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Martin lifted the glass to his lips, as the shambling, sore-infested figure walked through the door of The Scabby Horse. He took a sip from his freshly-pulled pint, as the moaning, oddly-pale creature walked straight past the bar and plonked itself at the empty table in the darkest, dampest corner of the pub. He wiped Guinness-froth from his top lip, as he indicated the sorry spectacle and said to the barkeep, “what do you think of that then?”
The barkeep glanced briefly up from The Pulling Of The Pint and opined, “typical.”
“Do you think he’s-”
“What?”
“You know... undead... or something?”
“I don’t doubt it. Those chaps come in here all the time.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Only when they don’t buy a drink.”
“But... you know... shouldn’t you report them? Like... to the police... or something?”
“What’s the point?”
“Well... you know... public health... violation thereof... menace to... and all that.”
“Not worth the bother,” said the barkeep, as he continued to serve drinks to the patrons of his merry watering hole.
“How so?” queried Martin, as he took another sip of the dark ambrosia.
“Been there, done that, bought the blood-spattered t-shirt.”
“?”
“He might look quiet and unassuming now, but confronted with a... well... confrontation... they put up one hell of a struggle. And then there’s the mess.”
“You mean-?”
“Decaying flesh, body parts and suchlike.”
“I see your point.”
“And since Mrs Higgins, the cleaner, left the other week - walked out without so much as a by-your-leave, ungrateful bint - muggins ‘ere has to get his hands dirty.”
“But don’t they... you know... put the other punters off... and stuff?”
“Somewhat. Getting used to ‘em, though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Becoming a bit of a feature, in fact. A talking point. I’m thinking of turning this place into a theme bar.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that...”
“Got to move with the times, my friend. Some places have hanging bicycles, statues of Australians and the like. I have the Living Dead.”
“Could catch on, I suppose.”
“It’s different.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The shambling, sore-infested, moaning, oddly-pale, sorry-looking, non-beer-drinking individual of not-quite-living persuasion, stood and proceeded to perform an action which can only be described as ‘yawning’ - as he raised his arms, one of them fell off at the elbow and landed, with a sickly splat, in a puddle of beer on the table. This incited a few disapproving looks from some of the patrons of the alehouse, but, without offering any apology or removal of the offending displaced limb, the zombie (for want of a better word) moved, in that shuffling, one-foot-dragging way, favoured by his sort, in the general direction of the men’s room.
A large, vest-clad, tattoo-emblazoned fellow, with a pointless little moustache and a stubbly pate, blocked the zombie’s way.
The zombie moaned. As zombies do.
“Oh b****r,” said the barkeep, as all eyes moved towards the unfolding scene; “here we go.”
Pointless moustache Man extended an arm and say, “oy!”
Mr Undead said, “Mngrmfzmp...”
“We don’t like your sort round here,” said the vest-wearer.
“Mfprrrgnthklepuddle...”
“You’re not welcome!”
The sore-encrusted chap attempted to push past, but only succeeded in knocking his other arm off.
“C’mon, Marcus,” said the barkeep; “just let the gentleman do his business and then be on his way.”
“Gentleman?” said Marcus. “You call this” - he flicked the zombie’s ear into a nearby glass of Bacardi Breezer, inciting further moanage from the flickee - “a gentleman?”
“Everyone’s entitled to sit in a dark corner of an alehouse every once in a while.”
“Oh really? I thought you hated the flaky b******s.”
<...moan...>
“Flaky he may be, but he’s not doing any harm.”
“He’s harming my eyes” - and at that, he poked two fingers into the eye sockets of Monsieur Flaky, pushing what was left of the eyeballs into his skull.
<...moan!...>
“For God’s sake, Marcus!” said Marcus’s girlfriend - a muscular, denim-clad lady, with long hair at the back, who had just emerged from ‘powdering her nose’; “Do you have to cause trouble every time you come in here? Just let the poor sod be, will you?”
“But he’s-”
“-my next boyfriend if you’re not careful!”
A collective “yeurgh” issued from the mouths of all who occupied ‘The Scabby Horse’.
Denim Lady turned to face them
“What?” said she (who, to be more specific, wore a very short denim skirt, a white vest top, a denim jacket, and white stilletos which brought her towering above just about everyone she came into contact with); “do you,” she continued, “think zombies don’t make good lovers?”
“Yeeurrrgghhhh!”
And another moan issued forth, only this time from the mouth of the man (who wore, as well as a vest, multi-coloured baggy trousers and large black biker-boots) known as Marcus.
“You want me to tell them, Marcus?”
