Bulldog Story

Let me tell you about the man who ruined me; He goes by the name “Bulldog”, a nick-name which was not awarded for his tenacity and patriotism, but for appearance; he is a stunted, wrinkled homunculus of a man. Not so long ago, I made the mistake of signing one of his contracts; A mistake with consequences I must face for the rest of my sad, sad life…

I first met Bulldog when his battered old Bedford Rascal juddered to a halt outside my home; I remember him as an unattractive man; short and balding with a chubby face and a conspicuous gold chain that draped as far as his pot-belly. He wore a paint-spattered sweater. In short, he looked like the very model of a British tradesman.

“Me and the boys was doing some internet work round the corner, and we got some left over from the job”, he offered. “I can do it for ya real cheap”.

“What exactly is it you are selling?”, I enquired. The stocky man began to look at me as if I was the village idiot.

“Internets”, he retorted. “I’ve got a whole van full of Internets, lovely quality and I’m selling `em at half price”, he added, gesturing towards his partner who nodded inanely from the driver’s seat.

His partner prised himself from tiny vehicle; By contrast to the diminutive salesman, his factotum was a huge thuggish looking goon. This overall-wearing giant slid open the vehicle’s side-door, and I could see that it was packed full of technological wizardry; Cables and crude tools hung from it’s roof. A jumble of contraptions were heaped upon the van’s dirty floor, spilling out through the open door, splashing into a muddy puddle.

“Internets”, gestured the chubby looking dwarf again, offering clip-board and pen upwards to me, “Yours if you sign this contract now. You can pay me once we’ve done the job. Me and Jif can start as soon as you sign”.

The truth is, I’ve had a perfectly functioning Internet for a years; So why was I a sucker for his sales patter? I cannot explain the madness that seized me.

And while Jif casually patted the head of his long mallet into his beefy hands and Mr Bulldiog thrust his clipboard into my abdomen, I took his pen and signed.

A moment later, the huge man was hauling his over-sized mallet and a collection of wrecking tools from the van’s cluttered hold. He trudged across my parquet with his muddy boots, dragging his crude implements into my home.

Were these gorilla-bars and wrenches the tools of a perfectionist?

“You are qualified to install Internets?”, I asked.

“‘course”, he quipped. “Been installing `em since seventy-three”.

And so I followed the lumbering brute and his master into my home and directed them the pantry where I kept my Internet; And at once he began savagely tearing my old Internet apart, hurling its fragile components down to the kitchen floor. Mr Bulldog squinted, farted and then lit up a fag; Jif’s muscly arms flailed as he bashed and tore his way through my pantry.

“Is this the normal way to dispose of an Internet ?”, I asked.

“Just you leave all that technical stuff to us”, he retorted.

But before I could answer him I was interrupted by a novelty ring-tone. I recognised it as “Crazy Frog”.

He flipped open his cellphone and began to jabber in an impenetrable cockney banter, made worse by the deafening thudding and thumping from the thug who had almost finished defiling my pantry.

He jabbered, hooted and gibbered, in what sounded like a foreign tongue for more than an hour, occasionally breaking into what sounded like a cross between drunken sea-shanty and a hooligan’s chant. As his lackey finished the demolition and the dust began to settle he was still yacking, laughing, guffawing in his own moronic tongue.

I tried ever more blatent attempts to attract his attention. As I was beginning to think he would never stop talking, he flipped-closed his phone and addressed me:

“Sorry mate, we’ve gotta run. Code yellow.”, he said inscrutably. In a final shower of rubble, Jif hoisted the enormous mallet from the wall where it had become lodged, and onto his broad shoulders before tramping back to the tiny van.

“But what about all this mess? My broken Internet?”

“Look mate, it’s only for a night. Me and Jif’ll fix it up tomorra, trust me. I’m giving you me word”, and as he spoke those words he was already out of my front door.

Through the trail of mud, splinters and devastation, I could see Jif impatiently flicking the van’s sliding-door closed with his club-like hand. The surprisingly agile Mr Bulldog hopped in beside him, and soon both were gone.

.oOo.

That was three months this very day; Three awful months have passed since they wrecked my home; and still those hollow horrible words still linger in my mind: “Trust me”, I repeat them to myself and laugh the most sardonic laugh I can muster. Of course they never returned as promised, nor the next day nor any day since I became their victim.

I’ve been calling Mr Bulldog every day since; on the few occasions I have been able to get past his convoluted call-waiting system, my call is usually answered by another idiot henchman. Unfortunately he barely speaks, and when he does, only in mumbles and grunts.

I try to ask this anonymous assistant where Mr Bulldog is and how I might contact him. Once I even asked him to explain the meaning of “code yellow”, but he does not know, and the little he does he is too afraid to tell. Occasionally he tries to offer technical help, but since he is very depressed, and knows less than I do about Internets these calls end in silence, sobbing and frustration.

So here I am, three months after that dreadful day with no Internet and no redress from Mr Bulldog; There is nothing left for me to do but sell my shattered home, change my identity and sign up with a completely different company. Perhaps then I can order a new Internet and put all this behind me. In the meantime, I shall keep my old hunting-rifle loaded by the door case that odious little freak and his goon call again. Mr Bulldog has driven me insane.

What can I say, in conclusion? I only ask that you learn from me and avoid my fate; Mr Bulldog’s offers were easy to accept but if I had known the inescapable consequences I would have sent him packing. I have lost everything that was dear to me; My wife has left me. I am alone, and my home is a dusty mouldering shambles.