Wage Slaves: Pat Parker's Fairy Tales From The Workplace

By S. Markem

Life Is Absurd; Truly Absurd.

Pat Parker suffered a truly traumatic experience; genuine horror.
It changed his life forever.
Lacking direction and seeking catharsis, he began writing short stories—parables of a sort. I guess it was his way of coping with the absurdity of life.

I was friends with Pat for a time. We shared a common hatred—so called, office culture. There’s nothing more toxic than the modern workplace.

I persuaded him to publish his stories in some sort of collection, and so we worked on the project together. It was productive and great fun.

Tragically, Pat was struck down with a sudden, serious illness, and as a result he didn’t live to see the final result. He was forty-eight. Life is absurd.

This book is part collection, part biography. He wrote and selected the stories for inclusion, I supplied the biographical snippets.

Hilarious, absurd, tragic and touching; these stories will entertain you and also, I hope, give you some insight into Pat, the man.

And if you share our contempt for office life, then I am sure Pat’s stories will cheer your spirit.

Pat Parker, RIP
(1971 - 2019)

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Markem
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916288348

S. Markem

S. Markem is a writer, programmer, professional procrastinator and author of the new humorous fantasy series, The Wizard Of Trope.After a long time in the trenches as a technologist, Markem has spent the last few years crafting a collection of novels, each with a wry, affectionate and occasionally dark sense of humour. His most recent works take place in The Sinking World fantasy setting, but he’s also authored Wage Slaves: Pat Parker’s Fairytales From The Workplace, and the dark comedy, The Murderpreneur.Markem lives in the southwest of England, and is a lover of walking dogs, drinking beer and taking naps (usually in that order). He has a pathological fear of commas, as every reader or writer should.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

About Pat Parker

I MET PAT Parker quite by chance; that chance being that we drank in the same pub.

We got drunk—we both liked drinking—we had something in common.

Aside from drinking, we shared another passion: we hated the modern workplace and so-called office culture.

We both bemoaned the lifetime we’d spent in wage slavery—the horror of the daily grind.

In Pat’s case however, there was more to it than that. Pat had experienced something truly awful—horrific—something that changed his life forever.

In an effort to come to terms with what happened, he started writing a collection of short stories. Catharsis I suppose.

He let me read them. They were good.

I don’t think he originally intended to publish them, but, as we were both writers (he’d had a little novella published), we talked ourselves into developing them into a book; encouraged, of course, by beer.

And so, what you have in your hands is the result of that collaboration. It is partly a biography (Pat was a lovely bloke), and partly a collection of his stories. I wrote the former and he, obviously, the latter.

We had a lot of fun doing it.

Sadly, Pat didn’t live to see the end result—pancreatic cancer—sudden. He was gone within weeks. He was forty-eight. Life is absurd.

Naturally, I felt I had to finish the job. I discussed it with his partner, Jeanie, and she agreed the project should go ahead.

I’d already done my parts, and Pat had pretty much finished selecting the stories he wanted to include. All that was left was the mechanics of transcription.

It was quite tricky.

Pat wrote longhand, and his handwriting was so elaborate that I can only describe it as Byzantine.

Also, there were many more stories than the ones he chose to include. I guess he picked the ones he liked best, or at least the ones he’d want you to read, and so, reluctantly, I have not included everything he wrote. I have however, taken the liberty of including one extra story—my favourite. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.

They are a real mix of the funny, the tragic, the affectionate and, of course, the absurd. After all: Life is absurd.

I hope they give you a little insight into Pat, the man—and I know that he would have hoped that maybe, if your job is a bit shit, or your boss is a fool, or life is getting you down—that these will cheer you up.

Your friend,

S. Markem

Pat Parker, RIP.

1971-2019

CHAPTER TWO

The Brain Of A Businessman

BY PAT PARKER

A little-old-lady, the kind that could almost fit in your pocket, shuffled up to the park bench and sat down. She straightened her old tartan skirt and picked off some lint. She undid her tatty, red headscarf and let her tight, purple-rinsed curls enjoy the breeze. The mid-morning sun was a mellow-yellow, and the sky was an uninterrupted baby-blue. A gust of wind blew up, and the little-old-lady could feel the moisture in the air that blew off the duck pond.

She placed her large, black, shabby handbag on her lap, crossed her hands on top of the bag, and then shrugged her shoulders.

