Big Wishoo with his manky dog playing a banjo.

"Big Wishoo Sir?  £3.50 and a free wish with every copy."


"What?!  that dog is out of tune....get a job punk."

"I can't Sir."

"Why not?"

"I'm dying."

"What from?"

"I have a deficiency..."

"Of what?"


"Ha!  As I said.....get a job."

Mr. Skint walked up in tatty jacket and threadbare shoes.

"I've got £1.20 that's all...."

"That'll do.  Make a wish...."   He handed him a copy.

Mr. Skint gave him all his money and closed his eyes.

"'kin con man...."   quipped Tightgit and walked off smugly.

A week later he saw Mr. Skint walking by the lake with an old woman, still in his tatty jacket.  He held her arm, and they

were laughing.

"Ha!  I see your wish didn't come true then....still skint...."

"Oh but it did.  I didn't wish for money.  THIS is what I wished for...."   He pointed to the old girl.

"THAT old bag?"

"I wished that my Mum could walk again, free of Arthritis, and enjoy the sunshine and the isn't everything

you can't take it with you."

  "Head case!  Wasting a wish on an old wrinkly like that!"

  But suddenly he had an idea.  He WOULD make a wish that would help someone....himself,

  He found Mr. Downanout, strumming dog in tow singing Underneath the Arches.

  "I've got 90p."   He lied.

  "OK.  Make your wish."

  "Everyone says you can't take it with you.  Well, that's what I want.  To take it with me."

  "Take what with you?"

"My money.  When I die.  That and more besides.  Make it unlimited supplies."

"OK. It's your wish."   He produced a card:


  Tightgit bent down to pick up a penny, when he stood up Mr. Downanout had gone.


  The years passed.  Tightgit got tighter, ripping people off selling things on ebay like breeze blocks from the Great

Wall of China, allotments on the Moon and cable-less hoovers that didn't trip people up but didn't work either.  He stashed

away great hoards of cash in a big old suitcase under the bed.  He carried his mobile and the Snuffit card everywhere.

One day he decided to go swimming, but when he got to the beach it cost £2.00 to park all day, so he drove to the 

next bay which was very isolated and he had to scramble down a cliff path.  It was totally deserted - sheer bliss! - no ice 

cream vans or chip shops or people shaking a charity tin at him (he always pretended he was a Mandarin and made 

meaningless gestures in the air) - and he lay on the beach dreaming of his fortune growing under his bed.

When the seagulls had pissed him off trying to get his cucumber sandwiches:

"Scrounging sods.....go and buy your own..." He decided to go swimming.

He swam out a long way before he realised that the tide was taking him further and further away from his clothes and his

wallet.  Suddenly he was in difficulties, and within moments realised that Hey!  Here it was....Last Moment time was here...

He clung to a rock and scrabbled for his mobile on his trunks, pressing auto dial for Snuffit Ltd.

"Welcome to Snuffit Ltd.  Press 1 to order a Wish.  Press 2 for Account queries.  Press 3 to speak to a Supervisor.

 Press4 for last moments, and 5 for any other business.  You may be held in a queue but we apologise for any

inconvenience caused and your call will be answered as soon as possible.  Have a nice day!"

 He stabbed 4 as his hand slipped off a barnacle and he went down for the second time.

  "Good Morning.  Miss Sortit speaking.  How can I help?"

  "I'm drowning.  Can you send someone with my money?"

  "Have you called 999?"

  "No.  First things first.  This is more important.  They may not get here in time."

  "What is your location Sir?"

"I don't know.  There are a couple of seagulls and some rocks."

"That narrows it down.  What colour are the seagulls?"

"I don't know!  Brown and white I think."

"They can't be brown and white...or you must be off the coast of Papua New Guinea..."

"I'm not in bloody Papua New Guinea!"

"Perhaps the seagulls are lost then."

"Look will you get someone here like NOW with my money....gulp...glug..."

 "Hold the line please...have you got your Account number?"

  "Not on me right now."

"Putting you through to Last Moments dept..."

  Click.  Silly tinkling music....Michael Row the Boat Ashore...

  "All our Operators are busy, please hold the line while we try to connect you..."  Click.  More silly music.

We Are Sailing.....very funny.

He was slipping again, and there was a shrimp in his ear.

Click.  Bleep.   "Sorry to keep you waiting Sir.  Your request has gone into a queue...we will process your order

as soon as one of our Operators is free.  Thank you.  Have an even nicer day...."

What seemed like an Eternity later, but wasn't of course as where Eternity was concerned he aint seen nuthin yet,

something zoomed in from the sky on a jet ski.  The first thing he saw was a manky tongue lolling over manky teeth.

Something leaned out and bashed him over the head with a banjo and sang a couple of bars of Heaven is a Place on was Mr. Downanout and his mutt.

