By: Ollie Delaney
Chesney Southend came into the Asylum Arcade like a man who’d already been given a massive bollocking from the universe and was keen to make sure it never happened again. His hoodie looked like it had given up and gone home, hanging off his ginger, lanky frame as he moved like the ground itself was hostile territory.
He did not play a game. He did not even look like he knew how.
Instead, he prowled like a ginger tom, stalking the machines and staring down at the carpet. When observed, he froze, as if he were a weeping angel whose survival strategy was to become stone.
Behind the counter sat Gareth Hurt, a uni student trying to cram in some studying on his minimum-wage time. He rested a leg that was still sulking after being ventilated by HPD, watching Chesney try to speak twice, bottle it twice, and then retreat upstairs, on tiptoe.
Gareth blinked. He knew there were only two kinds of people who tiptoed upstairs in public buildings: cartoon burglars and men who had lost the plot.
Upstairs, Chesney’s efforts were rewarded with arcade loot. One decapitated Jelly Baby welded to the grubby carpet, a quarter left in the change slot and a 2016 faded Gein receipt advertising ‘Locally Sourced Long Pork Burgers.’
High on his own success, Chesney let himself into the staff office and sat down like he owned the gaff. Hands folded. Back poker straight. All in all, the posture of a man who sincerely believed that sitting up properly might erase the last five minutes.
It did not.
Gareth followed him in, holding the crowbar snagged from behind the counter. “What d’ya think you’re doing, mate?”
Chesney blinked, startled. “I… uh…. I’m lookin’ for th’ toilet.”
“The bog?” Gareth repeated, looking first at the desk, then at the PC, and then at the aggressively non-plumbed environment. “By… sittin’ down?”
“Needed a rest, long search,” he offered weakly.
“For what, like?”
Chesney gestured vaguely, “Stuff.”
Things escalated in the stupid way that can only happen if one of the blokes is an absolute melt. Gareth kicked the chair, Chesney flailed. Demands to get out, threats prevailed. Words flew, but logic halted when Chesney produced a gun and said so out loud (because apparently this is panto) “I HAVEN’T TOOK ANYTHIN’!”
Weirdly accurate, nothing had been stolen. No money, property or even useful rubbish.
Gareth stared at him. Chesney stared right back, wild-eyed, paler than milk now and clearly shocked by his own decisions.
“J-just g-go.” Gareth said.
Chesney immediately did, leaving behind an upturned chair, the Jelly Baby, the quarter and the receipt.
The arcade reopened without comment. Chesney Southend continued his quiet war against common sense elsewhere.