Another little-old-lady, who was in fact a tall-old-lady who had been made short by a severe stoop, pushed her walking frame along the path and round the duckpond until she too, arrived at the bench. She navigated backwards with a wobble and plopped herself onto the seat. She was dressed in a heavy, black overcoat and a thick purple headscarf. Her face—wrinkled like a scrunched up paper-bag—hid behind a pair of big, round wide-rimmed glasses.

‘Good morning, dear,’ said the first little-old-lady.

‘Morning Ivy,’ said the not-so-little-old-lady. She puffed up her cheeks and blew the air out. ‘Oh, my old bones don’t fancy it much today.’

‘It’s a lovely morning, dear,’ said Ivy.

‘Well, it’s not raining I suppose. Bit chilly though.’

‘Chilly, dear?’

‘You don’t feel it?’

‘No, dear,’ said Ivy. She stared out across the duck pond.

Ivy opened her bag and rummaged around. She brought out a plastic bag that had once contained a loaf of bread. It was tied in a knot at the top. She worked at the knot with her gnarly, arthritic fingers.

The ducks on the pond began to swim in her direction. A group of pigeons, who had been bothering a nearby dog-walker, cooed as they trotted toward her. Soon she had an audience of more than a dozen birds.

She reached into the bread-bag and took out a handful of smaller-than-pea sized steel ball-bearings. She picked one out, squinted, and then threw it at one of the pigeons; hitting it on the backside.

‘Really Ivy, don’t you think you should just feed them?’ said the not-so-little-old-lady.

‘Oh no, dear, where’s the fun in that?’

‘You’re a cruel, old woman, Ivy Ratchet.’

‘Don’t be silly dear, if they didn’t like it they wouldn’t keep coming back, would they?’

The two old ladies sat quietly for a while. Ivy threw more ball-bearings at the pigeons, and the not-so-little-old-lady peered from behind her giant spectacles; occasionally thrusting her head out to stare at passing strangers. Eventually there were no more strangers, and then the birds got bored and wandered off.

‘So, where were you yesterday?’ said the not-so-little-old-lady. ‘I was worried something might have happened to you.’

‘Oh no, dear, I just went out for the day, that’s all.’

‘Well, why didn’t you call? I thought your nephew bought you a mobile phone?’

‘Yes, that’s right, he did.’

‘And?’

‘I never take it out with me, dear.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I should be frightened to lose it, and…’

‘And what, Ivy?’ said the not-so-little-old-lady.

‘Well, you see—and you promise you won’t say a word—I don’t think it’s a very good phone. I think the cheapskate bought me an old one. All the other ladies at the sewing circle have iPhones.’

‘Well, that’s just silly talk. A phone is a phone. And besides, I was worried.’

‘I’m sorry, Ida. I’ll remember next time. I forget a lot of things these days. Talking of nephews, have you seen yours recently?’

‘I have,’ Ida said, smiling.

‘And did he give you one of his special cigarettes?’

‘He did, yes,’ she nodded. ‘Shall we have it now?’

‘Should we?’ chuckled Ivy.

‘Oh yes, I think so,’ said Ida, rubbing her hands together.

The two old ladies finished the spliff. Ida threw the stub on the ground and then crushed it with her foot.

‘Oh really, dear,’ said Ivy. ‘Don’t litter.’

‘I don’t think I could manage to bend down to pick it up,’ said Ida, and then she roared with laughter.

‘Did you bring any mints?’ said Ivy. ‘I’m hungry now.’

‘Yes, yes I did. A whole pound-bag-full this time.’ Ida rummaged in her handbag, got out a huge bag of mints and placed them on the bench between herself and Ivy. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

The two old ladies sucked on their mints, chuckling occasionally.

‘Your nephew is a very lovely boy,’ said Ivy.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Ida, as she picked a bit of sticky mint from her false teeth. ‘So, you were telling me… where were you yesterday?’

‘Oh, yes, I forgot. I went to see Betty, dear. You remember Betty?’

‘Betty from Chiswick Street?’

‘Yes, that’s right, although she hasn’t lived there for a long time.’

‘No?’

‘No, dear, not for twenty years I should think.’

‘How time flies.’

‘Yes, dear, like my Jack used to say, Time passes like wind.’

‘And how is Betty then? I remember she used to like hanging around the Army base.’

‘Oh really,’ Ivy chuckled. ‘You are terrible. That was after the war, dear. Oh, it’s such a long time ago, isn’t it?’

‘So, how is she?’

‘She’s very well, yes, considering. She’s had her brain transplant now.’

