There was a guy, his name was Billy Grey. He seemed like a normal guy, owned his own wee flat, went down the shops and bought his dinner from the chip shop every day... Typical stuff in Glasgow.
But he hid a secret, a dark secret. He was a psychopath. A daft bastard with an unhealthy obsession with James Bond films. The walls of his flat were covered in posters of Sean Connery, Roger Moore
and the more recent Daniel Craig. No posters of the many girls that Bond shagged or the cars he drove, just the actors that played him. It was fucking creepy and the guy looked dodgy as well with
his matted, greasy hair, milk bottle glasses and Diadora track suit that he wore every day. So it's a wonder people saw him as normal.
One day, Billy bought a cat. He was lonely and wanted some company.
A cat was his only choice as he was too scared of dogs. Dick.
Anyway, he bought a cat and named it...
The villain from a James Bond film. Surprise surprise.
This cat was his saviour, it was the only thing that brought him joy, his stupid face would laugh when the cat done a shite and he'd shout, "Scaramanga, moan and get yir whiskas and milk !"
He loved it, but he had plans for this cat. He called it Scaramanga for a reason. He went out and bought a new cat, he'd saved his dole money for this wee beast. He brought his new cat home and he named it. He named it Roger Moore.
The cats became best of friends, they did everything together. Billy had great things in mind though, he wanted his cats to play out the ending of the movie, The Man with the Golden Gun.
This meant that Scaramanga would have to die by the hand, or paw, or claw of Roger Moore... But wait a fucking minute. Why is his cat called Roger Moore and not James Bond ? He made a massive mistake and he started to panic ! He couldn't change the creature's name, it was too late and he couldn't change his other cats name to Christopher Lee. He calmed himself;
"Right Billy, calm it. This is what you'll do, you'll pretend the cat is simply an actor playing James Bond. You can call him Roger Moore like a director would do. That's what you'll do, calm it."
He calmed right down, he dunked his head in his washing basin filled with cold water. His cats were already playing out the first part where James and Scaramanga were pure friendly and that, before trying to kill each other. The cats were best of pals, this was going swimmingly he thought. How in the name of Judy Dench was he going to get them to kill one another though ? He was a psycho remember so it didn't take him long.
He got them both cages. He had the cages set down at opposite sides of his living room, put them inside. He put a dead mouse in the middle of the room and he starved them for a week. As soon as they were let out, they'd rip each other to shreds ! His plan was set.
The time had finally come, he couldn't contain his excitement. The cats were released, they ran like cheetahs towards the mouse and... Shared it. They fucking shared the mouse. It was a failure. His dreams were ruined, totally ruined. The cats weren't starving at all, they'd been eating their shites all week, so they continued being pals instead of ravenous bastards.
Billy sat on his faded leather couch, staring at the poster of Roger Moore above his telly.
"What would you do Roger, eh?"
He considered tanning his wrists there and then, letting the pain end but he heard a voice, the suave and sophisticated voice of Roger Moore, saying;
"Get a dug."
That's it ! Get a fucking dog. A dog shags non-stop, it doesn't give a fuck and it can be charming like James Bond. Dogs are Bonds in a way actually. He knew a guy called Craig Madison that was selling a pitbull, it would kill Scaramanga no bother. This time he'd call it Bond.
He bought his new animal on tick, of he didn't give Craig the money by the end of the week, he'd get crucified. He brought Bond home and as they were walking through the door, the dog must've caught the scent of the cats straight away as it ran in the house, into the living room and got Scaramanga by the throat, shaking the cat side to side like a rag doll, blood spraying up the walls and onto Billy's face as he entered the living room. The cat fell apart and it was tore to pieces, Billy cried and shouted out to get it to stop but to no avail. His plan was fucked this time, Scaramanga and Bond never even got a chance to greet each other, it was a massacre and his posters were ruined as well, covered in cat blood and guts. Luckily the other cat was in the cage as it'd be next to get torn apart. The dog was battering up against the cage, trying to get in.
Billy was done, he had no reason to live anymore. He bolted upstairs, came back down with his uncle Charlie's shotgun, double barrelled. He aimed at the dog and the cage, one shot would hit Roger Moore and Bond, killing them.
Both animals dead.
Billy sat on his blood soaked, faded, leather couch. He asked again to the poster of Roger Moore,
"What would you do Roger?"
Before pointing the barrel of the gun below his chin and pulling the trigger.
The moral of this story?
Animals are shite actors, cause you nothing but bother.
© Copyright 2016 Moseleyshoals. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Humor
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