delivery driver from hell
A Short Story
ABOUT THE WRITER
Tom Stuckey is a poet from Devon in the UK and has been published in Punk Noir, Bristol Noir and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
His newest book, a collection of short stories and poems entitled The Sun Marches Upon Us All is available now in full for you to download.
It was the perfect job for Isacc, it allowed him complete access to thousands of souls. Even before the delivery gig, he liked to take it out of the people; online, in banks, at supermarkets and especially whilst driving. Driving was special to Isacc; in that he was able to really be himself and be surrounded by metal which gave him a sense of being untouchable. He really liked it when big angry looking bears-of-men started to lose it, to see their eyes wide and mouth frothing, teeth baring, all at 80mph was really something to Isacc. Especially as he was none of those things, rather translucent, thin and tall and looked like he had only ever eaten cheap white bread, and nothing else. His new ambitions, however, that gave plenty of access to the spirit, were protest groups. They were everywhere online now, both extreme right and extreme left. On Monday he could attend a rally to rid the UK of its aliens, and by Friday he could be laying down on the motorway, stopping traffic for miles and miles.
Tonight though was Wednesday, and after throwing the undelivered parcels into the themes, was on the way to attend an unveiling of a new Damon Hurst artwork, said to be the talk of the art community, at the Tate. With a can of orange paint, decanted into a water bottle, hidden in the boxer shorts he entered and neared himself to the front of the crowd. Damon appeared and looked pleased with himself and all that he was achieving, he had made it and it showed. He gave a speech and thanked the crowd, and took to the cords to pull, the photography flashed strobing up the entire room, the curtains drew gradually revealing a single dot in the middle of an otherwise blank canvas. The room broke into applause. Isacc pulled up his hood and moved forward, as did two other accomplishes and squirted the orange paint all over the show, the art, the painter, everything. He then turned and faded into the background as the other two began their speech, “JUST STOP OIL, LET THE MACHINE DIE, NOT THE SKY...”
Isacc could not think of a better way to spend Wednesday night. He got back to his van, fired up the engine and disappeared into its darkened streets. He had a long day of deliveries tomorrow, some that would get there and some that would not, and afterwards they had something special planned for outside of parliament with the leader of the far right.
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