A Day in November
By Paul Johnson

Lewis wakes after midday and climbs out of bed, light streaming weakly through his curtains. The first act of many today, and he swears to himself that the rest will be more productive. He had the dream again and there's still a kind of buzzing lingering in his ears. No ordinary buzzing either, but an officious drone. It sounds like paperwork.
He stands, stretches his lean, athletic frame and strolls purposely through his bedroom. A natural musk, like that of a majestic lion perhaps, emanates from him, marking him out to one and all as a true alpha male. He knows girls want him. He can see it in their eyes whenever he speaks, and they can see in his... whatever it is that causes them to act as they do around him.

The mirror beside his door lies, as always, but after so many years he's used to that. He doesn't even spare it a contemptuous glance as he passes by, though he can't help but subliminally note the lumbering, overweight mass that reflects in his peripheral vision, moving in unison yet opposite. A meaty twin on the other side of a parallel reality. Always seeking to undermine his self confidence, that mirror. But what does it know? Nothing. It's made of glass and doesn't have a human brain, though he must admit it does show a disturbing ability to lie. The deceitful glass. There's a story in that for his ongoing comic, maybe.

A knock. A sudden, gutwrenching knock at the very door!
This is not good, and Lewis knows it.
He knows it well… some might say all too well (the incident with the girl scouts has left him suspicious of all human traffic, especially since his incarceration had been followed up with national tabloid headlines of "Twenty-something man waves bottom at girl." Followed by lottery numbers and the promise of challenging sudoku action inside. Disgrace followed by mundane bullshit. A painful course at the restaurant of broken promises, ordered freshly microwaved from the menu of angsty metaphors).

None of them had understood. He had not waved his bottom, no sir. He had not. He had tried to explain to the police that it was merely a greeting, dictated by his very strict upbringing on how to welcome houseguests under the age of fifteen. His ass had been decorated with the customary fridge magnets, denoting high levels of respect, and yet the papers hadn't wanted to know about this, choosing instead to focus upon the fact he'd been wearing a lobster over his unmentionables.
"Bullshit," he mutters to himself. "Bullshit in spades."
Inside, he knows that he's the only one with a shred of truth and honesty in this godforsaken pissburger of a town. His neighbours be damned -  and the same goes for the justice system which had forced him onto that humiliating list. Crustaceon offender indeed.

But, the door. Yes, the immediate matter of the door is more pressing than the heady aroma of unwelcome memory. And so to the door he goes, glancing around his front room as he approaches and noting with approval that his flatscreen plasma TV is glinting like a promise of later televisual delights amidst an orange-gold shaft of sunlight. Not that he ever watches the TV these days, opting instead to sit in front of its dark surface like a wizard scrying into an obsidian pool, imagining his own 70s cop show. The kind where one guy is from Texas and the other has a gun in his boot, and maybe a pet monkey rides along in the vee-hichle. A monkey or some kind of gibbon, maybe. He keeps a notepad of extensive plot twists next to his Pokemon deck on the coffee table and is planning on pitching his idea to the BBC. Not that he knows what the BBC is showing these days. He hasn't watched any TV since about the same time as his run-in with the local mall security a couple of years back (another misunderstanding there. Why were people such intolerant assjockeys? The sheep at the time had been dead for at least twelve hours, and it certainly wasn't complaining. When the Nazis in the uniforms had asked him to leave the premesis, he was still only halfway through his game - trading cards clutched in one hand, other hand inserted into the neck of the beast to make it talk and offer sincere congratulations to the children he'd been battling against. "A bold move, son!" the floppy, boggly-eyed head proclaimed to the six year old in a blue Sonic T-shirt. The child was weeping, in triumph, perhaps, at his card-based victory, as viscous liquids ran down Lewis' arm (an unfortunate side effect of his impromptu puppeteering). Then again, maybe it was the washing up liquid bubbling like frothy tears of regret from the dead eyes. The results had been the same… another local headline. This time "Flasher's nudist sheep stunt sickens parents."

Lewis shakes his head, clearing his thoughts as he edges closer to his front door. He doesn't exactly want to open it, but knows he must. Things have been piling up lately. Getting on top of him. Time for him to get on top of them. Get back on the horse and make lemonade. If he can swat away that persistant droning in his room every night, then he can damn well open a door. Even so, as he reaches out for the cold brass of the handle, he almost sees the video, its playback rolling unbidden into his mind. The red flesh of the peeled dog, the glint from misted white eyes, and a mysteriously inviting warmth… In hindsight, maybe posting the stuff to his Youtube account had been a miscalculation on his part. His fans had egged him on, supporting all the way, but now he suspects that they might have been the trolls after all. The trolls, he knows, are always watching, jealous and embittered of his success both in the field of self published (fully hand drawn) comics and the veritable battlefield of romance. They want to take him down because of his high IQ. His self-assured manner. They hate people with self confidence… people who are true and honest and stand up for what they believe in and speak their minds. People who succeed, dammit. Lewis is a winner. A winner at life.

Before even the speed of thought or the speed of action, and exceeding the velocity of common sense and made-up speeds, the door swings open like a promise. Lewis does not recall twisting the handle and opening the door, but there you have it. "Salutations, mister Webster," says a voice. "May I come in?"
Lewis stands aside to allow a giant wasp to glide in through the doorway, its head almost touching the top of the frame. The way its antennae wave is, he feels, vaguely antisocial. Almost as though its erratic twitching is suggesting he prioritise throwing pebbles at fowl.
The otherwise magnificent specimen floats gracefully into the centre of the living room like a yellow and black nightmare. It turns to face Lewis, who closes the door behind him and stands very still, his face betraying none of the unease rumbling through his lower intestine and pants region. This housecall could very well be about his health benefit claim, and that's something he knows he needs.
"I am the prime minister of the wasp kingdom," the "guest" declares. "And I'm afraid your delivery of spice for this quarter has not been received, Chrissy."
"My name's Lewis," states Lewis. This is clearly a dream or a hallucination. But still, better to err on the side of caution when dealing with the authorities, wasp or no.
"Let's cut the bullshit, Chrissy," the buzzing minister replies, floating closer to him in a pointlessly graceful semicircle on almost invisibly humming wings, its tone taking a turn for the sinister. Before, this could have passed for a cultured insect, perfectly at home in a bowler hat with optional tuxedo, logistical multi legged issues aside. But now its eyes project menace and a cloud of midges swarm from its mandibled, half human maw of a mouth. It stops just short of Lewis, its head twice the size of his and a carrion stink of spoiled puppies rising from its gullet.
"The spice, Chrissy," it repeats, breathing tiny flies at his face. "The spice is late. The spice is late and late is not good. When did you send the shipment? No excuses now. No excuses, Chrissy, my boy."
Its voice is a multitude of overlapping squeals, and human teeth undulate and pulse behind its biting appendages.
"I…I think you've got the wrong…" Lewis begins, choking on the swarm of parasite flies and the stench of dead things being projected at his face and nose and eyes. The flies are in his ears now.
"Yes," nods the wasp, it mouth obscenely close. "Yes indeed. Mailed it off, did you? Spent the money on bitches and hotcakes? Poor form, Chrissy. Very poor form."
Lewis senses it now. The real reason behind this visit.
"Let me assure you," the minister intones. Its mouth opens wider and wider.
My coming…" Its mandibles affix onto either side of Lewis' skull.
"Was foretold…" A pressure as his head is squeezed and pulled and chewed
"…In the 1994 Argos catalogue!"

As the wasp chews off his face and very slowly eats his head, Lewis realises the final lesson of his life.
That tacked on endings make for incredibly shitty stories.