“Wh-”
“You want me to tell them about our cosy little threesome in nineteen-eighty-thr-”
“Sheila!”
“Then leave this man alone, sit down, shut up and drink your rum’n’coke.”
Marcus shuffled - in that way that men of his sort do - back to his seat, sat down and reluctantly set about doing as he was told.
“Sorry about that, barkeep,” said Sheila.
“No worries, Sheila,” said the barkeep; “have a Castlemein XXXX on the house.”
“Much obliged, barkeep.”
To which he pulled a pint of the aforementioned, bid Sheila g’day, and the flaky-fleshed fellow continued on his way to the bog... but not before his left foot fell off due to the stress of it all.
“Two questions...” said Martin; “one... is it me or has this place suddenly turned all Australian? And two... what do zombies want with the little boys’ room?”
“One...” said the barkeep; “like I said, you’ve got to move with the times, cobber. And two... no idea.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“When they go in... they never come out...”
“Strange.”
“Most odd.”
Martin continued to drink his pint.
The barkeep continued to pull them.
And that particularly denizen of the underworld was never seen again.
< fin >
The barkeep glanced briefly up from The Pulling Of The Pint and opined, “typical.”
“Do you think he’s-”
“What?”
“You know... undead... or something?”
“I don’t doubt it. Those chaps come in here all the time.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Only when they don’t buy a drink.”
“But... you know... shouldn’t you report them? Like... to the police... or something?”
“What’s the point?”
“Well... you know... public health... violation thereof... menace to... and all that.”
“Not worth the bother,” said the barkeep, as he continued to serve drinks to the patrons of his merry watering hole.
“How so?” queried Martin, as he took another sip of the dark ambrosia.
“Been there, done that, bought the blood-spattered t-shirt.”
“?”
“He might look quiet and unassuming now, but confronted with a... well... confrontation... they put up one hell of a struggle. And then there’s the mess.”
“You mean-?”
“Decaying flesh, body parts and suchlike.”
“I see your point.”
“And since Mrs Higgins, the cleaner, left the other week - walked out without so much as a by-your-leave, ungrateful bint - muggins ‘ere has to get his hands dirty.”
“But don’t they... you know... put the other punters off... and stuff?”
“Somewhat. Getting used to ‘em, though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Becoming a bit of a feature, in fact. A talking point. I’m thinking of turning this place into a theme bar.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that...”
“Got to move with the times, my friend. Some places have hanging bicycles, statues of Australians and the like. I have the Living Dead.”
“Could catch on, I suppose.”
“It’s different.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The shambling, sore-infested, moaning, oddly-pale, sorry-looking, non-beer-drinking individual of not-quite-living persuasion, stood and proceeded to perform an action which can only be described as ‘yawning’ - as he raised his arms, one of them fell off at the elbow and landed, with a sickly splat, in a puddle of beer on the table. This incited a few disapproving looks from some of the patrons of the alehouse, but, without offering any apology or removal of the offending displaced limb, the zombie (for want of a better word) moved, in that shuffling, one-foot-dragging way, favoured by his sort, in the general direction of the men’s room.
A large, vest-clad, tattoo-emblazoned fellow, with a pointless little moustache and a stubbly pate, blocked the zombie’s way.
The zombie moaned. As zombies do.
“Oh b****r,” said the barkeep, as all eyes moved towards the unfolding scene; “here we go.”
Pointless moustache Man extended an arm and say, “oy!”
Mr Undead said, “Mngrmfzmp...”
“We don’t like your sort round here,” said the vest-wearer.
“Mfprrrgnthklepuddle...”
“You’re not welcome!”
The sore-encrusted chap attempted to push past, but only succeeded in knocking his other arm off.
“C’mon, Marcus,” said the barkeep; “just let the gentleman do his business and then be on his way.”
“Gentleman?” said Marcus. “You call this” - he flicked the zombie’s ear into a nearby glass of Bacardi Breezer, inciting further moanage from the flickee - “a gentleman?”
“Everyone’s entitled to sit in a dark corner of an alehouse every once in a while.”
“Oh really? I thought you hated the flaky b******s.”
<...moan...>
“Flaky he may be, but he’s not doing any harm.”
“He’s harming my eyes” - and at that, he poked two fingers into the eye sockets of Monsieur Flaky, pushing what was left of the eyeballs into his skull.
<...moan!...>
“For God’s sake, Marcus!” said Marcus’s girlfriend - a muscular, denim-clad lady, with long hair at the back, who had just emerged from ‘powdering her nose’; “Do you have to cause trouble every time you come in here? Just let the poor sod be, will you?”
