Testimony

Excellence Award in the 'Step Write Up 2011' competition

Your Honour, I would like your permission to testify, under oath, against Ms. Taser. Actually, Your Honour, I don’t really care if you don’t let me, because I’m going to say it.

I go to work, ready to do whatever makes my boss, Ms. Taser, happy. My boss just happens to be my childhood enemy and she still possesses all those irritating habits that forced me to dislike her. For example, she is so immature that she’s ready to fire me if I step one toe, no, one toe nail out of line.

I continue to suffer throughout the day, answering my boss’s sacking threats with a smile. I type up an article with one extremely unnoticeable grammatical mistake and she starts screaming at me. Here is a recording.

“If you’re going to waste moi time typing up a load of rubbish, how about you just go back to infant school and learn how to spell. Maybe you’ll group up with a six year old buddy who can help you upgrade your Stupid! Thick! Grammatically incorrect head! Oh~ my gosh! Your face and that rotten brain of yours are going to stress my precious fingernails! Get out! Please!”

As those who speak French know, ‘moi time’ is also grammatically incorrect.

I leave work, almost dead, flattened to the ground further and further as her vile little insults nab at me incessantly- little pokes, signing a contract with that evil woman and resurrecting as a giant hammer. Yes Your Honour, I’m the nail.

I hurry along into a train station as I think this, pitying myself and blaming the world. I don’t notice myself being crammed into the train like luggage until the sweltering heat wave gets at me. I realise that I took a tin can train. I start to squirm a bit, ignoring the glares from a little group of school girls. Grey clouds flash past through the windows, raindrops skid along the walls as I feel a trickle of sweat slide down my cheek. There isn’t enough space for me to lift my hand and wipe it away.

As I struggle to lift my hand (me against the crowd surrounding me), I turn my head in frustration. I smell Impulse, oozing from every pore of the sleazy woman beside me, who decided that one bottle of Impulse was not going to negatively affect her fellow train passengers. It’s so strong, not even the rain-on-wool smell can confront it. A few moments of pure agony pass, before I manage to lift my clammy hand to rub my forehead. The stench is too much. I crumble to the floor, unable to withstand the stink. Yes, the woman next to me was the one, and only, Ms. Taser. Of course, I was sacked for missing work the next day.

Your Honour, I would like you to take my testimony into account when you decide what sentence Ms. Taser will receive.

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