Flatpack

Saturday: clan expedition to the pine-n-plastic splendour of Ikea. Arrived shortly before noon. Pushing 6 when you left.

With couch, wardrobe and assorted other stuff arranged for delivery, you went to catch a bus around the corner from the superstore. A rough-and-ready part of the city. A pair of toughs emerged from the dark gap between the buildings. One short and stocky, with a Maradona mullet and the physical alertness of a boxer. The other gangly, with a too-large baseball cap on his head and a pair of bolt-cutters in his hands.

They rang the doorbell and rattled at the letterbox of the house right next to the bus-stop. Loose, indifferent, like they’d come to pick up a friend. When the door opened they barged in kicking and punching, the short one leading. Disappeared down the corridor amid a muffled thunder of thumps and bangs. You moved on to wait at another bus-stop.

 

Just think of it:

your future, here on a rack

in a flatpack

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