HAPPY DAYS

“I’m having another one. Care to join me?”
“Oh, go on then,” replied Joe, who was wondering to himself what being shot actually felt like.
“Pint or shot?” asked Jules.
“Both,” replied Joe. “It’s not as if it’s the alcohol that’s going to kill me, is it?” He punctuated the response with a hysterical giggle, his most recently developed mannerism.
Jules returned from the bar, armed with a tray full of drinks and two packets of crisps. Joe was staring intently at his mobile as his friend placed the tray down on the table.
“You should stop looking at that screen, mate. It doesn’t help your mood. That awful giggle of yours is getting worse.”
Joe was fully aware of his latest tic, but what was he meant to do about it? He wasn’t doing it deliberately!
“Well Jules, you will be delighted to hear that the Prime Minister has told the American President to go, I quote, all in. He’s saying that the UK stands firm with the USA, come what may.” He released another tremendous giggle.
Jules picked us his pint and waved it in the air. “Let’s raise our glasses to the world’s presidents, and hope they all decide to abdicate and become florists.”
“I’ll drink to that,” replied Joe, “even though presidents don’t abdicate, kings do.”
The two of them sat quietly for a few moments in the near-empty bar, sipping their beers. Not counting Sandra the barmaid, there were two other people in the pub–a young couple over by the jukebox who seemed to be engaged in some sort of face-sucking contest.
Joe placed his pint back onto the table, then looked at his friend.
“Jules mate….where do you reckon I can get hold of a gun?”
Jules raised his eyebrows. Not exactly the question he was expecting from his oldest friend.
“What sort of gun? A glue gun?”
“A gun that fires bullets, Jules. Like a rifle. There aren’t any shops round here that sell them, and with this bloody curfew, I wouldn’t be able to get to Birmingham and back in time, even assuming I could find one there.”
“Have you tried on-line?” asked Jules, wondering what on earth his friend was doing asking about guns.
“Fat chance,” replied Joe. “Even with my VPN on, any searches on weapons and stuff get blocked these days.” Another hysterical giggle shot out.
“What about the dark web?” asked Jules. “Apparently, you can buy anything on the dark web.”
Joe giggled again. “Mate, I don’t have the first clue what the dark web is, let alone buy something off it.”
That bloody awful giggle again! “What do you want a gun for, anyway? Thinking of shooting someone?”
Joe didn’t answer at first. He didn’t even giggle. He just filled the air with a very pregnant pause.
“Those crisps for me? Just forget I asked. Doesn’t matter.”
Joe picked his pint glass up and downed the remaining half pint in one go, seemingly to distract Jules from worrying about the question that he now wished he hadn’t asked.
Jules gave his friend a sideways look. His behaviour had become increasingly erratic lately. He’d challenged him a couple of times about what was bothering him, but hadn’t received a meaningful response. Of course, Jules knew the answer anyway-you didn’t need to be Albert Einstein to work it out. Joe had been made redundant, his long-term girlfriend had kicked him into touch, and the football season had been cancelled. Stir in the recent dreadful weather and you had a perfect recipe for despair. No wonder his mate was depressed.
Two pints and several shots later, Joe announced he was ‘off out for a bit.’ Jules looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon already.
“Same time tomorrow?” asked Jules.
“Too bloody right, mate,” slurred Joe, topping and tailing his response with hysterical giggles.
“Chin up, Joe,” said Jules, gathering up his belongings from the table. “Tomorrow, I can confidently predict, will be the day after today.”
Joe furrowed his brow as he tried to process the statement. A final giggle worked its way out of his mouth before he stood up and made for the door.
As he staggered away, Jules called after him. “You look after yourself, mate. Who’s going to drink with me if you’re not here?”
Joe disappeared outside into the drizzly, foggy weather without responding.
At two o’clock the next day, Jules was sitting at the usual table. Now he was feeling pretty down. He’d made the mistake of listening to the news over breakfast, hearing China had invaded Taiwan overnight, and the Americans were going mental. Jules had at least three orders from Temu still waiting to be despatched and suspected that he might have to find a different razor, golf ball marker and shampoo supplier as a result. Where was Joe? He’d already seen off two pints whilst waiting for his friend. He didn’t even have the distraction of watching the young face chewers, as he was the only person in the pub.
Jules tried calling Joe on his mobile again. Still no answer. He decided he would finish his drink and head over to Joe’s flat to check up on him.
As he was downing his pint, Joe walked in. His friend’s face was a mass of bruises, three ragged gashes running down the side of his face from his nose to his chin. The biggest gash, which was still seeping blood, appeared to Jules to have been stitched up by a blind gorilla with Parkinson’s disease. Joe was carrying a large holdall in his left hand, the right hand roughly enveloped in bandages.
