I took the arrival of a recent pension update letter as inspiration for a short story. Enjoy!
The year is 2020. It’s August, and lockdown is nearly over. Whilst this has been an extraordinary epoch in the life of Dave, some things are as mundane as ever.
The post drops on the floor, and the letterbox slaps shut. Outside, the clouds hover ominously. Autumn rides on the midday sun, lower in the sky than during the preceding months of gloriously too-hot heat.
The house is quiet; a rare spell when the children and wife are out of the house, and he’s able to boot up the computer to ‘hit the mainframe’. Dave gets up off the stool and heads to the door.
Katie, Katie, Katie….here’s one for me. Fuck! He thinks; it’s that time of year.
Every summer, regular as clockwork, comes the pension statement. No money input to *that* pension since I left *that* job. It’s a sad reminder both of colleagues abandoned for better things, and of the total inadequacy of his pension provision.
Holy crap…this one’s a record loss. £3k in one year…that’s more than 10% of the total fund. What the *fuck* do these fund ‘managers’ (mirthless laugh) do for their money.
Summoning The Force, Dave crouches to his knee and leaps, punching a hole clean through the ceiling, through the bedroom, out of the roof and arcs high into the air. 2.339 seconds later he is smashing through the window of his fund manager’s office in London.
The Occupant is stunned for a moment, before recognising his client.
“Ah – Mr. Clubb. How nice of you to drop in! Don’t worry about the window. We absorb those kinds of costs into our management fee”
He pushes the rolex self-consciously up his slender arm, as if to conceal it below his shirt cuffs.
“Is it the £3k loss, or the annual management fee. Again.”
Clubb breathes in and out. “I guess retiring at 50 is out. Just hand over the keys to the safe and I’ll be out of your office.”
The Occupant blocks the path to the safe; rips off his shirt and trousers in a one-two, hands sything across his body. Revealing a skin-tight black lycra suit.
“You know the rules, Clubb. Hard way, or easy way.”
“Your rolex just popped its strap, buddy.” As The Occupant glances down, Dave glides forward, seemingly without touching the floor. One billionth of a nanosecond later, The Occupant disappears in a magnesium-white pillar of flame.
“It’s Dr. Clubb to you” says Dave, smashing the safe open with the heel of his hand.
Inside lies a single scrap of paper, with IOU scrawled on it in large letters.
With a slurping noise, Dave melds into the floor. There is only the sound of blinds flapping in the wind. They beat a scattered rhythm. “Next year. Next year. Next year”.