Del surveyed the flat. Now strewn with broken, shattered dreams. The skeleton of Uncle Albert lay in pieces, scattered about like an unwanted child’s plaything. The ribcage being used to prop up a table. The skull, painted with lipstick, sat uncannily atop a mannequin stolen from a shop.
Rodney lay motionless on the floor, his red eyes staring straight into the ceiling, unmoving, unblinking, frozen in a permanent expression of nothing. Every so often, he would break the silence by retching until he sobbed quietly. The phone blasted into life.
“Hello Del. It is Trigger.”
“Hello Trig. Any deals I should know about?”
“No. I am too thick to know about anything. I misinterpret easily. For comic effect. But now, there is none. I am only a memory. Trigger is dead. You are talking only to yourself. Because Del, we are all dead.”
Del dropped the receiver and gazed ahead, his eyes glazed, his defeat palpable. He began to softly moan, then opened his mouth and screamed. A scream of absolute despair. Cllutching his head now, he howled and howled, for forty minutes until the show faded out to pitch black.