Ida squinted through her glasses at Ivy. ‘Her what?’

‘Her brain transplant, dear. She’s right-as-rain now. You can barely see a scar. Did I forget to tell you? Oh dear, I forget so many things these days.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh yes, dear, Betty was very definite on the matter.’

‘I didn’t know they could do brain transplants?’

‘Nor did I, dear. But they can do so many things nowadays. Do you remember when I had cancer?’

‘I thought that was trapped wind?’

‘No, dear, it was piles in the end, but they cleared that up right away, with a spot of cream. Doctors are so marvellous these days.’

‘Why on earth did she need a brain transplant?’

‘Oh, Ida, she’s been in that home for years, and her old one was starting to wear out. She hasn’t aged as well as you and me.’

‘Was it expensive?’

‘No, dear, they do it on the NHS. It’s a wonderful thing the NHS.’

Ida snorted, ‘I can’t believe it. I’ve been waiting nine months for a new hip, but they can find her a new brain—just like that? Honestly!’

‘Oh no, she had to wait a year or more, dear. It’s hard to find a donor. I suppose they have to find one the same size.’

‘Same size as what?’

‘Brain, dear. One from the same sized head. You wouldn’t want one too small now, would you? It might rattle around in there, and Betty always did have a big head.’

‘So whose brain does she have now then?’

‘Well, they don’t tell you all the details, do they dear. But Betty says it used to belong to a businessman. Quite an important businessman by all accounts. A C-3PO, or something like that. Died young.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, threw himself in front of a train. It cut his head clean off, which Betty says was very lucky because it didn’t do much damage, see. Yes, it was very lucky. The rest of him got mashed.’

‘Fancy.’

‘I know.’

Ida thought for a moment then said, ‘So, is she… I mean is she… the same?’

‘How do you mean, dear?’

‘Well, if it’s someone else’s brain, then—’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, she’s still Betty. You never know what she’s going to say from one minute to the next. Although she has taken up golf.’

The two old ladies stared off into the distance. Two swans were mating on the other side of the pond; it caught their attention.

Ida turned to Ivy, ‘Did you say, golf?’

‘Yes, dear—golf.’

‘Fancy.’

‘Not real golf, obviously, just pitch-and-putt, but she’s bought herself a set of clubs and everything. She’s got lots of golf jumpers too—pink ones. Spent a fortune.’

‘Well, I never.’

‘Yes, and she bought herself a new car. Cashed in part of her pension. It’s a lovely car. Big black shiny one, German, I think?’

‘What does she need a car for? I mean, where does she go?’

‘Oh, she can’t drive, dear. She just likes cleaning it. It’s very shiny.’

‘Fancy.’

‘I know.’

‘Who’d have thought it,’ said Ida, ‘Betty—a businessman. I wonder if she’ll do something, you know, start a business of some sort?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, dear,’ Ivy chuckled. ‘She can barely remember where she keeps the teabags. We had a right todo trying to make a cuppa.’

Ida pointed to the bag of sweets, now nearly empty. ‘Have you finished with the mints now, Ivy?’

‘Yes, thank you, dear. Ooo, I can’t believe we’ve eaten so many. I shall have terrible gas tonight.’

Ida put the mints back in her handbag and then clacked her false teeth a few times. ‘I don’t think I’d want to donate my brain if I died.’

‘Who would want it?’ said Ivy.

‘Someone might?’

‘I’m leaving mine to the cat.’

‘You are?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But it’d be too big, Ivy.’

‘He’s only a cat, dear. He won’t need it all.’

‘Yes, that’s true I suppose.’

Ida grunted and groaned and struggled to her feet, steadying herself on her walking frame. ‘I just can’t believe it—Betty, a businessman.’

‘Are you leaving, dear?’

‘Yes, it’s nearly time for Pointless, and it takes me ages to get back with this thing,’ she nodded toward her walking frame.

‘Ok dear, I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

‘When are you next seeing Betty?’

‘Oh I don’t think I’ll bother again, dear.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Well, to be honest, dear, she’s turning into a bit of c***.’

CHAPTER THREE

Wage Slaves

BY S. MARKEM

‘What are we doing here? Why am I putting up with this crap, yet again?’

Pat stared at the little plastic-and-rubber elephant that sat on his desk. The elephant, a caricature, stood atop a round, white, plastic base, the word ‘Nelly’ written with a red Sharpie.

The elephant gave no answer, no hint—nothing.

‘It’s toxic. Worst