‘Opening the wardrobe door’ was a recent writing prompt I was given. Quick as a flash fiction writer, I came up with this…


Opening the wardrobe door I knew I’d come upstairs for something but I couldn’t remember what. I took a slug from the good bottle of whisky in my hand and thought about it a while. A shotgun, slippers, a file? No… gone clean out of my mind. What the hell.

I looked out the window for inspiration and recognised the blonde-headed Mrs Kennedy teetering along on high heels, leading Hector her chihuahua on a red leather lead. It must be leather. She doesn’t do “cheap”.

Leaning out the window I yelled “Hey toots, where are ya taking my buddy? He promised to spend the afternoon with me and a bottle of tequila. He had to bring the limes, on account of I’m fresh out, but I have a delicate pink sea salt from some pans in Tijuana I was gonna throw in.”

She didn’t reply. She was ignoring me, but I carried on anyway “Yeah I know he has difficulty with the salt between his claws. That’s the difference between us and the lower castes though (sorry H! don’t mean to be rude)… no opposable thumbs or some goddamn nonsense.”

Good slug on the whisky here. That’s a bottle of The Singleton my sister Amy brought back from a visit to some shitty Scottish island…

Anyways turns out Mrs Kennedy couldn’t hear me on account of some kind of cavalcade running down the street. Cheerleaders and other nonsense. Mind you there were some cute looking girls there I had to admit. I could see Hector paying attention. Two timing little bastard. Next time I see him he can sort his own salt out. See how he’d like that. In fact…

I turned round as I thought I had an air rifle somewhere in the deep recesses of that walnut wardrobe. Yes! Got you baby. I dropped the green bottle behind me on a table I think and yeah I checked it. That baby wasn’t going anywhere ‘cept down my throat. Levelling the rifle. I’d already decided it was going to be Hector’s tush.

I’ll show him, stealing my wimmin. I’ll give it to him and I loosed off a round of pellets. Warm afternoon, Jesus about 35°C in the shade, sweat must have got in my eyes or the thermals grabbed the buckshot. Next thing I know Mrs K’s got both palms on her ass. Now that looks plain odd. It’s not the kind of thing I’d expect from a woman of her stock. Wasn’t her Daddy, Mayor of this County once upon a time, before they caught him en flagrante dilecto or somethin’, in a cupboard with some man servant? And he was a black servant, goddamn it. The nerve of these people. She was shrieking that’s for sure. Kinda funny for a minute. Um… what’ve I done now?

Jesus this needs a big shot. I gulped it down. Didn’t half sting my throat. Y’know how it gets you sometimes, like it’s gone down an airway or something? It was like that. Watery eyes ‘n’ all.

“Sorry Mrs K I was aiming for the pooch! Goddamn lecherous wetback animal.” Next thing I saw her talking to a cop…

Where’s that damn bottle?