“Sorry I’m late, mate,” said Joe, launching a fruity giggle before placing the holdall on the floor and slumping into his chair.
“Joe, what’s happened? You’re all bleeding!”
“Tell you what Jules, you get me a drink and I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Of course, mate,” spluttered Jules, still trying to take in the appalling state of his friend’s face.
“And a shot! Actually, make it two shots. Doubles.”
Jules walked over to the bar, glancing back at his friend as he did so. What on god’s earth had happened to him?
He returned, armed with the drinks tray, having persuaded Sandra the barmaid that there was nothing to worry about. He was pretty sure she didn’t believe him. To be honest, neither did he.
He passed one of the shots to Joe. “Here, drink this. What on earth has happened to you? Looks like you should be in hospital.”
“Thanks mate.” Joe drank the shot in one go, then squealed as the alcohol hit the wound.
“Did the repairs myself,” he announced, as a pink mixture of blood and vodka started leaking through the stitch holes in his face.
Jules sat in stunned silence. Any response he might have given was lost a fog of incomprehension and disbelief.
“Got this though,” said Joe triumphantly, reaching down into the holdall and pulling out a double-barrelled shotgun. He dumped it onto the table, knocking over his pint as he did so.
“Oops, sorry,” said Joe. “Hands are a bit buggered up.”
Jules’ expression developed from one of astonishment to one of horror, his mind trying to process what he was witnessing.
Joe picked up his other vodka shot and downed it. He repeated his squeal and giggle, the pink liquid once more oozing out from the holes in his face.
“Got the gun. Went to that farmhouse up near me last night. Farmers have guns, I reckoned. Unfortunately, they have dogs too. That bloody alsatian bit off two of my fingers as I was pulling his teeth out of my face. Farmer wasn’t best pleased either. Anyway, got this big beast in the end.”
“Mate, you really need to get to hospital...”
Joe held up his palm. “Stop speaking, mate. I need you to listen!” No giggle this time.
“But….”
“SHUT UP AND LISTEN.” Two of the stitches in his makeshift face repair sprang open, resulting in Joe making peculiar sucking sounds through the gaping hole as he breathed.
“Alright mate, I’m listening.”
Neither of them saw Sandra edging her way out of the bar via the back door.
Joe continued. “I’ve had enough, mate. End of my tether. I wanted a gun so I could top myself. Didn’t fancy putting my head in an oven, or jumping in front of a bus. Haven’t got the nerve to do something that might hurt.”
Jules looked on in horror as his friend picked up the shotgun and tried to point it at himself.
“Look at this for rubbish luck! The bloody barrel’s too long. I can’t point it at my head and pull the trigger at the same time. Only thing I can shoot at is my bloody foot and that won’t do the job, will it?”
He threw the shotgun onto the table, knocking the remaining glasses onto the floor.
“Sorry mate,” said Joe. “I’m feeling a bit wild.”
“I understand Joe, I do.”
“So can you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Pull the trigger for me.”
“Pull the trigger?”
“Pull the trigger. I can hold the gun and put the barrel in my mouth. Just need you to pull the trigger, mate.”
Jules looked at his friend in stunned silence.
“Well?” said Joe, picking up the shotgun again and waving it towards Jules.
“I can’t shoot you, Joe. You’re a mate. Why do you want me to shoot you?”
“Because I don’t want to be around when the world checks out.” A tear ran down his cheek and disappeared into the gaping hole in his face.
“Checks out?” asked Jules. “What do you mean, check out?”
“They said so yesterday. Everyone’s going to get blown up. Well, I want to go out on my own terms.”
Jules stared at his friend. “Things aren’t that bad! And anyway, I’m your mate, mate. I can’t shoot you!”
“If you were a proper mate, you’d do it.” He giggled again, causing another stitch to pop open.
As the giggle finished, three armed police officers burst into the pub.
“Drop the weapon!” screamed one of them.
Joe raised the shotgun. As he did so, all three officers fired, hitting Joe in the face and the chest. He crashed to the ground, stone dead.
“On the floor!” another screamed at Jules. Before he knew it, he was being handcuffed and manhandled through the pub door.
As the four of them spilled out onto the road, they were greeted by an incredible, deafening, magnificent silence, as if all the sounds in the world had been sucked away by a giant celestial vacuum cleaner.
A few miles away, in the centre of Birmingham, an enormous mushroom cloud blossomed into the air. Before Joe could have shouted the words ‘I told you so’ from his cold dead mouth, a massive shock wave swept the four of them (and absolutely everything else) into oblivion. The world had indeed checked out.