Maybe It's Because He's a Londoner

Daddy, there's someone at the door?

The Little Lady called from the floor where she was setting up an army of unicorns in a battle against an array of various Harry Potter themed lego people.

I looked down at the Lego people pityingly. I had seen what a unicorn's horn could do to a man. I didn't fancy their chances.

I'll get it, lass. It's probably just Amazon again.

Bloody Amazon. They were always banging on my door and dropping off stuff as if I was constantly ordering things from their site. I had a good mind to not order anything for a week, try getting a fucking rocket to the moon then, Bezos.

I tugged the floor open to see what skullduggery was afoot on the other side.

Awrite mate? Boxabeeah fur ya!

A hugely fat man stood on my doorstep panting like a fucking mad beast as he held up a box at me.

His forehead was slick with sweat and his belly jutted out so far that his gargantuan moobs jostled for position on top of it like two labradors fighting over a pastrami bagel in a pillowcase.

He looked as if he was about to die and not in a good way.

I fervently hoped that he didn't as I had recently swept my front step.

Sorry, a what for me?

I pursed my lips in puzzlement as if someone had suggested some booty bumping and it was not yet midday.

Boxahbeaah, mate. Luvvly innit?

He wheezed through his tits at me with a merry wink.

I frowned. Was this chap a Londoner? His accent seemed to suggest so although he had not once mentioned apples and pears?

Despite looking as though he was on the verge of death he seemed to be in exceedingly good spirits. I nodded to myself in approval. This man certainly knew how to go out with a bang. Although were I in his shoes I probably wouldn't go out and die on someone's clean doorstep.

I would maybe just stay in, have a hand shandy and try to synchronise the actual dying and climaxing bit.

But, we all ride different horses, as they say in France.
_{^{do they? I mean, I made it up but damn, it sounds delightfully french.}}

A bocksabeyah?

I raised an eyebrow at the felon, hoping he was not the sort to steal my biscuits.

A boxabeaah? Innit but?

He gesticulated the box at me as if I should take it off him or some such thing.

Instead I watched him for a moment waiting for him to die.

Alas, the death that his ruddy complexion, huge girth and out of breathness promised did not materialise and I was left with no choice but to try and decipher what the idiot wanted.

Perhaps he wanted me to put something in his box?

I rumpled my face up in distaste. I was not known for making a deposit into fat hairy men's boxes. I had my limits and they usually ended with something vagina'y.

Chunk put the box down on my step and stepped back pulling a smartphone out of one exceedingly tight pocket and aiming it at the box.

I immediately dropped into Hissing Salamander pose. I had seen this shit before. He was undoubtedly calling his alien overlords for air support. No doubt some skinny-faced reptilian fiend was rappeling down from a ship that looked like a takeaway food carton.

Er yoo go mate. Awl dahn.

Chunk waddled away with nary a fart to betray that he had ever been there.

I waited till he had gone before bending to examine the box. There was a note attached which I quickly pulled out and unfurled.

Boomy, sorry I am late for the Birthday celebrations! Enjoy the beer!

I looked down at the box, sure enough, it had lots of pictures of beer on it.

Oh, it was a box of beer. I looked in the direction the delivery guy had gone and shook my head.

Why hadnt he just said so?