The resolution of Cannibal Bob (pt 1?)

It was the dawn of the 21st century and Cannibal Bob woke up feeling sick and hungover. He'd had a big old meal the previous night - it had been a cold, snowy New Year's Eve, and Bob and his friend Cannibal Douglas had dined on a couple of sleeping vagrants that they'd found huddled under the railway Arches at the end of Jackson Road. Rather conveniently, the vagrants had been sat next to a metal bin full of burning trash - this had acted as a convenient brazier and impromptu barbecue.

The vagrants would have put up more of a protest at their becoming man-food, but they were both rather sloshed on high-alcohol lager, and consequently dead to the world. Initially, just metaphorically, but by half past ten that night, completely actually. Bob, being a down to earth cannibal, didn't hold with all that new-fangled Chianti nonsense, so he'd washed down the char-grilled tramp leg with an unopened can of lager he'd found in a plastic bag nearby. He felt that the leg was cooked to a decent standard, but that it would have benefitted from a decent wash first. Douglas enjoyed his meal too, and the conversation over dinner was upbeat, with the two cannibals contemplating the upcoming year.

After dinner, they'd headed into town, and then it all got a bit hazy. Bob had vague memories of arguing with the doorman of a particularly upmarket bar, but whether he was attempting to argue his way in or convince them to not throw him out, he was unsure.

But that was yesterday, and today was the 1st January. A time for New Year's Resolutions, headaches and perhaps later some vomiting. Bob was tempted to resolve to give up the cannibalism, but he'd tried that last year and managed only four days before a passing boy scout troupe proved too irresistable. That was when he'd first met Douglas. At that time, Doug was a reformed cannibal and full time scout-leader. Bob had been able to recognise the signs of people-eating-abstinence: sweaty forehead, lank hair and a disturbed look whenever humans were spied. All it took for Bob to turn Doug from scout-leader to scout-eater was the smell of one roasted school boy, which Bob had purloined from the pack whilst Doug was collecting some knot-tying badges from the van. Doug hadn't looked back since, and they were now firm friends, regularly meeting for meals and 10 pin bowling.

So this year, a different resolution was needed. Bob went to his kitchen grabbed some paracetamol, swallowed them without the benefit of a glass of water and headed straight back to bed to do some thinking. Give up smoking? He'd have to start first. Learn a new language? Not much use to him, as he never went abroad due to not liking foreigner-food. Write a book? Hard to do without any ideas. Well, "never mind" he thought. It was only half past eleven in the morning - still plenty of time to make a resolution of some kind. And at least he didn't have to go to work today.

Bob stayed in bed for another six hours, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, always with a mighty headache. He considered putting on some soothing music, but the CDs were all downstairs and he couldn't face the walk to go and get them. He wished his girlfriend was around to help him out in these situations. Well, technically she was still around. Mostly. Sometimes when Bob was lonely he'd go to the chest freezer in his garage and chat to her frozen TV-dinner remains. These conversations tended to be quite one-sided, but Bob still always got the feeling he was doing something wrong.

Then, as afternoon started to turn to evening, Bob finally had an idea for a a resolution. It was one that he'd be able to keep, that would improve his self-image and would, as a bonus, benefit Cannibal Doug too. It was a fantastic idea, and to make it real and a proper goal, Bob pulled an old notepad from his bed-side drawer and began to write.