Brody lay on his bare mattress, staring at the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of his bedsit. The ceiling above him was stained with dark yellow patches. Cobwebs hung in the corners, encrusted with decaying flies. The room felt as if no fresh air had entered in years. He pulled his bodyweight up to a seated position on the edge of his bed. He wheezed with the effort.
Four years had passed since his last piece of film work. His agent had made countless promises in the meantime: an alleged sequel to the Pianist turned out to be a measly voiceover part in a documentary on Danny Elfman, and the fee barely covered the travel cost. He had sold his awards to keep himself afloat, but the funds had long since been squandered on Toby carveries and Frey Bentos pies.
It was Brody’s birthday. Not that it mattered much anymore. Even Andre 3000 had stopped sending him a birthday card, even since they had a bust up in Farm Foods over who would get the last packet of chicken dippers. Brody gave a sigh – he might have won that battle at the time, but having consumed the whole packet raw on the drive home, he felt a sense of emptiness and longing for his lost friend.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar sound. It was his trusty Nokia 3210, ringing urgently with its shrill metallic tone. He raced to pick it up, fumbling with the small buttons – for you see, Brody had very chubby fingers. He managed to answer it before the ringing stopped, and held the phone to his earlobe-less ear.
“Congratulations!” proclaimed a robotic voice. “You are today’s lucky winner!”
Brody was somewhat confused. He didn’t remember entering himself in any competitions lately. He had once won a car on Celebrity Bullseye in the early 90s – his trusty yellow Cinquecento – but Lady Luck didn’t shine her gaze upon Brody too frequently at all. He listened intently.
“Come to the following address: 17 Maple Avenue, London SE6 3EL by 3pm today to claim your prize. Come alone.”
The last part caught Brody by surprise. Maybe this was a trap? He had encountered shadowy characters in his past; he had foiled a plan by Nicolas Cage to cut off Brody’s face with a junior hacksaw and sew it onto his own, and Nick Knowles had once lured Brody into his basement with the promise of a hog roast that never materialised. However, Brody had nothing to lose at this stage, so he decided to see what his prize might be.
He put his soiled jean shorts on, tying his makeshift rope belt, and squeezed into his Tap-Out MMA t-shirt.
Brody arrived at the address. The house looked familiar... maybe it was the bay windows, or the chimney pots... or maybe it was the fleet of Rolls Royces parked outside, or the lime green walls... anyway, he approached the door and knocked with his sweaty fist.
The door opened slightly, and Brody heard a sound within, a sort of high pitched Southern American accented voice. “Come on in, birthday boy! I made biscuits ‘n’ gravy!”
Brody rushed inside – it was Andre 3000! He knew Andre would never have deserted him on his birthday. But Brody’s hunger overpowered any feelings of rekindling friendship. He waddled at full pace towards the kitchen and flung open the fridge door. He grabbed each item, one by one, flinging them down his gullet like a seagull swallowing fish. He opened a carton of chocolate milk and long-armed it over himself. He had globs of butter all down his Tap-Out t-shirt, and had Nutella smeared on his face in a Zulu-esque pattern. He grabbed fistfuls of raw chicken and uncooked prawns, tossing them into the air and catching them in his cavernous maw with gay abandon.
Andre 3000 stood and smiled, unzipping his trousers and licking his lips. Everything was alright.
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