Last Will and Testimony of a Threshing Floor Refresher

This is the last will and testimony of P-au...Peter St---Stawert. I swear that this is true on all good and pure, on Lady Gaga's grave and the Bible.

For many years, I'd lived a courageously lowkey life. Working from one dead-end low-salary job to the next. I was never one of those "lives to work" types. More "works because of bills" types. On one particular job, before what will be my untimely demise, a strange series of events occurred that called me to act in a way I'm neither pleased, proud, or regretful about.

I was working at an abattoir, mainly cleaning the debris left behind. I wasn't skilled enough to work on actual "sellable flesh," or as I liked to call it, "meat." So cleaning the threshing floor was my job. A Threshing Floor Refresher, a title of respect, dignity, and distinction, if you will. (Mildred, is it even called a Threshing Floor?- Charles Spencer.) When I suggested having that on my official abattoir name badge, I was laughed at. Charming. I worked the title into casual conversation so that it'd become part of the meat-carving zeitgeist. Unless they've done it as a tribute to me on my passing, my fellow carvers have still not used it.

If you've never worked in an abattoir and think you can imagine what it smells like. You'd be wrong. Imagine the inside of a pig digesting inside the belly of a Komodo Dragon. Or something. If you've trouble picturing that, I can't help you.

It's rank.

I'd rather work in an older people's home than an abattoir. But apparently, I'm not skilled enough to wipe the arse of the oldest living people in my local town or city. (Note to the person writing this "Genuine Professional Authenticated Will," please delete the placeholder text of "local town or city" with the deceased's and delete this standard instruction, too. We don't want a mistake like last time, Mildred, I'm looking at you. Remember, it needs to sound genuine. - Charles Spencer.)

One day, something odd happened when I was working hard to bring home the bacon as the Threshing Floor Refresher. (Same mistake again. Man didn't even know his job, Mildred.- Charles Spencer) It's important to note that I was never allowed to bring bacon home. It's just a metaphor. The head of Abattoir Operations or HAO Barney Army would've had my guts for garters if I had. Once, I was allowed to bring a toe home of no clarified origin, but that's it. It wasn't even a spectacular toe. The wife, Angie, said there was a better chance of Lady Gaga serenading me with Elton John dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on piano than her cooking that toe. So, it went in the bin. Apart from the nail. For reasons. (Mildred, is this really necessary?- Charles Spencer.)

So, I was sweeping the floor and ready to mop it up when I found a piece of fleshy goodness lying on the floor. I thought it was odd. No, not because you don't get meat in an abattoir. I'm not that stupid. Because all the best cuts never land on the floor. The Great HAO would've someone's guts for garters if they did.

Guts for garters—Lady Gaga's meat dress. Did she have guts for garters? That would've been hard to find attractive. It already was, but imagine her flashing a bit more of her leg, and there's a fishnet-style garter made of pig's and cow's guts.

(Mildred, we need to state for legal reasons that "guts of garters" isn't an official stance of this genuine and authentic will. We've had some complaints in the past, remember Mildred. Get Sarah to help you if you must.- Charles Spencer)

So, as I bent down to poke the meat with my smaller dustpan brush, it sneezed. I was shocked, as it's not something you expect to see, is it? I didn't want to disturb Barney Army or any other A-Team of Fleshers United. Besides, I may have just been letting the rank scents of the threshing floor get to me. I've asked for a replacement mop for the last three years. Tightwad.

(MILDRED - PLEASE AMEND THIS ASAP, OR YOUR GUTS WILL BE GARTERS FOR SARAH'S WEDDING DRESS! I WILL NOT GO TO COURT... AGAIN BECAUSE OF YOUR MISTAKES. - Charles Spencer)

So, I ignored it and set it aside. But then it started sneezing repeatedly, three times in a row. I said, "Bless you," every time because mummy didn't drag me up; she raised me.

Careful Pau...Peter, you're getting away from the point.

The point is that along with this, something weird happened with the toe. The toe came back. After being dumped. The toe turned up at my doorstep with a note saying, "Give me back my nail, you cad."

I didn’t know what to do. The toe was long gone. That’s what I told Angie, anyway. She…didn’t need to know about my great shame.

I was trying to recreate a life-size Lady Gaga from years' worth of toenail clippings from Angie, myself, and the mystery toe. She'd gone away to visit her mother in Eastbourne. She has a lovely sea-facing villa there with a private beach. It’s beautiful. When my 'Naily Gaga' fell on me, the nails, having been sharpened in the construction process, perforated my lungs. It was with my dying breath I recorded this voice note to whoever found my body as my last will and testimony. Sorry, Angie. My wife. At least, we had a good “couple time” every Saturday like clockwork. Sometimes using clockwork toys…

(MILDRED, I CANNOT CONTINUE TO EDIT THIS INSANITY. I HEREBY RESIGN FROM MY POSITION. DON'T EXPECT A GOOD WORD FROM ME TO 'CORPORATE'. MAY THE NOT-LATE, GREAT LADY GAGA HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOULS. - CHARLES SPENCER.)

(Remember, Mildred, we spell colour with a u, like the Queen, not Lady Bloody Gaga!)