For The Love Of Bob
In later years, it would come to be known as either Trump or Johnson Syndrome depending on your nationality - an almost deranged belief in your own magnificence (despite almost overwhelming and incontrovertible evidence to the contrary) accompanied by an almost pathological inability to stop lying - but for the time being Robert “Just Call Me Bob” Fotherington-Hamilton-Smyth was what was generally known as a “pain in the arse”. In particular, he was a pain in the arse to Dave. Largely because Bob was Dave’s line manager.
That hadn’t always been the case. No, when they’d started in the Greater Whampton Water Reclamation Facility, they’d both been working in supervisory roles. Only somehow within about three months, Bob had managed to wangle his way into a management position. Dave had watched it happen and still couldn’t quite place how. Bob was clearly less competent than Dave and obviously had his interest level set at “shits given = zero”. Was it the ludicrously triple-barrelled last name which triggered some vestigial class-based response? Was it the slightly plummy voice that showed that, if nothing else, money had been thrown at his education? Whatever it was, Bob had become Regional Manager before Dave had even had a chance to process what was going on.
Bob wasn’t one of those people who had the good grace to seem sheepish about their inexplicable rise to power. No, he was the sort of person who viewed it as the way the world should have been in the first place. Actually, it was worse than that. Bob saw this as a temporary inconvenience that he had to put up on the way to the next inevitable step up. He also delighted in delegating almost every aspect of his own job to those who had no choice but to do the work (Dave, naturally) whilst stealing any credit that might come his way (blame being deflected off his perfectly slopey shoulders, of course).
Dave wasn’t sure when the idea of catfishing Bob sprung into his mind but, once it was there, it seemed like the only possible option. Bob was unsurprisingly single. A perpetual serial monogamist, Bob had yet to find anyone who could put up with his boorish ways for more than about a week. Infuriatingly, this didn't seem to dent Bob’s “plenty more fish in the sea” attitude. Even more infuriatingly, Bob seemed more than happy to share all the lurid details of dating life on a daily basis with Dave. Which is why Dave knew exactly which dating sites to target.
“Oh for sure, Cyncere was quite the little filly between the sheets,” said Bob, rooting around in his left nostril with a cotton bud. “And I’m not just saying that because we used the riding crop!” Bob sorted out his usual nasal guffaw before flicking the snotty cotton bud in the vague direction of the bin. Dave did his best not to stab Bob in the eye with a pencil while he put the finishing touches to the online profile.
To be honest, Dave thought he’d gone too far with Chanterella (just the name alone was pushing it). The pictures that he’d found to use had also been borderline obscene (largely because most of them were obscene before being prudently cropped) so he thought maybe he’d been a bit too obvious. The steady stream of messages coming in from lonely and horny men (and some women) illustrated that clearly that wasn’t possible.
It was lunchtime the next day when the real payoff came through. Dave noticed the message came through as Bob stood next to the main control bank, phone held in a manner which suggested that this was as close as Bob got to discrete. Dave looked at the message, accompanied by a photo of Bob that was clearly fifteen years past its sell by date. He thought for a moment then tapped out a response that would have made an adult performer blush before hitting send.
Bob’s reaction was instant and catastrophic. In his haste to presumably hide what must have been an unfortunate stirring in the trouser department, he stepped back and clattered into the main control panel. Alarms sounded. Panic ensued. People started running to and fro. Bob stared in dumbfounded horror at both the chaos unfurling around him and the app on his phone.
The red-faced and imposing bulk of District Manager Mr Morgenstern burst into the control room. He pointed an accusing finger at Bob in such a manner as to imply that, had it been loaded, Bob’s days on this earth would have been at an end.
“How the hell did you manage to infect all of the borough’s water supply?’ yelled Morgenstern.
Dave never really Bob’s response as he was hustled from the room. In fact, Dave never really saw Bob again after that. Which suited him fine as the new Regional Manager for the Greater Whampton Water Reclamation Facility.
Chanterella still got the occasional message from him, though. She never replied.
The Prompt
Here’s what I had to work with courtesy of Kate:-
Title: For the love of Bob.
Character: Bob Fotherington-Hamilton-Smyth
Object: A cotton bud.
Line of Dialogue: ‘How the hell did you manage to infect all of the borough’s water supply?’
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