The corpse is still there on the verandah.
It’s disgraceful; I fully intend to complain to the authorities. It has been there for months now.

I see it everyday as I leave for work. It lies sprawled in the furthest corner, with its face hidden in the crook of its arm. It’s naked. They should put a sheet on it. Or take it away.

This whole neighborhood has gone to the dogs. When I was young, it was a respectable place.
Now the whole place is full of teenagers. Like in the house next to mine. It is crumbling, but it’s full of teenagers. Thin, with lanky, greasy hair. They never wash. And their dogs. I’m astonished at how many there are. Full of ticks, they growl at me when I go to drop my garbage bags off. I also wonder at the amount of garbage I am lugging to the dump every evening. Maybe someone is throwing their garbage in my bin.

I wonder why the dogs don’t eat the corpse. I’ve been leaving the gate open for a few days hoping they’d drag it off, but they haven’t yet.

I go to work, and I’d talk to the people there if I could recognize them. I can’t. Their faces all look the same to me. Its not something new, I haven’t ever been able to tell faces apart. I compensate by giving them names. Patch-on-neck is the man in the big office. Extra finger is in the cubicle next to mine. I don’t talk to anyone else; I just stare at their eyes and nod along if someone talks to me. Establishing eye contact means the person thinks you know him, and recognize him, and are listening to him.
So no one knows this about me yet, though I’ve been working there for many years.
I write manuals for toys. They give me a sheaf of paper, and I read it, rewrite it, write an index, and write little ‘how-to’ pages to put at the end of the booklet. I also write “Not suitable for children under 5”, or “Small plastic parts: not recommended for children under 2.”

The teenagers always play the same song. “Funky town”. Always they play it. I keep hearing it in my head. But I can’t make out any of the words. Except “Funky Town.”

I bought a gun to shoot rats. I have rats the size of small cats. It’s those teenagers with their leaving food about. I’d talk to them, but I never see them around. But I see their silhouettes against the closed windows and they don’t have curtains, they light candles in the afternoon.

I bought groceries. Food. Sticking plaster. When I returned the corpse was still there. I wonder why it hasn’t rotted.

Someone came and said he was from the corporation, and that they were going to pull down the condemned buildings on either side of my house, and that I had warning to leave my house for a period of seven days, and go live in the accommodation they had provided.
I asked, “What about the teenagers? And when are you removing the corpse?”
The man stared at me. I shut the door in his face.
They think they can fool me. The moment I leave they’ll steal my house. I’ll burn it down before I let them have it.
I wont go to work tomorrow.
I have to guard my house from them.

The thought of that corpse outside is not letting me sleep. My eyes feel like they’re full of grit.

I went outside to check. It is still there, the same as always.

I can’t sleep. Why won’t it rot?
I have no choice.
I’m going to have to burn the house down.