BLOODY-MINDED - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

BLOODY-MINDED

Of course, my blood’s the wrong size, you know. It keeps slipping down and getting clogged up in my feet.

And then there’s my skin: there’s bits missing. And it’s not the regulation thickness.

You’d think they’d get the basics right, wouldn’t you? They couldn’t organise a booze-up in a brewery.

“I want the standard size blood,” I said. I told ‘em. “I pay my taxes like anybody else.”

“The Complaints Department is on the tenth floor,” she said. “There is no lift. All complaints must be made in triplicate, witnessed by a J.P. and certified by a Commissioner for Oaths. There is a small charge for this service.”

“What’re you on about?” I said. I told ‘er. Made it clear, I did. - And about not getting the normal issue skin. And the bones which have got gaps in. - You can’t let them get away with it, can you?

What did she do? you’re wondering. – Well just then I passed out because of lack of blood to my head. Came to outside the building with a piece of paper pinned on my left shoulder. It was a duplicated standard form J/7938/A/A. It said that my complaint was out of time, and that anyway complaints could only be made between the hours of 8.45a.m. and 9 a.m. and only on the fourth Thursday of the month. Furthermore they’d had no other complaints about faulty bodies; p’r’aps it was really my brain that was faulty, and that was a different department, and not covered by the guarantee in any case.

Margaret Wilde ©1990