The Mekon Must Die!

I woke up much earlier than usual this morning. The sun was shining directly into my window and through the curtains I'd neglected to close, almost blinding me as I clutched my churning stomach and tried to ignore the pain in my head.

My leaving party was last night. Too much to drink. Vague memories of being driven home by Vanessa and making her stop on the motorway because I needed to piss.

My first words, spoken in the old man croak of the chain-smoker: "What the fuck?"

Directly beneath the window, resting ominously on my computer chair, was a large papier mache sculpture of The Mekon's head. I vaguely remembered being presented with this as one of my gifts, along with a scythe (an honest-to-God SCYTHE, ladies and gentlemen) and a T-shirt that read "We are the pod people from Gaddesden Row" that I wore with pride.

I suppose I should explain these bizarre presents. The job I just quit was as assistant manager in a country pub called The Old Chequers. Working there was a strange and evil time in my life, and my days were filled with all manner of weird country folk who looked with disapproval and horror on my city-boy ways.

I hated a lot of the customers. Hated them with a passion. In fact, I was often heard voicing the opinion that I was trapped in the village from Invasion Of The Body Snatchers, and that I had to get out before they finally got to me and I was turned into a Pod Person (That'd be the T-shirt explained).

I dealt with these fears by requesting weapons to keep behind the bar. Every time my boss went to cash and carry on a Saturday morning, he would ask me if I wanted anything.

"A machine gun to mount on the counter," I would cheerfully reply.
"A broadsword."
"A baseball bat."
"A taser."
And, "A scythe."

For some reason, the scythe thing bashed a gong in my mind and I began to ask for one repeatedly, adding that I would also like a hooded cape so that I could serve the customers dressed as Death. I never believed they would actually comply with these lunatic requests, but last night, I was presented with the bar-weapon of my dreams. Which ruled.

As for The Mekon, well, if you're not familiar with the chap, here's a visual aid...

In May of this year, I hadn't taken a sick day for over four years. I rarely get ill, and when I do it's usually minor and passes quickly. But when I came down with the flu last month, I got hit hard, so hard that I could barely get out of bed. I was living in at the pub, so all I had to do was stagger downstairs and let one of the managers know I wasn't feeling up to working.

When the pub closed that night, I went downstairs to talk to Chris and Vanessa (the couple that run The Chequers). Vanessa casually remarked that, when I'd come down and told her I wasn't feeling well, my head had actually looked swollen. Chris, being a big fan of comics, immediately seized on this and began calling me The Mekon. For some odd reason, this caught on, and I toyed with the idea of writing online under that name. Clearly overjoyed at this prospect, Chris began leaving pictures of the saucer-riding alien in various locations around the bar. This artistic stalking obviously reached its nadir last night, when he presented me with the giant papier mache head.

Genius.

Back to the main thrust of this post, which is the fact that - when I woke up this morning - The Darkened Room stank so strongly of paint that it was making me feel ill. This same paint, I quickly realised, was on my hands and even my face, and had stained both my clothes and my blankets. I had clearly been attacked by The Mekon while I slept, and there was only one thing left to do...

Which, in a nutshell, is how I came to slay that big-headed xenophobe fuck with a scythe.