THE MILK OF HUMAN KIDNEYS – How The Piss Taking Charity Muggers Got Their Comeuppance and Why I Was There To See It. Sort of.

This Is What A First Class Honours In Media Studies Gets You Nowadays. Still, Nice Bucket

The following is a true story, in that it happened in my head, which I am given to believe is a real place. Despite continual evidence to the contrary.

Not so very long ago, I got a new job. I became one of those chirpy individuals who wears a colourful tabard and hassles people on the street . The idea is to drain the world’s teats of every last drop of the milk of human kindness by the signing of direct debit orders. In short, I had become a Chugger.

In retrospect, I am not terribly proud of this, but pimping opportunities were a bit thin on the ground and armed robbery is little on the risky side. So I donned that tabard and picked up the clipboard and I stalked the daytime streets.

All went well at first. I was quite the salesman and had even managed to sell myself the idea that it was all for charity and therefore somehow ok. And not just an annoying way of allowing The Government more leeway to shirk its responsibilities towards the poor, the ill and the generally needy.

This all changed one fine summer evening. My travails trawling the high street for human fish had been highly successful. Wrapped in the warm glow provided by a few celebratory jars at the pub, I was walking home. That glow was considerably dimmed, however, upon reaching my humble abode. Only to discover to my horror that it had clearly been broken into. That horror deepened when I realized that my home was in fact still in the process of being cleaned out and that the miscreant  had spotted me and was making a bee line in my direction.

All this was as nothing to my horror on realizing that the criminal in question was not wearing a hoodie and carrying a knife. He was not wearing a stripy jumper and a whoopee mask and was not carrying a hessian bag with “Swag” printed on the side. He was, in fact, wearing a tabard not dissimilar to my own and he was carrying a clipboard.

“Oh no” I groaned. “It can’t be. Not a Churglar?”

I had heard rumours of course. The industry rolling out new formats and so on. I’d heard the whispers that “Charity Burglar” might one day be a job description. I just didn’t think they were doing it so soon. Looked like I was one of the early guinea pigs. The man put the last of my things, my X-Box as it happens, into the back of his Ford Transit and gave me a cheery wink as he handed me his clipboard. On it was a declaration that the proceeds from the fencing of my personal possessions would be subject to Gift Aid relief. Well, I had to sign, didn’t I? It was for charity after all.

We finished the paperwork, but just as I was about to trudge dejectedly to my house and attempt ersatz repairs on my kicked-in front door, there was a sound of breaking glass, followed by an almighty “Whoomph!”. The Churglar’s van and the contents of my home were a ball of orange flame in seconds.

The man who had thrown the Molotov cocktail responsible for this carnage made no attempt to bolt for it. The Churglar ran at him, shaking his fists and shouting:

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!”

Calm as a village millpond, the petrol hurler opened his puffa jacket, revealing the brightly coloured tabard beneath. A clipboard was thrust under the angry Churglar’s nose as he reached the destroyer of his vehicle. The anger drained out of him and he visibly sagged as he was filled to the brim with resignation.

“Oh God!” he said, “A fucking Charsonist. You people make me sick.” Well, I guess everyone needs somebody to look down on. The man with the clipboard grinned a forced grin and said:

“We prefer the term Charity Conflagration Specialist.” Then with a nod towards a spotty youth who had just appeared behind him. “And watch the language in front of my apprentice.”

Restrained but unfriendly words were exchanged as the complicated paperwork was signed. Then in a split second, all three figures in the huddle hit the floor as a dart found its home in each of their necks. My heart froze in the act of jumping out through my throat. Surely not a Chassassin! Not here; not now. My worst fears were confirmed as a figure clad in black melted out of the flickering shadows, blowpipe in hand. It struck me as odd that he was clad in black because he had a yellow hi-visibility vest over the top of his Ninja outfit with “Save The Fluffy Kittens” emblazoned on it.  He swooped on his victims and pressed a pen into each of their right hands, using the dying twitches to get signatures on life insurance releases as the curare squeezed the last breaths out of their  juddering bodies.

After a few moments toying with his BlackBerry, the silent charity killer pounced over to me. I was now painfully sober .

“Would you believe it,” he said, shaking his balaclava’d head. “That shouty one isn’t up to date with his premiums. We’ll get nothing for him. I don’t know, some people just have no social conscience. ”

So, the Chassassin left and the “Save The Fluffy Kittens” clean up squad arrived to dispose of the bodies. Their charity would receive all the booty for that night’s work.  This left me bewildered and reflecting, as I repaired my front door, how fortunate it was that I couldn’t afford life insurance at that point. And how it was a good thing that there was no such thing as a Paedophilanthropist. Not since they cancelled Jim’ll Fix it, anyway.

© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013


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About thedailygrime

At that awkward age - too young to be a grumpy old man, but just acerbic and downtrodden enough to have an opinion. Read it here.

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