There was a knocking at the door.
Enter!
I exclaimed cheerily.
The door opened and a fellow popped his head round. He looked quite uncertain, like a pig sniffing a bacon slicer.
Urm. I'm here for the Slimming World class?
He ventured.
You have found it, dear fellow! Come in, come in!
The fellow stepped in, looking curiously around the small hall which was largely empty save for a pile of tarps in one corner, a small desk with two chairs, one of which I sat in and a black plastic bin beside the desk.
Come!
I stood and beckoned him to the chair across from me, lifting a clipboard from the desk and scanning the list of names on it.
Let me see... You must be, Peter Funkler, yes?
Funkler walked to the desk, his step more confident now he was certain he was in the right room. He sat on the spare chair.
Disappointingly, he wasn't much of a fatty. Perhaps only a little around the middle, like a Dutch woman.
I'm covering for Arnold this week. He felt a little unwell and asked me for a favour. I said it would be a pleasure!
I explained.
Ah, right. Good show, I am so near my target I really wouldn't have wanted to miss a week.
Funkler burbled happily.
He looked down at his watch.
Has no-one else turned up? There are usually a few of us.
He peereed around the room as if expecting some of his fellow slimmers to twerk their way out from a hidden recess.
Just you, I'm afraid.
I grinned at him.
Would you like a whiskey?
Funkler blinked several times.
Um, no thanks. I'm actually in a bit of a hurry this evening?
Oh, of course, of course. Silly me.
I quickly splashed out some whiskey into a glass and downed it in one.
So. Funkler. How much would you like to lose this week?
Funkler chuckled disarmingly.
Ha, well. There is a question indeed. I am actually getting very close to my target weight so ideally I think I only have a pound to go and that will be me?
He chuffed proudly, like a spaniel crawling naked into its master's bed.
A pound eh?
I hooked the bucket at my feet closer to me with my leg. The contents slopping around wetly. I scrutinised them intently for a moment.
I think we can easily squeeze a pound in here don't you?
I stood and lifted the bucket, tilting it so that Funkler could see the crudely hacked, bloody gobbets of flesh that filled it almost to the brim.
The blood drained from Funkler's face.
What the fuck? I, what, I mean... What the fuck is that?
He tried to stand but I had covered the ground between us in an instant, the bucket dropping to the ground with a dull thud.
My little knife Mathilda flashed in the light, pressing cruelly into Funkler's neck. My other hand pressed him heavily into the chair.
I wasn't entirely honest, the others did turn up before you...
I briefly flicked Mathilda in the direction of the tarps in the corner.
I'm pleased to say that they all achieved their targeted loss this week.
I giggled and pushed Mathilda back against his neck forcing a drop of blood to drip slowly down into his collar.
Funkler let out a choked sob, the noise reminded me of the time I had tried to pan fry a duck that wasn't quite dead.
Relax, dear fellow. It's only a pound. Who knows... You might even survive it?
My laugh echoed back and forth. Funkler squirmed in my iron grip
Please. Please, let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone. Please! I promise!
I edged my way around till I was standing in front of him, slicing Mathilda shallowly around his neck.
Oh, I know you won't tell, dear fellow... After all...
