Idiom

2 | Bob's Your Uncle

(Art above not by me. All rights to the owner)

Alastair slammed the pair of scissors down on the grey kitchen counter. He sighed, sinking into one of his beech-wood chairs. Looking back to the bag of dried dog food, Alastair narrowed his eyes. He'd been trying to open it for the last thirty minutes, with no avail whatsoever.

Watson plodded towards his master - who was stroking his stubbly chin, deep in thought - and dropped into a clumsy sitting position on the wooden tiles. He let out a bark. And then another. And then another. Followed by three more. Until he was in a fit of barking that grew more relentless with each 'woof' that escaped him.

"What now?" growled Alastair. Watson panted for a moment before continuing to bark; his thunderous demand echoing all throughout the flat. "Sshhh!" Alastair hissed, putting a finger to his pursed lips. He sighed. "I'll get it now, hold on-"

Carl burst into the flat**

"You called?" he exclaimed. Alastair shoved his head into his hands. 

"I don't remember calling you... Ever." 

Carl shifted his gaze to Watson and then the bag of dried dog food on the kitchen counter.

"Want me to help with that?" he offered. Despite heaving a sigh of annoyance, Alastair nodded. Carl beckoned as he approached the bag. "To be honest, Alastair, I'm pretty surprised. This is all just common sense!" he chortled. Alastair stared at him with venomous eyes. "Ok... I'll just, get on with this..."

Carl pulled out a knife from the block beside the toaster.

"Woahwoahwoahwoah a second!" Alastair raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that this is even safe?!"

"Of course it's safe!" chuckled Carl, idly slitting his wrist. Picking the kitchen knife up properly again, he ran the knife through the bag, the whole thing slicing in half so hundreds of biscuits (of assorted non-artificial colours and flavours, not sponsored by Winalot Est. 1927) sprayed out all over the counter.

"Bob's your uncle!" Carl clapped his hands together. 

"But neither of my parents had siblings, Carl!" said Alastair, completely bewildered.

"Hey," a man's voice said casually. "I'm Bob."

Alastair couldn't believe his eyes, or anything, for that matter. 

"Are you... My long lost uncle or something?"

"Yep." Bob smiled, lighting a cigarette. Apart from abandoning Alastair's 'no smoking in the flat, or anywhere around Alastair' rule, Bob seemed nice.

He seemed nice.

Little did Carl and Alastair know, Bob was actually a serial killer who - well - killed people, robbed the FBI, and didn't go to bed on time. In fact, he was only there in hopes that his nephew could 'bail him out' of over one hundred (and twelve at the very least) life sentences somewhere in an Antarctican prison. 

Of course, when he explained this he didn't realise that Carl and Alastair were Official High-Functioning Idiots.

Sorry, Bob, it's Antarctica for you. 

*Carl does this on a more-than-daily basis. Alastair has given up on door insurance because he doesn't fancy being in crushing debt every time his friend enters his flat. This is why he shows neither surprise nor shock towards an entrance that would be alarming to 'normal people'.