by John Jones



Gary got his revenge for that the following night. They had been on a lad's holiday in a beach resort with a few of Gary's work colleagues. Gary enlisted their help in his revenge. He gave them money to buy some cheap aftershave, which they did, and then asked Steve for a 'see who can drink a pint the fastest' competition. Gary knew that aftershave would be hard to distinguish in a pint glass, as they were almost the same colour, a light brown. So if Steve had already had few real pints, and he was to be handed this one, it would very unlikely that he would be able to tell the difference until he tasted it. Secretly, crowded around in the toilets, they poured the aftershave into a pint glass, giggling like little schoolboys, and went back out into the bar. Steve took the pint without question, and the 'competition', began. Their friends counted down from three, and Steve took three or four gulps before he realised that it wasn't lager. He never made it to the toilets before he was sick, and when he did, spent most of the rest of the night in there, while Gary, at one point, was actually on the floor, foetus-like, convulsed with laughter.


Gary worked for a compensation firm, the type that is always advertised on Television. 'Had an accident that wasn't your fault? No hidden costs. No win no fee. Call us today'. He was high up in the chain of command within the company, enabling him to afford many of life's luxuries and live in comfort, giving him many advantages over Steve, and enabling him to play his latest joke on him.



"I've come to start the job", Steve had said.



He was right, it was done. Gary was elated when he found out, as it was a rollover week, and there was only one winner of 14 million pounds. Him. He quit his job, telling his boss exactly what he thought of him and what he could do with the job, bought a bigger house and a sports car. He basically got himself into debt, and it wasn't long before he had to show his ticket to claim his winnings, and it wasn't long after that before he got that sinking feeling.

It was easier than he had thought, Steve had noticed. Two weeks after his phantom job, Steve recorded the show where the numbers are shown. So with that week's numbers, he had paid a few of his college friends to make up a replica ticket with those numbers on. All he had to do was wait a while until Gary had forgotten about that week's lottery, and watch him become increasingly agitated at Steve's lack of response. He had found himself looking over his shoulder a few times.


'I'm a wanted man,' he had said to Steve. 'You'll never believe how much debt I'm in. Carol's left me, my house is going to be taken off me, and there's no way I can get my job back. It looks like I'm behind you in the dole queue'. Gary, for a reason not even he knew, was not very angry with Steve. He was just lethargic and depressed, partly because he couldn't think of anything to top it with. He had moved in with his parents who were not happy at having debt collectors knocking every day. Meanwhile it was Steve's turn to constantly look over his shoulder for a reprisal which he was sure was imminent, and it was, when Gary rang him to tell him he had something to give him. Strange though how it could only be given to him at an abandoned car valeting garage. It had long been empty, and had been used by squatters and drug addicts. Now it had been abandoned by them, and was home to insects and occasional rodents. The place was larger than a normal house garage, with an office at the side. Steve had to pass through that to enter the gloomy garage. When he had, he found he couldn't see properly so had opened the garage door, which he found opened quite easily, as though it had been used recently. The place had lit up, and Steve had turned around to see Gary hanging from one of the rafters, a knocked over step-ladder beneath him. He looked dead, his face white, a line of blood streaming from his mouth. Next to the ladder, in quite a prominent position, was an envelope bearing Steve's name. It took him a while to pick it up, his mind still in shock at seeing his friend hanging. He had torn it open and read quickly:

'Steve, I hate you. You've cost me everything. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. You'll never know how much I hate you.' At that point Steve had dropped the letter in despair, looked around the garage and saw what he seen before, but didn't take much notice of. It was a rusty saw. His mind was confused, and it believed that this was genuine. Gary had killed himself in depression at what Steve had done, at the situation he had left him with. In the brief moments that Steve believed, he had torn the serrated metal edge across his throat. Had he read the note further, he would have seen: 'By the way, only joking'. Gary had seen what Steve was doing, and had shouted out at him when the blade had gone beyond the point of no return. Steve had collapsed to his knees, clutching his pumping throat, his bulging eyes watching Gary, as he struggled to free himself from the noose. A chain had been set up alongside the noose that had gone into the back of Gary's jacket, keeping him up whilst maintaining the illusion of hanging. When he had seen what Steve had done, his struggling had torn the jacket, rendering the chain useless. He had begun to hang for real, the noose tightening around his throat. At one point in their death throes, they had reached out toward each other, but of course it was useless. Whether they continued their japery in hell or heaven, nobody knew, and in the end, neither of them had the last laugh.

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