FONALD FUCK
Donald Duck towered over them. Scott, even at 7-years old, wondered how long the man in the suit had to spend in there. His brother, Fred, three years his junior lazily thumbed through photographs of paradise in the brochure. Scott sighed and gazed outside into the shopping centre. Shoals of older kids floated past, without parents. Free. Some glanced into his tank, where, the boys' parents worked out their holiday deal with the travel rep. She was very blonde and wore a bright red blazer with stiff shoulders to uphold the visage of efficiency. She smiled politely and murmured aloud the commands she typed into the terminal.
"So, breakfast only… one week… fly from Leeds/Bradford... just... save that... one second..."
Scott was restless and frustrated. He returned his gaze to Donald Duck. Fred began to gently kick at his ankles, leaned into him, seeking a rise. Their mother was onto it in a flash and the venom frothing behind her eyes set the boys straight. For a minute or so, they each jammed both hands into anorak pockets and stared at the floor, smirks tucked into collars.
The rep moved onto the flights.
For the third time, Disney's best-known beak snagged Scott's attention. This time, Fred followed his line of sight and began to make quacking noises. The shop had filled up, so neither parent heard him.
"Donald Duck..." Said Scott, deep in thought.
"Quack quack..."
"Aonald Auck...nah."
"Eh?" Fred didn't get it.
"Bonald Buck." The penny dropped.
"Conald Cook" He joined in the game, but Scott wasn't sharing and stepped on his little brother's toes.
"Owww!" This time, a stern look from their father stemmed Fred's rising tantrum.
Scott skipped D.
E didn't work.
"Fonald Fuc-" Fred’s eyes stood on stalks, ready to pop. The second the words were out of Scott’s mouth, it was the family hamster out of the cage all over again. Fred, escaping his brother’s desperate attempt to drag him back by his coat sleeve, clambering up onto mother's lap, broadcast, word for word, at full volume Scott's controversial slip of the tongue to the entire floor.
“AWWWW! MUM! MUM! ‘E SED FONALD FUCK!”
This brat, high on the opportunity to throw his older brother under the bus, fired himself, a live round, into the unsuspecting crowd. The travel agent's smile slowly melted and dribbled down her face because no longer was she selling sun loungers and sangria to a small-town parent; now she had to make a deal with the devil for overpriced flame.
Mother's lipstick recoiled like a fingered slug and dropped into the puckered sinkhole in her skull, which closed, leaving only a thin slit. Obsidian black marbles raged where excited eyes had been moments ago. Smoke billowed from her nostrils.
Worst of all, father cleared his throat and looked at the carpet.
Scott trapped the swelling protest in his throat and swallowed it back down as hard as he could. Silence and solemn expressions were his only friends now.