Source: Image by @katharsisdrill
Mort, the Shit Manager is a spin-off fictional series of short stories based loosely on the thoughts of David Mortenson, the tyrannical Kwiksave store manager who features in my auto-biographical series 'The Horrors of Kwiksave'.
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Oppression Supreme'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Armchair Club'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Bloody Nose'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Fresh Cream'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Oxidation'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Day Off'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Heat Machine'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Mandy's Curves'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Bribe'
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Agnus'
‘Ring Ring…., Ring Ring’
“Helloooo, this is Kwiksave Rawtenstall and I am Reginald Bulge the Manager; what does ye want?’
Edith Smokebottom-Ward inhaled deeply. Why did she, the manager of Rawtenstall Job Centre have to deal with this obnoxious, obese, bombastic cunt of humanity?
“Reg, there’s a young lad here who’s interested in the Stock Lad job”, she croaked wheezily before showering a spluttering, coughing fit over the unfortunate wide-eyed David Mortenson who hastily backed off.
“Oooohhh is there now lass", said Bulge, glee radiating through the telephone receiver.
“Now ye knows what do so, I don’t interview all of these lads ye know, so tell me what I needs ta know before yous sends him across to the store”, continued Bulge who was now panting heavily.
Edith knew this scenario only too well. If she didn't cooperate, Bulge would cut off her supply of Woodbines. In the last month, she had done well, cutting her intake down to 165 a day from 170. She ought to be congratulated.
“Reg, the last lot of fags were those cheap-arse Embassy No.10, I want Woodbines, not that fucking shit!”, she gasped, out of breath after completing such a long exhausting sentence.
Smoking was affecting Edith. At 61, she ought to have been retired but needed to keep working to pay for her habit.
“Lass.., I gets what I can. The LiquourSave shop was outta ye’s Woodbines last week, so I had to nick what I could. I is taking big risks for you lass ye know?”
...'LiquorSave, a potential never-ending source of fags for enterprising Kwiksave Managers'...
Edith could see Bulge prancing from foot to foot in anticipation. Why did she feed this walking mound of fat verbal descriptive images before sending these poor lads over to Kwiksave to be mentally destroyed?
She sighed in resignation. “Turn around”, she ordered Mort curtly.
“What.., eh”, replied Mort uneasily.
“I need to inspect your arse”, Edith followed up. “All Stock Lads have to be vetted before arriving at the store and you are no exception” she croaked exhaling a large balloon of used smoke into Morts terrified face.
Edith roughly grabbed Mort with both hands, eyed up his groin, and then shuffled him around taking weight of his chunky arse before he had a chance to react.
"Front looks non-existent, back a little flabby", Edith choked down into the receiver, ash from her cigarette flying in multiple directions.
“Flabby eh lass, I like ‘em with flat arses ye knows that, ye's gonna have to send some good un's across if ye wants yer Woodbines"
Now petrified, Mort could hear every tinny word emanating from the receiver and was preparing to bolt, but Edith had other ideas and firmly held his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Bah… send ye flabby boyo across”, sighed Bulge and hung up in disgust.
Mort, the Shit Manager is a Serial Shitposting Fiction Story inspired by Torundel the Shitposter by @katharsisdrill, Ren du Lot, the Shit Lawyer by @vcelier and Nordlute, the Shit Sysadmin by @steevc.
If you found this article so invigorating that you are now a positively googly-eyed, drooling lunatic with dripping saliva or even if you liked it just a bit, then please upvote, comment, rehive, engage me or all of these things.