9 April 2008
Story #228
R. Linda:
Get ready for another parody. How many chapters will I finish THIS time? LMAO
It was a cold, dreary March day, and I sat by the bow of the boat, pulling me tattered coat close. I could see the city through the fog oozing like steam from a hot puddle of blood - the Thames River. I sunk more into meself as the chill became chillier. I would have been fine with all that, except me chill brain was being disturbed by me new friend, a blond-haired weasel of a lad in his early twenties who I realised was singing. Yes, SINGING!
Why would anyone riding in a battered old boat on the foggy, chilly Thames in the middle of the night be singing? I kicked him from me crunched position and connected with his ankle. He stopped, looked down at me highly disturbed person and said, "Oh wowee, dint sea ya dere skippah."
SKIPPER? I kicked out at him again and caught his skinny other ankle. I had a scroungy little dog named Skipper. He wasn't particularly me favourite pet because he bit me all the time.
"Ho nowie, I sayid sowee."
"Just shut your piehole, will ya? Your off-key chortling be hurting me thoughts, not to mention the ears!"
He walked off, mumbling, and I puffed out me cheeks. I did and blew out a sigh of relief.
Soon the boat docked, and I found meself on the wharf with me small bag of tattered clothes slung over me back. I also found I was standing next to the young blond dolt who had bothered me with what he thought was singing and I thought was disturbing the peace.
"Hey Mista, I wanna count yer as me friendie," he smiled, his toothy whites nearly blinding me and lighting up the dark street, "Kin I hook up wit ya laterz?"
I looked at him aghast.
"Hell's no! I never want to see your grimy, weasely bright face again." I walked off with a vocal, "Hrummph!" leaving him standing in the deserted street.
By the time I reached me old neighbourhood, the sun was up, further revealing me grimy appearance. Some took no notice or pretended not to, while others held their noses and waved as they passed me by. I wasn't offended. I'd spent the better part of ten years on a freighter full of fish and had gotten used to the smell.
I saw the place where IT happened. I even envisioned meself as a youngster coming out of me house; it was Easter morning, and there in the courtyard, the first blush of spring flowers all around. I saw it, my Easter basket! I ran excitedly to fetch it, Mum and Stepdad smiling after me. I could see it like it was yesterday, me excited face with me stupid grin as I picked up me basket, and it was then I let out a blood-curdling scream, and that sound bounced off the insides of me head as if I could really hear it. Me young eyes were near bugging out of me silly head, me mouth formed an 'o' from the scream, me hands frozen to the sides of the basket. Me chocolate Easter Bunny had NO EARS!
The vision faded as I blinked in the direction of me old house. Sick, I turned me tattered and fish-smelling self away and wandered for what must have been hours. It had to be because, by the time I reached Fleet Street, people were running ahead, shouting to everyone to clear off; a tattered man with a powerful fish odour was making his way towards them. For a moment, when I awoke from me thoughts and realised what they were shouting, I started running, and so did everyone ahead of me. I looked after meself to see where this gent was and then slowed down dejectedly, realising the man was me!
It was then that I saw Mrs. Egduf's House of Fudge Pancakes! It was still there, the seedy, crusty old place that, like everything else in old London town, was etched in me brain. It was all the same monochromatic in colour, dirty and smelly like meself.
I looked above the shop, and there it was—me old rooms before me mum married me stepdad, Mr. Sraetaei, otherwise known as 'The Judge of Fudge' —a man with a voracious appetite for anything chocolate, especially Easter bunny ears!
I looked around the old place. It looked unoccupied, so I went into Mrs. Egduf's establishment and sat meself down. There she was, doing the same thing she was doing the last time I laid eyes on her: playing video games. She still wore a sling on her left shoulder, which she continuously dislodged from its socket when stirring fudge pot after fudge pot.
"Hey!" I shouted, "Could you stop playing video games and wait on me?"
"Roight," she answered, ignoring me.
