‘Would you like to see the kitchen?’ The slimy estate-cretin asked happily.
James nodded slowly, although a deep feeling of trepidation was starting to well in the pit of his stomach. The estate-cretin had already proved himself to be an utter bastard with the ‘burglar alarm’ incident, and seeing how happy he was when he made the suggestion James was not hopeful.
It was his own fault really. At 22 he was already 10 years behind on the property ladder, having neglected to get on the first rung at 12 because of a misguided trust in his parents and their vast fortune. He didn’t have that fortune now. In fact now all he could afford was this decrepit hovel, the ‘tour’ the estate-cretin was giving him was merely a formality. He’d been kicked out of his parents’ house when they died, the government had decided to finish the job, and finally enact the redistribution policy they’d been threatening for years.
The estate-cretin calmly led James into the kitchen, and immediately he wanted to be sick. The kitchen was hideous. It was built almost entirely out of, distinctly unfriendly, iron sheets and badly cut girders. It looked more like a slaughterhouse than a kitchen, a description made all the more potent by the dried blood that littered the room. The blood was so widespread that it took James a few moments to realise it wasn’t paint.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, it needs a bit of work.’ The estate-cretin spat sarcastically. At that moment James punched him.