“But he’s-”
“-my next boyfriend if you’re not careful!”
A collective “yeurgh” issued from the mouths of all who occupied ‘The Scabby Horse’.
Denim Lady turned to face them
“What?” said she (who, to be more specific, wore a very short denim skirt, a white vest top, a denim jacket, and white stilletos which brought her towering above just about everyone she came into contact with); “do you,” she continued, “think zombies don’t make good lovers?”
“Yeeurrrgghhhh!”
And another moan issued forth, only this time from the mouth of the man (who wore, as well as a vest, multi-coloured baggy trousers and large black biker-boots) known as Marcus.
“You want me to tell them, Marcus?”
“Wh-”
“You want me to tell them about our cosy little threesome in nineteen-eighty-thr-”
“Sheila!”
“Then leave this man alone, sit down, shut up and drink your rum’n’coke.”
Marcus shuffled - in that way that men of his sort do - back to his seat, sat down and reluctantly set about doing as he was told.
“Sorry about that, barkeep,” said Sheila.
“No worries, Sheila,” said the barkeep; “have a Castlemein XXXX on the house.”
“Much obliged, barkeep.”
To which he pulled a pint of the aforementioned, bid Sheila g’day, and the flaky-fleshed fellow continued on his way to the bog... but not before his left foot fell off due to the stress of it all.
“Two questions...” said Martin; “one... is it me or has this place suddenly turned all Australian? And two... what do zombies want with the little boys’ room?”
“One...” said the barkeep; “like I said, you’ve got to move with the times, cobber. And two... no idea.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“When they go in... they never come out...”
“Strange.”
“Most odd.”
Martin continued to drink his pint.
The barkeep continued to pull them.
And that particularly denizen of the underworld was never seen again.
< fin >
Ineedsleep wrote:
> I'm not concerned :)
>
> I hate typing a story with a lot of conversation as I find it a pain
> to type all the speech marks and get it right.
...in that case, I appreciate your empathy!
> I'm not concerned :)
>
> I hate typing a story with a lot of conversation as I find it a pain
> to type all the speech marks and get it right.
...in that case, I appreciate your empathy!
I'm not concerned :)
I hate typing a story with a lot of conversation as I find it a pain to type all the speech marks and get it right.
I hate typing a story with a lot of conversation as I find it a pain to type all the speech marks and get it right.
Well it was fun to write!
Which is the main thing...
(Just wondering... why is Ineedsleep concerned about typing it up?)
Which is the main thing...
(Just wondering... why is Ineedsleep concerned about typing it up?)
I agree, not too bad but way to much "speech" for my taste as well and it is a pain to type it all up correctly. I liked the general idea though.
Not bad. Nothing special though, and there was way too much speech, even though I know that's what you wanted.
Keep trying :)
Keep trying :)
Martin lifted the glass to his lips, as the shambling, sore-infested figure walked through the door of The Scabby Horse. He took a sip from his freshly-pulled pint, as the moaning, oddly-pale creature walked straight past the bar and plonked itself at the empty table in the darkest, dampest corner of the pub. He wiped Guinness-froth from his top lip, as he indicated the sorry spectacle and said to the barkeep, “what do you think of that then?”
The barkeep glanced briefly up from The Pulling Of The Pint and opined, “typical.”
“Do you think he’s-”
“What?”
“You know... undead... or something?”
“I don’t doubt it. Those chaps come in here all the time.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Only when they don’t buy a drink.”
“But... you know... shouldn’t you report them? Like... to the police... or something?”
“What’s the point?”
“Well... you know... public health... violation thereof... menace to... and all that.”
“Not worth the bother,” said the barkeep, as he continued to serve drinks to the patrons of his merry watering hole.
“How so?” queried Martin, as he took another sip of the dark ambrosia.
“Been there, done that, bought the blood-spattered t-shirt.”
“?”
“He might look quiet and unassuming now, but confronted with a... well... confrontation... they put up one hell of a struggle. And then there’s the mess.”
“You mean-?”
“Decaying flesh, body parts and suchlike.”
“I see your point.”
“And since Mrs Higgins, the cleaner, left the other week - walked out without so much as a by-your-leave, ungrateful bint - muggins ‘ere has to get his hands dirty.”
“But don’t they... you know... put the other punters off... and stuff?”
“Somewhat. Getting used to ‘em, though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Becoming a bit of a feature, in fact. A talking point. I’m thinking of turning this place into a theme bar.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that...”
“Got to move with the times, my friend. Some places have hanging bicycles, statues of Australians and the like. I have the Living Dead.”