"What the HELL are YOU doing here?"

  "Told you I was dying.  I'm an Angel now.  And I'm pleased to share these very special moments with you.  Your

LAST moments, couldn't have happened to a nicer person."

Tightgit hauled himself up by a barnacle.

"But I think I'm gonna be ok now....I'm not drowning after all.  Can you bring my money a bit later...say in about

twenty years or so?"

"A hoax call?  You gotta be joking mate.  I've come a coupla hundred miles outta my way for you....I don't owe you

any favours remember?  You're going down now big time..."

And he launched the huge brown suitcase over the side like a boulder right on top of Tightgit.

"Take a hike arsehole...and don't harass me again."  And they zoomed off with the manky dog singing My Way.

Tightgit plunged to the sea bed where the suitcase pinned him amongst the sea anemones.  Shit!  Things were

not looking good, but at least he had his dough.  He passed out for a bit.  When he woke up he was outside a

golden door with some geezer with wings guarding it.

"Er...excuse this Heaven?"

"It is.  Name?"

"Earnest Tightgit reporting for duty."

"Ah yes....a piano fell on you?"


"Wrong Tightgit.  Ah yes, flattened by a suitcase."

"Can I come in?"

"You don't qualify for this place.  You've committed a deadly sin....AVARICE...."

"But....I've got loads of money could buy harps and things with it...."

"Money counts for nothing here mate.  It's not legal currency.  We only work on the balance you owe Society,

how well you've lived....kindness, truth, generosity, compassion...all that malarky.  Oh and of course LOVE."

"Yuk."  Tightgit made a fingers down the throat gesture.

"Tell you what...go to Hell..."  and he slammed the hatch down on the window:  BASKETS ONLY.  POSITION CLOSED.

"I'll report you to the Filth...."

"Won't find any up here mate...."

So he went to Hell.

  Hell was a crumbling old door covered in graffiti:  Fuckface. Bumboy. Sheepshagger.

  The hatch shot back to reveal rotting teeth and stinking breath.


"Earnest Tightgit deceased.  Let me in..."

  The door flew open and he heaved the great case inside.

"Anything to declare?"

"Just money. Loads of it...."

"Don't give me that shit.  You've got an illegal immigrant in there..."

 He threw it open.  It was full of notes, and breeze blocks from the Great Wall of China.

"And what did you do to qualify to come here?"

"Nothing really.  I only saved my money and didn't squander it..."

"Ah, mean bastard, I see.  That's enough.  Welcome to Hell."

He took him through a foyer and out into a street full of nightclubs, bars and gambling dens.

"Wow...this looks great!"

They headed for the nearest bar, where everyone was pissed and rolling round on the floor fighting in puke

and pee.  The stench slammed his senses.  Perhaps he'd just have one half before going to check out his digs.

 It didn't look so bad here after all...everyone was having a ball!

"Drinks all round!"  Yelled Rottingteeth to the whole room.

"Gosh you are generous!"  Said Tightgit.

"No. YOU are.  The drinks are on YOU."   He went pale and felt sick.

Bigtits behind the bar leaned over and breathed a faecal stench over him.  Her mouth was like a red Amyrillis

on the end of a fat stalk of neck.  A pole dancer gyrated inches from his head, but she was about 90 and looked

like Ryder Haggard's SHE after she had gone twice into the eternal fire.  Her skin was sloughing off and she had

peed herself. 

The room began to form a queue to the bar.  Mr. Pisshead, Mr. Sirrhosis, Miss Plonky, Mr. Pickledliver and

countless more lined up for their free drink on Tightgit.  They all thumped his back and welcomed him.  Then

slipped on vomit and lager and dropped their drinks all down him.  He felt nauseous. Rottenteeth drank up and went

to leave.  Thank God, or Lucifer as the case may be, he wanted to get outta here.

"Where to now?"

"Oh you're not going anywhere.  I'm off to bed but you're staying."

"How long for?"

"Till your money runs out....."

Then he realised that the queue had no beginning and no end.  They got their drinks then went back to join

the end of the queue again.

"But I'll spend it all.....on booze...."

"No you won't.  You wished for unlimited supplies remember?"


"This is their Hell.  Being pissed for Eternity, being sick and rolling about in vomit.  Having permanent splitting heads

and aching guts....that's their Hell.  Yours is to pay for it.  Bye...have a nice Eternity."

He looked at Miss Bigtits, and Miss Writhing Wrinkly, growing ever more hideous by the second.  She lurched at him

and thrust her staydri pants at him, which weren't working.

"Shall I sit on your face sweetheart?"

"What time do you close?" He put his hankie over his mouth.

"Oh we NEVER close....not EVER...."

And a man mountain grabbed him round the neck and force fed with a fagash sandwich soaked in vomit.


The End





© Copyright 2018 Anwen Hughes. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: