Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

He pulled the towel out of his rucksack and spread it out across the pavement so he didn't risk treading on any gum. Then he took the speech he'd prepared earlier and surveyed the shoppers passing by.

He held up the piece of paper, but his hand was trembling so much he couldn't actually read the words. His mouth was dry and his legs felt weak as he watched the flow of people pass by, bags of shopping hanging from curled fingers. He lowered the sheet of paper and was accepting the fact that he could not address the crowd, when the voices took it in turns to speak to him again.

Be strong!

You must spread our message!

Speak!

Wildly he looked about, but everyone was carrying on as they had before and he realized that only he, The Chosen One, could hear their words.

'People of Manchester,' he tried to announce, but his voice came out as a croak. He looked up to the sky, prayed for strength and felt better that, somewhere above the clouds, the Masters were watching him. He walked to the edge of his towel, looked directly at the shoppers who stared curiously at him, and said, 'People of Manchester! You must end the errors of your ways. You must discard the bags that weigh you down, shake off the shackles of your consumerist ways. Only then will the Golden Age dawn and our happiness be ensured.'

He paused to check his words were being registered. Numerous half-smiles and whispered comments told him that they were. The beginnings of the crowd were causing more people to stop.

'I come to you with a message from the Masters. Through me they have chosen to speak; through me can their message be heard. You must change the way you live. No longer can we allow their sacred teachings to go unheeded.'

'Shut up you weirdy-beard!' shouted a teenager, instantly ducking behind his giggling mates. Tom paused to look around him, taking in the expressions of mild amusement and smirking interest. 'Today we must show that we are ready for the Masters to return,' he continued, holding up his hands to the sky. 'Cast aside your purchases.' He reached out towards a young woman who, with a squeal of fright, shrank away. 'Can you not see how this desire to accumulate possessions is corrupting you? Rid yourselves of the baggage you carry so the Masters may return!'

'That's a novel way for someone to get some free shopping,' a man with a Debenhams bag said, addressing the crowd more than Tom. Laughter broke out and heads were shaking at him. Women held fingers up to their temples and whirled them round in circular motions.

'Do not walk away. You must hear my message. I have been chosen!'

But more backs were turning. The crowd began to disperse, some tutting sadly.

Soon only the group of teenagers remained. 'Who the fuck are you, anyway?' demanded the lad who had spoken earlier.

'I am the Chosen One,' repeated Tom. 'Through me the Masters, who have circled in the sky since time immemorial, have chosen to act. You,' he pointed to a girl, 'do not allow the temptations of this materialistic world to sway you from your sacred ability.'

'What ability? Shoplifting?' said another lad.

'Shut up,' she said, pretending to be outraged at the accusation. 'I never nicked anything. It was you who went into Boots and-'

Tom's voice rose above her. 'I mean your ability to reproduce. That which you were placed on Earth for.'

'You what, you dirty bastard?' she said, aggressively placing her hands on her hips.

'To be a mother is to fulfil the most sacred of roles. Do not reject that blessing.'

'Is he wanting to shag you?' said another in the group, looking at her with a grin.

The girl balled up the gum in her mouth and spat it towards Tom. It rolled across the paving stones, stopping abruptly when it came into contact with the edge of his towel. Immediately he retched loudly. He heard laughter.

'What was that about?' said a voice. 'Hey, weirdy-beardy, what was that about?' But Tom was staring with horror at the wet lump.

Another plucked the gum from his mouth and threw it in Tom's direction. He started backing away towards the other end of the towel. Another lump flew. Turning round, he ran, hopping from paving stone to paving stone, laughter ringing in his ears.

He was afraid after he fled the city centre, afraid the Masters would be angry with him for failing to spread their message. He stayed in his house and awaited their judgement.

He heard nothing for five days and was beginning to imagine that they had chosen someone else. Someone more able than him. One evening he was watching television with the sound turned down low. He sat through a news bulletin about climate change — the hurricanes ravaging the American Midwest with increasing frequency, the floods hitting Europe throughout the year. Switching channels, he looked at a documentary detailing the plight of Indonesia's Orang-utans, explaining how their habitat was being felled to meet the West's insatiable demands for timber. Turning over again, he watched a scientist standing on a rocky shoreline that, a few years before, was covered by a glacier.

Tom! Tom! Tom!

He fell to the floor and crawled under the coffee table whispering,' I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

Once again, they took it in turns to speak.

Do not be afraid, we are not angry with you.

It is the gum chewers who have angered us.

Of all the acts we see, theirs cannot be forgiven.

It symbolizes the frenzy consuming the planet.

They aren't satisfied collecting more and more goods.

Instead they work their jaws in a gross parody of consumption.

They disgust us.

'Yes,' Tom agreed, relieved not to be the focus of their wrath. 'And what do they do with the lumps?' he dared to ask. 'They spit them on to the streets, ruining the world.'

He said that he hated all gum chewers, too. Thinking of the youngsters who had driven him from his preaching, he looked towards the window and told the Masters that he wished they could all be destroyed. The chorus of approval stopped, and a wheedling voice asked if he was sincere.

'Yes,' he whispered, meaning it with all his heart.

So they told him how to fulfil his destiny. By following their instructions to the letter, the Golden Age would be allowed to dawn.

The next day he looked out of his French windows, across the garden at the smouldering remains of his armchair. On it sat the television, its screen blackened and cracked from the smoke and heat, the plastic casing melted along the bottom.

The sofa had burned itself out earlier. The telephone, answer machine, hi-fi system, computer, keyboard, food blender, DVD player, coffee percolator, alarm-clock radio, camcorder, video, toaster, personal stereo, cameras and golf clubs, forming a charred sculpture that had partially sunk into the exposed frame and springs. Next to the remains was a pile of ash that had once been his jackets, coats, jeans, T-shirts and most of his trainers. Only a few items of clothing remained in his wardrobe upstairs.

He had faithfully followed their commands and rid himself of his worldly possessions in preparation for his mission. Now they spoke to him again. Tom listened calmly to the words, nodding in understanding.

He went to his garage and assembled the Cooper's Barrow, pinning the X-treme panel banners to its frame, bolts of lightning striking the lemons and infusing them with electricity.

Next he found the box with all the entry forms for the competition to win a year's supply of X-treme gum and a luxury holiday for two in Malaysia. He opened it up and surveyed the form. The whole competition was really a data-capturing exercise for the chewing gum manufacturer; a way of collecting demographical information about the type of people who purchased their gum.

Examining the glossy front of the form, Tom saw questions asking for the person's name, address, home phone number, mobile phone number, email address, age, marital status and, finally, a convenient time to call to inform them if they were the lucky winner. The wording was carefully couched so the person would think it was necessary to complete all the boxes in order to stand a chance of winning. Tom looked at the pile of boxes. It appeared that he had enough packets of gum to hand out to half the population of Manchester.