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Chandler's Itch
by Dan Gee

“Sod it! I’ll go out and buy a pie” said Chandler who put his hand on his knees and shot up. As he did so he strained his back slightly; like an old man who gets up to shout at the Television after he hears someone on countdown splitting carelessly their infinitives. After a few Ibuprofen tablets, washed down with some Hobgoblin beer, Chandler put on his anorak which had served him well since the 80s, locked the door and walked to the shops, leaving his child behind.

The road he skipped down was tattooed in chalk marks, presumably from some children playing around earlier in the day. A smile stretched across his lips. However this moment of happiness was rather short lived, as whilst in this happy gaze he forgot to look down on the street notorious for surprises and after hearing a lovely squelch, trod in a rather sizeable piece of dog faeces. Angered and frustrated he looked back at his house, but realising he wanted a pie for nutrition before work; he wiped it on someone’s garden and walked on.

Eventually, after what seemed like ten minutes but was in fact five (ish) Chandler arrived at Aldi and started to peruse the pie section. Who would have thought it, a whole sector in a supermarket completely dedicated to selling pies? Obviously the pies on offer were not that of an amazing quality, but still what was fit enough for a random hobo was fit enough for the likes of Chandler. Grabbing a rather nice, and still warm, apple pie, he made his way to the counter. Passing the toy section on the way Chandler smiled again and even chuckled to himself, making the thick magnifying glass like spectacles that were perched upon his carrot like nose bob up and down. Coming to the counter he rearranged his pants slightly and then gave the young lad at the till a wry grin. Then he left the shop.

Over the road he saw a policeman donning one of those “Cold tit” helmets that could easily double up a bucket, so decided that he would lurch outside the shop and look like a miscreant who deserves an ASBO. With the bucket balancing plod well out of sight, Chandler felt safe, so once again, rearranging his pants more and more frantically he began the return leg of his pie based journey.

The itch downstairs refused to cease and it became harder and harder to carry on unnoticed. So, Chandler quickened the pace which although blurred peoples vision from what could potentially be an embarrassing thing downstairs, made him look like someone had shoved a rocket up his bottom and replaced his human legs with those of a crab. Skittering along unnaturally a few children on their way home from school giggled, but Chandler just smirked and for what must have been the ninetieth time, rearranged his downstairs closet.

Relieved that he had made it home, he slapped the pie on the table. After taking a sausage out of the closet he began to do the rather odd thing of dipping it in and out of the pie. The lips of the pastry got looser and looser with each thrust of the sausage till eventually the juice of the pie oozed out uncontrollably. Then, Chandler realised that he had better check on his child so ran upstairs, pulling up his trousers which seemingly fell after each step. Looking into the room where his child sat, still and quiet, he smiled.

Later on Chandler finished his pie; the sausage was back in the closet.