I was seething now. I had nothing in me belly, and I was not in a good frame of mind. In other words, I wasn't in a good mood. I looked at her back, thinking there she was flirting with disaster, and by that, I meant her horrible, impaired sense of fashion. She had on pink Crocs with baggies and a jacket that I realised was one of me own long ago. It then dawned on me that she didn't smell me sitting there; if she did, it wasn't a bad smell to her. Then I realised that SHE was dressed in the same clothing (except for me jacket) I had last seen her in, and that was what? 10 years ago? Oh, me God, what must SHE smell like? I sniffed, but all I could smell were burnt fudge pancakes. On the deserted table behind me were crusty and greenish brown pancakes, the fudge syrup was black and brackish looking, and flies were feasting (if you can call it that) all over the gooey mess.
Me lips had curled, and me face was dark with horror. I must have looked the picture of disdain and did not notice she was standing at the end of me table with a feather dipped in ink and a piece of parchment.
"I SAID, can I take your order, SIR?" She shouted at me.
"Uh, yes, uh . . . " I stammered, and thinking quickly, I pointed to the decaying mess on the table behind me, "I'll have a plate of those."
"Well, Ducks," she said, leaning over me to the mess behind and lifting it up. The syrup was like monkey glue that hadn't set as she lifted it over me head, the strings of goop on the bottom of the plate reaching over the table behind me. Here ya are, Ducky. Have this one here. Hardly been touched," she smiled, her teeth black and grey from so much sugar intake.
I shook me head and moved back from the sloppy goo starting up at me, flies attached.
"Wots the matter with ya then, ya too squeamish for sweet chocolate fudge pancakes swimming in fudge sauce?"
Then her face changed as she looked at me hard and brought her face nearer to see for sure. Her mouth opened in surprise, and she started to smile (which was scary), and she said, "Squeamish Sweety, is that you?"
I wanted to jump back, but I found meself in her arms, her grip like a vice, her hair tendrils into me mouth, chocolate encrusted. I thought I'd suffocate, but with the taste of the chocie after all those years without, I found meself sucking on her split ends!
"'Ere you!" she said, shoving me backwards onto the floor. "No free tasties!"
"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," I said, getting up and wiping chocolate goo from the floor off me tattered self.
She was, meanwhile, sniffing the air like she was smelling something foul.
"That isn't YOU, is it Sweety Ducks?"
"Uh, yes, that would be. Sorry, I've been away on a fishing boat for ten years."
"Ohhh. Wot you need is some of me good home cookin' and lots and lots of chocie to change that smell!"
"Uh, perhaps later? I was wondering if the upstairs was available. I need a set of rooms," I smiled unctuously. Glancing at the flies stuck in the syrupy goo, I had lost me appetite.
LATER ACROSS TOWN
The blond-haired boy was staring up at a window in an upscale neighbourhood. He couldn't believe his eyes. There in the window was a giant white chocolate bunny. Easter was coming in April this year, and the thought of white chocolate had our young hero salivating something terrible. It was so terrible that people slipped on the sidewalk, almost creating lawsuits.
The young weasel-like lad was accosted by a woman in baggies, pink crocs and an old jacket that looked like it belonged to a reporter from long ago.
"Hey, you!" She shouted and shoved him, "Look at the spit ya have droolin' down the walk. I slip on that crap, and you'll find yourself in Whitehall defendin' yourself about makin' me fall!"
"Wot?" His sour expression looked to take her in, but no one was there!
"Ya heard me," the vision in bad fashion said, hands on hips, "Wot is ya lookin' at anyway?"
"OH sowee, I dint sees ya down dere." He pointed at the window, and her eyes followed his quivering finger.
"Aint dat da mos booful thing yer evah did sea?"
The diminutive Mrs Egduf, for that, was who the woman was (how could ya not have guessed it?), licked her lips and sighed in appreciation of so fine a piece of white chocolate that she ever did see.
"It's biggg," she said with adoration.
"Yeppers," the blond boy sighed.
"That's Mr. Sraetaei's house," Mrs. Egduf said, "Ya might as well take a picture cuz this is the closest you'll ever be coming to havin' a lick."
"Sraetaei ya sayz?"
"Yeah, Sraetaei, Syratei, Greek or somethin' like that," Mrs. Edguf said, "he judges the chocolate competitions. He always disses mine. I don't like 'em." And with that, she huffed off.
But not our hero; his eyes had become slits in his cute weasely face, and his thoughts were running like newspapers being printed on fast presses; yes, he was coveting that giant white bunny, and he had a plan.
R. Linda:
Get ready for another parody. How many chapters will I finish THIS time? LMAO
It was a cold, dreary March day, and I sat by the bow of the boat, pulling me tattered coat close. I could see the city through the fog oozing like steam from a hot puddle of blood - the Thames River. I sunk more into meself as the chill became chillier. I would have been fine with all that, except me chill brain was being disturbed by me new friend, a blond-haired weasel of a lad in his early twenties who I realised was singing. Yes, SINGING!
Why would anyone riding in a battered old boat on the foggy, chilly Thames in the middle of the night be singing? I kicked him from me crunched position and connected with his ankle. He stopped, looked down at me highly disturbed person and said, "Oh wowee, dint sea ya dere skippah."
SKIPPER? I kicked out at him again and caught his skinny other ankle. I had a scroungy little dog named Skipper. He wasn't particularly me favourite pet because he bit me all the time.
"Ho nowie, I sayid sowee."
"Just shut your piehole, will ya? Your off-key chortling be hurting me thoughts, not to mention the ears!"
He walked off, mumbling, and I puffed out me cheeks. I did and blew out a sigh of relief.
Soon the boat docked, and I found meself on the wharf with me small bag of tattered clothes slung over me back. I also found I was standing next to the young blond dolt who had bothered me with what he thought was singing and I thought was disturbing the peace.
"Hey Mista, I wanna count yer as me friendie," he smiled, his toothy whites nearly blinding me and lighting up the dark street, "Kin I hook up wit ya laterz?"
I looked at him aghast.
"Hell's no! I never want to see your grimy, weasely bright face again." I walked off with a vocal, "Hrummph!" leaving him standing in the deserted street.
By the time I reached me old neighbourhood, the sun was up, further revealing me grimy appearance. Some took no notice or pretended not to, while others held their noses and waved as they passed me by. I wasn't offended. I'd spent the better part of ten years on a freighter full of fish and had gotten used to the smell.
I saw the place where IT happened. I even envisioned meself as a youngster coming out of me house; it was Easter morning, and there in the courtyard, the first blush of spring flowers all around. I saw it, my Easter basket! I ran excitedly to fetch it, Mum and Stepdad smiling after me. I could see it like it was yesterday, me excited face with me stupid grin as I picked up me basket, and it was then I let out a blood-curdling scream, and that sound bounced off the insides of me head as if I could really hear it. Me young eyes were near bugging out of me silly head, me mouth formed an 'o' from the scream, me hands frozen to the sides of the basket. Me chocolate Easter Bunny had NO EARS!
The vision faded as I blinked in the direction of me old house. Sick, I turned me tattered and fish-smelling self away and wandered for what must have been hours. It had to be because, by the time I reached Fleet Street, people were running ahead, shouting to everyone to clear off; a tattered man with a powerful fish odour was making his way towards them. For a moment, when I awoke from me thoughts and realised what they were shouting, I started running, and so did everyone ahead of me. I looked after meself to see where this gent was and then slowed down dejectedly, realising the man was me!
It was then that I saw Mrs. Egduf's House of Fudge Pancakes! It was still there, the seedy, crusty old place that, like everything else in old London town, was etched in me brain. It was all the same monochromatic in colour, dirty and smelly like meself.
I looked above the shop, and there it was—me old rooms before me mum married me stepdad, Mr. Sraetaei, otherwise known as 'The Judge of Fudge' —a man with a voracious appetite for anything chocolate, especially Easter bunny ears!
I looked around the old place. It looked unoccupied, so I went into Mrs. Egduf's establishment and sat meself down. There she was, doing the same thing she was doing the last time I laid eyes on her: playing video games. She still wore a sling on her left shoulder, which she continuously dislodged from its socket when stirring fudge pot after fudge pot.
"Hey!" I shouted, "Could you stop playing video games and wait on me?"
"Roight," she answered, ignoring me.
I was seething now. I had nothing in me belly, and I was not in a good frame of mind. In other words, I wasn't in a good mood. I looked at her back, thinking there she was flirting with disaster, and by that, I meant her horrible, impaired sense of fashion. She had on pink Crocs with baggies and a jacket that I realised was one of me own long ago. It then dawned on me that she didn't smell me sitting there; if she did, it wasn't a bad smell to her. Then I realised that SHE was dressed in the same clothing (except for me jacket) I had last seen her in, and that was what? 10 years ago? Oh, me God, what must SHE smell like? I sniffed, but all I could smell were burnt fudge pancakes. On the deserted table behind me were crusty and greenish brown pancakes, the fudge syrup was black and brackish looking, and flies were feasting (if you can call it that) all over the gooey mess.
Me lips had curled, and me face was dark with horror. I must have looked the picture of disdain and did not notice she was standing at the end of me table with a feather dipped in ink and a piece of parchment.
"I SAID, can I take your order, SIR?" She shouted at me.
"Uh, yes, uh . . . " I stammered, and thinking quickly, I pointed to the decaying mess on the table behind me, "I'll have a plate of those."
"Well, Ducks," she said, leaning over me to the mess behind and lifting it up. The syrup was like monkey glue that hadn't set as she lifted it over me head, the strings of goop on the bottom of the plate reaching over the table behind me. Here ya are, Ducky. Have this one here. Hardly been touched," she smiled, her teeth black and grey from so much sugar intake.
I shook me head and moved back from the sloppy goo starting up at me, flies attached.
"Wots the matter with ya then, ya too squeamish for sweet chocolate fudge pancakes swimming in fudge sauce?"
Then her face changed as she looked at me hard and brought her face nearer to see for sure. Her mouth opened in surprise, and she started to smile (which was scary), and she said, "Squeamish Sweety, is that you?"
I wanted to jump back, but I found meself in her arms, her grip like a vice, her hair tendrils into me mouth, chocolate encrusted. I thought I'd suffocate, but with the taste of the chocie after all those years without, I found meself sucking on her split ends!
"'Ere you!" she said, shoving me backwards onto the floor. "No free tasties!"
"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," I said, getting up and wiping chocolate goo from the floor off me tattered self.
She was, meanwhile, sniffing the air like she was smelling something foul.
"That isn't YOU, is it Sweety Ducks?"
"Uh, yes, that would be. Sorry, I've been away on a fishing boat for ten years."
"Ohhh. Wot you need is some of me good home cookin' and lots and lots of chocie to change that smell!"
"Uh, perhaps later? I was wondering if the upstairs was available. I need a set of rooms," I smiled unctuously. Glancing at the flies stuck in the syrupy goo, I had lost me appetite.
LATER ACROSS TOWN
The blond-haired boy was staring up at a window in an upscale neighbourhood. He couldn't believe his eyes. There in the window was a giant white chocolate bunny. Easter was coming in April this year, and the thought of white chocolate had our young hero salivating something terrible. It was so terrible that people slipped on the sidewalk, almost creating lawsuits.
The young weasel-like lad was accosted by a woman in baggies, pink crocs and an old jacket that looked like it belonged to a reporter from long ago.
"Hey, you!" She shouted and shoved him, "Look at the spit ya have droolin' down the walk. I slip on that crap, and you'll find yourself in Whitehall defendin' yourself about makin' me fall!"
"Wot?" His sour expression looked to take her in, but no one was there!
"Ya heard me," the vision in bad fashion said, hands on hips, "Wot is ya lookin' at anyway?"
"OH sowee, I dint sees ya down dere." He pointed at the window, and her eyes followed his quivering finger.
"Aint dat da mos booful thing yer evah did sea?"
The diminutive Mrs Egduf, for that, was who the woman was (how could ya not have guessed it?), licked her lips and sighed in appreciation of so fine a piece of white chocolate that she ever did see.
"It's biggg," she said with adoration.
"Yeppers," the blond boy sighed.
"That's Mr. Sraetaei's house," Mrs. Egduf said, "Ya might as well take a picture cuz this is the closest you'll ever be coming to havin' a lick."
"Sraetaei ya sayz?"
"Yeah, Sraetaei, Syratei, Greek or somethin' like that," Mrs. Edguf said, "he judges the chocolate competitions. He always disses mine. I don't like 'em." And with that, she huffed off.
But not our hero; his eyes had become slits in his cute weasely face, and his thoughts were running like newspapers being printed on fast presses; yes, he was coveting that giant white bunny, and he had a plan.
Gabe
Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 All rights reserved
