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The Guarantee
Albert Watkins spooned another mouthful of
CornOBix from his breakfast bowl. He thoughtfully chewed the
cereal as he read again the guarantee on the box. ‘If not
delighted with this product,’ it said, ‘your money will
be refunded.’
Perhaps it was the cold, dark, damp and
overcast winter morning. Perhaps it was the fact that the dog had
been sick on the carpet overnight. Nevertheless, his CornOBix
were not engendering delight. They were palatable, digestible,
even moderately pleasant - but delightful? Delight was what he
had experienced when Daphne had accepted his proposal of
marriage, or the light-hearted sense of fun which had welled-up
inside him when had bought his first motor car. This was not what
he felt this morning.
After breakfast, he put on his coat,
collected the box of CornOBix and walked the half-mile to his
local supermarket. He spoke to the girl on the Information Desk.
‘I would like a refund please,’ he said, placing the
box on the counter. ‘I was not delighted by this product.’
The assistant gave him a surprised and
slightly anxious glance. She raised her microphone. ‘Code
six six six, Information Desk please.’
Two stocky men appeared, smartly dressed in
dark suits. The assistant looked at them with faint apprehension
and then cast her eyes towards Albert as if to say, ‘That’s
him.’
One spoke. ‘You’re not delighted
by this product, sir?’
‘No,’ responded Albert.
‘Please come with us, sir.’
Albert followed the men to the rear of the
store, through a door marked ‘No Entry’ and down a
long, dark staircase into a basement corridor.
‘Into this room please, sir.’
Albert glanced through the open, steel door
into a windowless, brick cell, barely three metres square. A hard
shove to his back catapulted him against the far wall. He turned,
confused and shaken. ‘What’s this about?’
‘We get a lot of people expecting a
refund. They say they’re not delighted with a product.’
He gave an ironic laugh. ‘We think they’re just trying
to get free food.’
‘No, no,’ stammered Albert,
‘I really wasn’t delighted by CornOBix.’
The first punch winded him. The second sent
him crashing to the concrete floor.
‘We know you were
delighted with CornOBix. Stan and I often have multiple orgasms
at breakfast. Why not you?’
‘I wasn’t delighted,’ choked
Albert as the boot struck him in the stomach. He glanced upwards
to see Stan leave the cell and return with a black box that was
dangling wires.
The customer relations manager standing in
the basement corridor saw the steel, soundproofed door slam and
noted the periodic dimming of the lights. Finally the door opened
and Stan emerged. ‘We fink e’s tellin’ the troof,
boss. He weren’t delighted wiv CornOBix.’
Albert staggered from the back entrance of
the store clutching his one pound and twenty-seven pence refund.
He was just grateful to be alive, and thankful that he had kept
to himself that recently purchased sausages had not given him one
hundred percent satisfaction.
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