Ultimatum

Everything was fine; all was well. Nary a crease nor a tear was to be seen in the great shirt of life, and everything was just dandy. That is... until it happened.

It started off as a normal morning, and why shouldn’t it have been? Most mornings are, on the whole, normal; every day, millions of people fail to make the news owing to the gloriously quotidian, mundane, banal nature of everyday, bog standard, good-enough-for-99%-of-us life. Interesting things happen to other people, and I was quite content to stay out of the 1% to which odd things do indeed happen. However, fate, old fickle free-spirited fate, had different plans for me that day. Oh, did it ever.

So, as I said, things were just ticketyboo, until I decided that what I really wanted on the piece of toast (Hovis, Best of Both; two minutes. Golden brown. Perfection) that had just leapt enthusiastically from the toaster (where else?) was some jam. Quite why I wanted jam was, quite frankly, beyond me. My limited-spending habits (some people call it Scrooge-like penny pinching; I call it thrift. Besides, I’ll be the one laughing when all my savings go through the roof, especially as now in 2007 their position in Iceland’s National Bank looks as strong as can be) meant that all I had in the fridge for said toast-related purpose was Sainsbury’s ‘Red Jam’: a mere pinch at 26p for 300 grams of colourings, questionable fruit and broken dreams. But it would have to do.

As jamming (Not that kind. Back away, Marley) convention dictates, I placed the jar on the kitchen surface, then proceeded to open it. The actual opening process went off without a hitch. However, on opening it, my Red Jam found itself a friend in 3cm of striped yellow and black evil, as a wasp decided that cavorting with compote was just a swell idea.

This left me with a problem. My toast, rapidly losing its comforting warmth, was in sore need of some jam. My jam, rapidly gaining character in the form of insect dribble, was in sore need of some wasp removal. My new mortal enemy, rapidly climbing the rankings in my Big Book of Grudges, was in sore need of death.

Luckily, I had a crossbow readily at hand; I feel no kitchen is truly complete without one, and it helps to deal with such dilemmas as this (‘dilemmas’, incidentally, is an ugly word, and I really feel it needs replacing. But enough of my lexis unattractiveness based tangent, and onwards with my saga).

I picked up Gwyneth (that’s the crossbow; I felt it needed a name, as all good weapons do, but panicked when choosing one. And since I panicked out loud, it would only have served to confuse the crossbow if I were to try and rename it. And a confused crossbow is not a good crossbow, as any child could tell you) and aimed it at the wasp. I had an ultimatum in mind, which was going to end in glory or jam. The day, I could sense, was mine.

“You there. Wasp. Yeah, I’m talking to you.” I tried narrowing my eyes menacingly, but didn’t really have the knack. All I ended up doing was blinking at the wasp, which it may or may not have found terrifying. In all fairness, it probably wasn’t praying that its god would be merciful at that point.

“I know. I’ve got eyes and ears, haven’t I?” I narrowed my eyes menacingly in surprise. Not so much at the fact it could talk (I’ve always harboured a suspicion to that extent. There must be more to their evil than meets the eye), but rather at the fact that it sounded Andrew Marr with a slightly blocked nose.

“Ummm... Yes?”

The wasp had, by now, stopped moving and was staring at me, and I couldn’t help but feel that it was the kind of thing that could narrow its eyes without losing sight temporarily. My anger at this was piqued.

“Good. Glad we got that established. Now, put that blasted thing down, and for God’s sake get a grip of yourself. I’m just a wasp; my eating a little bit of this red goo-”

“Jam.”

“-won’t make it all go off, now, will it?”

“Yeah, but, my jam, things may go... bad?” This wasn’t on. I was being flummoxed by a bloody insect. Sadly, though, not bloody in the REVENGE!!! manner; just in the exceedingly irritating manner.

“Sound reasoning and flawless articulation from the human race, I see. I can understand why you’re the second best race on this planet. Ha Ha.”

More than my honour, and breakfast, was at stake, now. This oik was sassing humanity. And only I (well, and Gwyneth) stood in its way. I thought  of people mistreating kittens to get into my angry mode.

“Now, look here, you,-”

“No. You look here. I am giving you a choice, you malformed squirt of a shaved ape. Either you let me be, and allow me to eat, quite happily and peacefully, this delicious red goo-”

“Jam.”

“from which I will leave in my own good time; or, you shoot me with that bow of yours and –and let me be really very clear– bad things will happen”

I made a noise roughly equivalent to pfftachoo ; the disdainful apathy I had had in mind somewhat spoiled by an impromptu sneeze. Then, just as it looked like it was going to launch itself into a tirade of wasp-supremacy, I shot the rascal. And then, my heart froze. I went white.

The shot was perfect; the wasp had been what is technically described as ‘smushed’ by Gwyneth’s power. But that wasn’t the problem. Lying around the smushings were fragments of glass, bits of sticky label, and, oozing all over the surface... red goo. Jam. I screamed.

Ultimately, it had been right, that wasp. I had dared to mess with it. And bad things had happened.

Fin