“Could catch on, I suppose.”
“It’s different.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The shambling, sore-infested, moaning, oddly-pale, sorry-looking, non-beer-drinking individual of not-quite-living persuasion, stood and proceeded to perform an action which can only be described as ‘yawning’ - as he raised his arms, one of them fell off at the elbow and landed, with a sickly splat, in a puddle of beer on the table. This incited a few disapproving looks from some of the patrons of the alehouse, but, without offering any apology or removal of the offending displaced limb, the zombie (for want of a better word) moved, in that shuffling, one-foot-dragging way, favoured by his sort, in the general direction of the men’s room.
A large, vest-clad, tattoo-emblazoned fellow, with a pointless little moustache and a stubbly pate, blocked the zombie’s way.
The zombie moaned. As zombies do.
“Oh b****r,” said the barkeep, as all eyes moved towards the unfolding scene; “here we go.”
Pointless moustache Man extended an arm and say, “oy!”
Mr Undead said, “Mngrmfzmp...”
“We don’t like your sort round here,” said the vest-wearer.
“Mfprrrgnthklepuddle...”
“You’re not welcome!”
The sore-encrusted chap attempted to push past, but only succeeded in knocking his other arm off.
“C’mon, Marcus,” said the barkeep; “just let the gentleman do his business and then be on his way.”
“Gentleman?” said Marcus. “You call this” - he flicked the zombie’s ear into a nearby glass of Bacardi Breezer, inciting further moanage from the flickee - “a gentleman?”
“Everyone’s entitled to sit in a dark corner of an alehouse every once in a while.”
“Oh really? I thought you hated the flaky b******s.”
<...moan...>
“Flaky he may be, but he’s not doing any harm.”
“He’s harming my eyes” - and at that, he poked two fingers into the eye sockets of Monsieur Flaky, pushing what was left of the eyeballs into his skull.
<...moan!...>
“For God’s sake, Marcus!” said Marcus’s girlfriend - a muscular, denim-clad lady, with long hair at the back, who had just emerged from ‘powdering her nose’; “Do you have to cause trouble every time you come in here? Just let the poor sod be, will you?”
“But he’s-”
“-my next boyfriend if you’re not careful!”
A collective “yeurgh” issued from the mouths of all who occupied ‘The Scabby Horse’.
Denim Lady turned to face them
“What?” said she (who, to be more specific, wore a very short denim skirt, a white vest top, a denim jacket, and white stilletos which brought her towering above just about everyone she came into contact with); “do you,” she continued, “think zombies don’t make good lovers?”
“Yeeurrrgghhhh!”
And another moan issued forth, only this time from the mouth of the man (who wore, as well as a vest, multi-coloured baggy trousers and large black biker-boots) known as Marcus.
“You want me to tell them, Marcus?”
“Wh-”
“You want me to tell them about our cosy little threesome in nineteen-eighty-thr-”
“Sheila!”
“Then leave this man alone, sit down, shut up and drink your rum’n’coke.”
Marcus shuffled - in that way that men of his sort do - back to his seat, sat down and reluctantly set about doing as he was told.
“Sorry about that, barkeep,” said Sheila.
“No worries, Sheila,” said the barkeep; “have a Castlemein XXXX on the house.”
“Much obliged, barkeep.”
To which he pulled a pint of the aforementioned, bid Sheila g’day, and the flaky-fleshed fellow continued on his way to the bog... but not before his left foot fell off due to the stress of it all.
“Two questions...” said Martin; “one... is it me or has this place suddenly turned all Australian? And two... what do zombies want with the little boys’ room?”
“One...” said the barkeep; “like I said, you’ve got to move with the times, cobber. And two... no idea.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“When they go in... they never come out...”
“Strange.”
“Most odd.”
Martin continued to drink his pint.
The barkeep continued to pull them.
And that particularly denizen of the underworld was never seen again.
< fin >
The barkeep glanced briefly up from The Pulling Of The Pint and opined, “typical.”
“Do you think he’s-”
“What?”
“You know... undead... or something?”
“I don’t doubt it. Those chaps come in here all the time.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Only when they don’t buy a drink.”
“But... you know... shouldn’t you report them? Like... to the police... or something?”
“What’s the point?”
“Well... you know... public health... violation thereof... menace to... and all that.”
“Not worth the bother,” said the barkeep, as he continued to serve drinks to the patrons of his merry watering hole.
“How so?” queried Martin, as he took another sip of the dark ambrosia.
“Been there, done that, bought the blood-spattered t-shirt.”
“?”
