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Mort, the Shit Manager is a spin-off fictional series of short stories based loosely on the thoughts of David Mortenson, the tyrannical Kwiksave store manager who features in my auto-biographical series 'The Horrors of Kwiksave'.
Mort the Shit Manager Complete Chronology
- Mort as a Stock Lad -
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Flat Arse' - (March 1974)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Mort's Interview' - (March 1974)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Armchair Club' - (May 1974)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Fresh Cream' - (November 1978)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Demise of Reginald Bulge' - (January 1979)
- Mort as a Manager -
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Oxidation' - (July 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Fart Councilling' - (July 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Mandy's Interview' - (October 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Mandy's Curves' - (November 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Bribe' - (November 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Agnus' - (December 1979)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Agnus' Surprise Visit' - (March 1980)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Bloody Nose' - (July 1980)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'Brent's 'Druff' - (September 1980)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Sacking of Brent' - (September 1980)
Mort the Shit Manager: Edith's Offerings - (October 1980)
- Mort as a Manager with
-Mort the Shit Manager: 'Oppression Supreme' - (December 1980)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Heat Machine' - (March 1981)
Mort the Shit Manager: 'The Day Off' - (April 1981)
Ring, Ring…., Ring, Ring…
“What...?”, came the curt response.
“Hello, this is Rawtenstall Job Centre, there is a young man interested in the position of ‘Stock Lad’ and we think he may be a suitable match”.
Edith Smokesalot was pissed off. This new Kwiksave manager was a tight-arsed bastard and her old supplier of fags, Reginald Bulge had suddenly dropped dead months beforehand.
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...'Edith was the eternal source of poor quality Stock Lads, as well as a compulsive, addicted smoker'...
Edith was not going to shed any tears over the demise of her former Kwiksave Manager, come 'drug supplier'. He was also a cunt but one she could handle.
This 'David Mortenson' was on a different level; aloof, bombastic, and unapproachable were three such descriptions that came to mind. For now, she would have to try and wheedle her way into his good graces, and not via her expired womanly charms which had flown out of the window several decades past.
She inwardly cursed for sending Mort to Kwiksave six years before as an apprentice.
He fitted neither the role of 'skinny numbskull' nor 'muscle empty-brain', both prerequisites in her mind.
“What does he look like?”, growled Mort, a hint of savagery emitting over the tinny phone line.
Mort considered the last few days; they had been a fucking nightmare.
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...'the job centre, a seemingly endless supply of quality Stock Lads were appropriated here'...
He was at the end of his tether with this Job Centre sending over inappropriate ‘Stock Lad’ candidates. The last half dozen had been either skinny dimwits with an IQ of around 65, or big burly lads with rippling muscles that could potentially tear him apart if he attempted to force his authority on them.
He was the manager and they had to comply, what was wrong with that?
Yet Mort had suffered black eyes, a cauliflower ear, a fractured rib, and several bloody noses. To say he was wary of that weird Edith and her 'bouncer' or 'nerdy' candidates was an understatement.
The other type of 'suitable match' was the 'Brent' type and that meant a brain filled with the finest of sawdust.
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...'what was better, the Brent types or the Beefy types? Mort didn't want either'...
The most recent halfwit had used one of the electric motorised pallet movers, managing to sit on the edge and drive it through the store crushing some old dears' toes.
Kwiksave was almost always filled with these old people. Why couldn't these geriatrics shop elsewhere, or just stay at home and not eat at all?
Elton Welsby, the Area Manager had gotten wind of the incident and was 'stopping by' next tomorrow to get the full story, and he had sounded extremely angry.
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...'similar but not quite the same. You needed to walk with these and they could catch your feet if you were not careful. Riding them was strictly prohibited and awkward, unless you happened to be named.. Wayne'...
The stock lad in question had been fired on the spot and Mort would need to convince his explosive area manager of the true facts. The facts were that the weekly load had arrived, and he had feigned injury forcing the hapless driver to 'trust' this dimwit to take the pallets into the back shop with the motorised vehicle.
The latest copy of Knave had arrived at Kwiksave, subtlety packaged up and Mort's furthering pornography education and reading of the 'BBW Fetish section' was far more important than the stupid load.
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...'Knave was a straight Porn magazine, BBW specials would arrive in subsequent years. Mort would have to be patient to imagine the luscious curvy 'Mandy' types between the pages'...
Most of the time, those 'electric vehicles' arrived empty as it was rare that anyone bothered to charge them up at Kwiksave Headquarters, but on this occasion, it had arrived full of 'electric juice' and 'Wayne' the new dunce had figured he would learn to drive at the expense of his employer.
Curse my luck, mused Mort. Those stupid things seldom work.
'WHHHEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee'..., Wayne screamed in glee while perched on the electric vehicle, sailing past the Jam section at its top speed of 9mph.
With arms outstretched so he could operate the vehicle, turning was a tricky proposition and the bog rolls aisle had already perished as terrified customers had struggled to avoid this maniacal, deranged cuckoo of a youth with a grin the size of the Mersey tunnel.
A sickening sound of cracking bones accompanied by a scream of unearthly proportions had removed Wayne from his ecstasy, which resulted in the vehicle propelling through the back of wall of the Kwiksave store and stopping next to the adjoining riverbank.
Damn, that idiotic, moronic cretin; this was most inconvenient. Mort now had to accept another of one of Edith's deranged 'Stock Lad' apprentices and invent a convincing cunning lie for Elton. Life was so unfair.
Edith sputtered on her cigarette and erupted into a bout of choking coughs…
“He’s a big muscular lad…”
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr……
The phone went dead.
Mort, the Shit Manager is a Serial Shitposting Fiction Story inspired by Torundel the Shitposter by 
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