I have the evening to myself.
Just me, a stack of DVDs (no, not that type), plenty of beer and the number of the local indian takeaway. Quality man time is hard to come by these days but, by God, when it arrives I make the most of it.
I blitz tidying the house when I got home from work, load the dishwasher and chuck all the random bits of crap into the cupboard under the stairs. A quick shower and change into slobbing gear, then dial up a takeaway lamb bhuna with special rice and onion bhajis, sadly no poppadoms (“About 40 minutes, sir” - damn), and finally crack open the first can of chilled ale.
As I tilt my head for that first deep gulp, I notice three unopened tubs of paprika Pringles in the corner of the kitchen worktop. Where the hell did they come from? And three of them? Seems mightily excessive. I try and push them from my mind as I pad bare-footed into the lounge and draw the curtains against the dark, foggy evening. The corner lamp goes on, the big cushion plumped up on the floor and I settle down to watch ‘Paris, Texas’ by Wim Wenders - a stunningly beautiful film. But first are those damn copyright warnings, seemingly in every known language on Earth. Can’t skip them, can’t fast-forward, just sit there and wait like a lemon. RAGE! Just as the first few bars of the slide guitar soundtrack kick in, I hear a clattering sound from the kitchen, followed by three soft pops.
I pause, first myself then the DVD. Then go into the kitchen and flick the light switch. Straight away I notice the three Pringle tubs on the floor. Correction, the three empty Pringle tubs, their lids scattered a couple of feet away. I bend closer and notice trails of Pringly dust leading out of the tubs in all directions. What on Earth?
A scuttling, scratchy sound from behind makes me turn, and I just catch a glimpse of something flit past the open kitchen doorway in the hall. Something small, oval, pale brown. Was that...? Nah, must be the beer. Only I’ve hardly had anything and I feel absolutely fine.
A sharp searing pain in my ankle makes me cry out in surprise, and I instinctively reach down, then the same pain in my finger.
“Bloody hell!”
Pringles!
Several of them buzzing around my foot, two of them with red-stained edges. My blood. They’ve sliced me!
I lash out with my foot, but all bar one of them dodge out of the way. The one I connect with splits in two, and each piece scampers off, apparently none the worse for their separation. Oh great.
My ankle and finger sting with eye-watering intensity.
The Pringles quickly swarm back to my feet and I have to hop and lash out to protect my toes. They’re as tenacious as a couple of young cats with a trapped mouse, and their persistence pays off as I get another couple of cuts. God-damn, this is starting to get serious. I stumble against the table, reaching out to steady myself, and a half-full glass of water goes crashing to the floor. A Pringle gets sloshed and like a vampire exposed to sunlight, it hisses and collapses into a mushy pile of slop. All of a sudden, the others stop rushing my feet, and stare at their fallen comrade. Then, as one, they turn back to me, only now they don’t rush but hesitate. Interesting. They have a weak spot.
Slowly, eyes firmly fixed on the seven Pringles watching my every move, I shuffle sideways and pick up another glass from the draining rack. Then, I reach out and clumsily turn on the tap and fill the glass.
I watch them, they watch me.
I fling the water at them, catching one, but the remainder scatter backwards and out through the kitchen door. I run and slam it shut, then rest my head against it and exhale loudly. Now what?
I glance back at the three empty tubs: ‘90 Pringles in each one’. Great, just great. That means getting on for 300 of them are free and out there, somewhere. Wait, out there? Maybe there are more in the kitchen! I fill the glass again and with a not insignificant amount of trepidation, slowly crouch down and peer under the kitchen table.
Nothing.
And nothing under the sideboard or in the corners of the room. I appear to be alone. Some small relief at least. Then a horrible thought hits me. Barry!
Where was he? I hadn’t seen him all day. He usually hides under the sofa. Would they find him? Would they hurt him? I have a bad feeling they wouldn’t be comparing flavours. I have to find him before they do. I take a box of cornflakes and place it by the bottom of the door. Slowly, slowly, I turn the handle of the kitchen door and open it a crack, the box blocking the small opening by the floor. I peep out, and my bowels turned to water. Oh crap.
The hall floor is teeming with them. I close the door, panic rising in my chest. A glass of water is useless, I need something else. Something more precise, something like...a water pistol! My son was playing with one the other day. Where was it? Please, please be here, I think as I ransack the kitchen. It was here, I’m sure of it. Nothing, nothing, noth...yes! Under the oven gloves, third drawer down.
I stick it under the kitchen tap, and water sprays everywhere. My heart’s beating like a techno track while the pistol fill up. Come on, come on! The icy cold water spills over my hands. Fully loaded. Right, you fuckers, time for mass crispicide. I stride to the door and kick it open like a badass. Well, I try to kick it open, but I'd forgotten the door opens inward and it remains stubbornly closed while I fall over backwards. My knee screams in pain and so do I. As I lay flat on my back, dazed, one of the Pringles I mushified lets out a few porridgy burps. I look over at it and it burps again. Was it...laughing at me? I get to my feet and stamp on it - it explodes wetly but my knee screams in pain again. Dammit, this isn’t looking good, but for Barry’s sake I can’t stay in the kitchen.
“Bring it on!” I yank open the door and start firing. They can dodge my kicks, but the squirt from the water pistol is either too fast for them or harder to see. Within a few seconds I’ve reduced a dozen or so to mush, and as I move into the hall taking more out, I notice they back off sooner. They’re on the back foot, and in a perverse way I can’t help but admire the speed with which they react and adapt. They seem to have a collective intelligence, like ants but more so. It’s scarily unnerving.
As luck would have it, there’s another water pistol on top of the shoe cabinet, and I pick it up and back up into the cloakroom taking pot shots at the thinning horde. I fill up both pistols and, dual wielding like a character in a videogame, advance back into the hall. My confidence rises as more mushy piles appear. Must be getting on for 100, I think. Over a third gone. They’re running scared now they’ve met their match! I even afford myself a little giggle: once you pop, you can’t stop. Then the lights go out.
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!
Have they cut the power? I don’t believe it, they’ve cut the power!
I stop my firing and pause, resting my weight on my good leg. Think, Nick, think! They must have got to the fuse box in the cupboard under the stairs. The door’s just a few feet in that direc...
Ahhh!
Searing pain in my already injured foot, and I feel more slices. I try and hop to my other foot, but of course my knee is weak and it folds under me like a soggy breadstick. I collapse in the darkness and the pistols are jarred out of my hands.
They’re on me in an instant, cutting the skin on my arms, my legs, my neck, like a thousand paper cuts. I try and protect my head, but somehow they find a way through and I can smell them as they brush over my face, slicing relentlessly. My whole body is on fire - have they cut through my clothes? - and as I writhe in agony, I feel warm, sticky wetness everywhere.
No doubt I crush some of them underneath my body, but there’s still so many. Who would have thought you could have too many Pringles? I don’t even know if they’re still dissecting me, such is the intensity of the enveloping pain. But it quickly starts to fade to a numbness and I feel sleepy, so sleepy. My limbs are dead weights, like tree trunks, and my head lolls back and hits the wooden floor with a thud. A light suddenly appears through the front door, and a moment later the doorbell rings. Must be the lamb bhuna. But I’m not hungry anymore. I’m not anything.
