Grad Bay Hell

I'm two steps from hell, stuck in a charity-fundraising-limbo worse than purgatory.

Three days without a sign-up, they'll be scraping at my back soon and I know who's going to ensure my demise.

The Grad Bay weasel. He's a shifty guy: a Dickensian caricature: part crackhead, part vermin, part jester.

Dancing around in beige slippers, greasy jogging bottoms and novelty t-shirts.

Never content, he prances and sidesteps - circling our pod, baying for someone to make a mistake so he can pounce, jeer and take us down. Or, on an all-too-rare occurrence: a swift karate chop/pat on the shoulder for good behaviour.

His hair is lank and grey-blonde: too much time spent in unhealthy places. His face is shallow; eyes as sallow as saucers.

Weasel sneer, weasel leer... why must you persist in tormenting us? Tiny dull teeth protruding, jutting your chin out to show your pathetic pride.

What pride can you possibly take, in making us wait for a tiny scrap of your wisdom? Wis-doom more like; jaded, resentment-addled deflections.

You were me once. You were scared, confused, unsafe. Only you have the weasel instinct, the thing that twists tight and forces you to beg, beg, beg. Make the sale. Rinse old ladies of their last pension scraps. No, I can't do that.

Actors play other people. You don't have to act any more. You've been promoted to head of the grad bay floor. You witness our amateur dramatic group grappling with the emotion, the tone, the inflection. But you don't care. The targets are not going up, and this affects your pluck.

How long till he shoots to kill? Do I fit the bill? Probably will, if I don't get my fill.

The sooner the cull begins the sooner I will escape the torment. Please let it be me, I've never been fired before. If it's going to happen - this is the optimum time and place. A hot house where nobody expects to thrive, sprout buds and flourish. Best to be cut and displayed outside, not left inside to fester like the grad bay jester.