The Helium Hullabaloo by Jonathan Hunter
Hannah just wanted some cash for a new computer game, but her first day as a waitress made even an army boot camp seem like a spa day out. Patricia, her manager, was more likely to drink Ribena at a Wine Festival than help anyone. Governor Clive Goldman was sharpest in spotting Hannah’s errors at the Weston Super Mare Council Summit.
‘I requested the Cornish Turbot Dieppoise, not the Tournedos of Beef,’ he roared, wiping cappuccino froth off his moustache. Rolling his eyes, Clive snarled, ‘Do you know how privileged you are serving me?’
Fuming, Hannah threw together Clive’s dish. Opening a bottle of wine, Clive told fellow Councillor Veronica Chopard, ‘Climate change would not exist if the common folk put in half my effort. I walk to the post box weekly, even with my schedule.’
‘Isn’t there a new post box at the end of your drive?’ Chopard stated.
Clive wheezed, ‘Gosh, my stomach is bloated.’
Hannah removed her glasses in disbelief. Clive had inflated up even fatter than an angry Pacman.
‘Damn, get me some water,’ he yelled.
Hannah cupped her mouth in horror. Why had she thrown the gas pellets in? ‘This is your problem, Hannah,’ Patricia snapped.
‘Check my food now,’ Chopard screeched.
Gasps filled the hall. Clive whizzed up toward the ceiling. Fearing for her job, Hannah clung to Clive’s trousers. They ripped like a cracker being pulled apart. Holding onto his boxers, they bobbed together on the ceiling like helium balloons high on caffeine. Hannah prayed that Clive’s Calvin Klein’s had strong elastic.
‘Shut the windows, you idiots,’ Clive bellowed.
Chairman Max Slowburn murmured, ‘That might break our Covid Protocol,’ but it was too late; they were halfway up Weston seafront. ‘Call the RAF,’ Clive shouted at the tourists. Hearing humming instantly, he chirped, ‘The RAF at their best.’
However, Hannah wailed, ‘They are drones. Any miracle, please.’
A gale-force wind blew the pair towards the Ferris wheel. Clive grasped onto the frame. A high-pitched voice exclaimed, ‘We will save you.’ Glancing up, Clive saw some girls scantily dressed, enjoying their hen party.
’Have faith in me,’ the blond girl asserted as she touched up her lipstick. She threw her long, wavy hair down over the side of the car and insisted, ‘Climb up, it.’
‘I won’t,’ Clive detested, but Hannah was already in the car.
‘Hold on to my Candy floss then,’ the blond insisted, just as a curious seagull pecked at Clive. All the gas escaped. The candy floss stick snapped. Clive plummeted onto the beach. He landed on the sandcastles, getting judged at the annual competition. Clive’s reputation melted away faster than ice cream.
‘Free donkey rides for everyone on me,’ Clive vouched in desperation before escaping on a banana boat to Burnham on Sea.
Hannah joined the Hen Party and made some great friends for life. She even introduced them to Pacman.
Jonathan Hunter is a Flash Fiction Writer from Solihull, UK. He enjoys writing flash fiction that stretches the imagination and pushes boundaries. Jonathan has had pieces published in the Secret Attic Anthologies, Neuro-Logical Magazine, Bombfire Magazine, Corner Bar Magazine, Arasi Magazine, Written Tales Magazine, Trash to Treasure, Commuter Lit, and on the Free Flash Fiction website.
Image courtesy of Jonathan Hunter
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