“He might look quiet and unassuming now, but confronted with a... well... confrontation... they put up one hell of a struggle. And then there’s the mess.”
“You mean-?”
“Decaying flesh, body parts and suchlike.”
“I see your point.”
“And since Mrs Higgins, the cleaner, left the other week - walked out without so much as a by-your-leave, ungrateful bint - muggins ‘ere has to get his hands dirty.”
“But don’t they... you know... put the other punters off... and stuff?”
“Somewhat. Getting used to ‘em, though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Becoming a bit of a feature, in fact. A talking point. I’m thinking of turning this place into a theme bar.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that...”
“Got to move with the times, my friend. Some places have hanging bicycles, statues of Australians and the like. I have the Living Dead.”
“Could catch on, I suppose.”
“It’s different.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The shambling, sore-infested, moaning, oddly-pale, sorry-looking, non-beer-drinking individual of not-quite-living persuasion, stood and proceeded to perform an action which can only be described as ‘yawning’ - as he raised his arms, one of them fell off at the elbow and landed, with a sickly splat, in a puddle of beer on the table. This incited a few disapproving looks from some of the patrons of the alehouse, but, without offering any apology or removal of the offending displaced limb, the zombie (for want of a better word) moved, in that shuffling, one-foot-dragging way, favoured by his sort, in the general direction of the men’s room.
A large, vest-clad, tattoo-emblazoned fellow, with a pointless little moustache and a stubbly pate, blocked the zombie’s way.
The zombie moaned. As zombies do.
“Oh b****r,” said the barkeep, as all eyes moved towards the unfolding scene; “here we go.”
Pointless moustache Man extended an arm and say, “oy!”
Mr Undead said, “Mngrmfzmp...”
“We don’t like your sort round here,” said the vest-wearer.
“Mfprrrgnthklepuddle...”
“You’re not welcome!”
The sore-encrusted chap attempted to push past, but only succeeded in knocking his other arm off.
“C’mon, Marcus,” said the barkeep; “just let the gentleman do his business and then be on his way.”
“Gentleman?” said Marcus. “You call this” - he flicked the zombie’s ear into a nearby glass of Bacardi Breezer, inciting further moanage from the flickee - “a gentleman?”
“Everyone’s entitled to sit in a dark corner of an alehouse every once in a while.”
“Oh really? I thought you hated the flaky b******s.”
<...moan...>
“Flaky he may be, but he’s not doing any harm.”
“He’s harming my eyes” - and at that, he poked two fingers into the eye sockets of Monsieur Flaky, pushing what was left of the eyeballs into his skull.
<...moan!...>
“For God’s sake, Marcus!” said Marcus’s girlfriend - a muscular, denim-clad lady, with long hair at the back, who had just emerged from ‘powdering her nose’; “Do you have to cause trouble every time you come in here? Just let the poor sod be, will you?”
“But he’s-”
“-my next boyfriend if you’re not careful!”
A collective “yeurgh” issued from the mouths of all who occupied ‘The Scabby Horse’.
Denim Lady turned to face them
“What?” said she (who, to be more specific, wore a very short denim skirt, a white vest top, a denim jacket, and white stilletos which brought her towering above just about everyone she came into contact with); “do you,” she continued, “think zombies don’t make good lovers?”
“Yeeurrrgghhhh!”
And another moan issued forth, only this time from the mouth of the man (who wore, as well as a vest, multi-coloured baggy trousers and large black biker-boots) known as Marcus.
“You want me to tell them, Marcus?”
“Wh-”
“You want me to tell them about our cosy little threesome in nineteen-eighty-thr-”
“Sheila!”
“Then leave this man alone, sit down, shut up and drink your rum’n’coke.”
Marcus shuffled - in that way that men of his sort do - back to his seat, sat down and reluctantly set about doing as he was told.
“Sorry about that, barkeep,” said Sheila.
“No worries, Sheila,” said the barkeep; “have a Castlemein XXXX on the house.”
“Much obliged, barkeep.”
To which he pulled a pint of the aforementioned, bid Sheila g’day, and the flaky-fleshed fellow continued on his way to the bog... but not before his left foot fell off due to the stress of it all.
“Two questions...” said Martin; “one... is it me or has this place suddenly turned all Australian? And two... what do zombies want with the little boys’ room?”
“One...” said the barkeep; “like I said, you’ve got to move with the times, cobber. And two... no idea.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“When they go in... they never come out...”
“Strange.”
“Most odd.”
Martin continued to drink his pint.
The barkeep continued to pull them.
And that particularly denizen of the underworld was never seen again.
< fin >