100% Godfrey by M.J. Nicholls

100% Godfrey
by M.J. Nicholls

Godfrey entered the offices of Bunion Blasters, the fourth finest cream for purulent foot fungi in the UK, and sleaze-eyed the new receptionist. The previous woman was middle-aged and too wrinkled for passable Anne Bancroft chic, but the new woman appeared to be in her twenties. Red hair: good. Blue eyes: even better. Knee-length skirt: jackpot.

“Good morning there,” he said, running a hand through his quiff.

“Hello. I’m Janine, I just started here,” she replied. A mannish burr in her voice: kinky.

“I’m Godfrey Jennings, customer relations manager. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Godfrey [90%].”

As she reciprocated the handshake, Godfrey felt a tingle in his head, quite similar to the rush one feels when devouring a chocolate mousse in two spoonfuls, or when the email inbox blips for a new message. This tingle was the sign that he had lost 10% of his brain power, caused by the new receptionist saying his forename.

“You’re adorable,” he smarmed. “I’m going to the new Thai restaurant on Henrick Street tonight. I recommend you join me.” He flashed his crooked molars at her, and she full-beamed back. The phone rang.

“OK, Godfrey, [80%]” – another head tingle – “I’ll see you there. I like eating out with charming men. Excuse me, I have to answer this.”

Godfrey’s lecherous musk hung around her desk as she took a phone call from a friend.

“No Malcolm, that’s not what I meant. Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm! Oh, Malcolm, what are we going to do with you? Malcolm, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Malcolm, are you barking at me? Why are you babbling like a toddler? Malcolm? Where are you, Malcolm. Mal… oh, he’s hung up.”

“Problem?”

“No. I’ll see you tonight, Godfrey [70%].”

“Oww, my head nips. Heh. Never mind. Yeah, I’ll see you tonight, sweet cakes.”

Sitting at his desk, Godfrey found himself unable to do basic tasks, such as turn on his computer or pour himself a coffee. It was as though he had forgotten everything he knew since walking into his office that morning. After a few minutes, skills started trickling back to him, and he managed to write a few basic sentences (albeit with no vowels).

Finding his way to the restaurant that night was difficult, but with the help of his mother (who always thought her son a retard) he met Janine outside and shook her hand, then made a farting sound.

“I made a fart!” he shouted.

“Godfrey [60%], Godfrey [50%]! You’re so funny! I am fond of men who have the ability to induce laughter in me,” Janine said.

“Duh! Let’s go in. You pretty. You nice face. You do things to me I like!”

The meal was an awkward and messy affair. Janine called Godfrey by the title Mr. Jennings for most of the night, but he had lost so many brain cells before arriving, he dropped a spoonful of custard down himself and began to cry. Janine had to aeroplane the food into his mouth, and in the taxi back to her place, he wet himself and drooled on her lap.

The date progressed to improvised sex on Janine’s couch. Godfrey’s idiot shtick amused her so much, she was keen to reward him for his commitment to behaving like a toddler.

“Oh Godfrey [40%], there aren’t many men out there like you, men who know how to make a woman laugh,” she said. Godfrey slumped over on the bed with his mouth wide open, kicking his limbs and moaning.

“Steady on! We’re getting there. Oh, you excite me so much, Godfrey [30%] Jennings!”

As she undressed the brainless man, whose mind now held a number of brain cells lower than a toad’s, he cried out at the shapes and colours around him, and this strange creature attacking him below the waist.

“Oh, Godfrey [20%]! You’re so hard and hot, Godfrey [10%]. Oh, God… =0

AGod… Godfrey! [0%]” Janine exclaimed, riding the lifeless body into orgasm. After coming she flopped back on the bed beside Godfrey, who had been name-checked into death. It occurred to her the next morning that the hilarious man she bedded was dead as she shook him, kicked him and shouted at him for over an hour to complete lifeless silence.

“Are you there? Hello? Do you want to do this again sometime? Anyone? Oh, not you as well, Godfrey!”

Author bio:

M.J. Nicholls is a thrilling novelist based in the thrilling town of Edinburgh, Scotland. He is fond of gravy, tattooed ladies and potassium permanganate. Previous work by this thrilling writer has been published in Gold Dust Magazine, Piker Press, Defenestration, and in a short story collection for Cantaraville.