by Tony Lewis
He lumbered off, cramming as many as he could get into his mouth as was inhumanly possible.
“Now, before you start moaning,” said the witch to a disgruntled looking zombie, “just think about that unfortunate lad. You've taken terrible advantage of him, you know.”
“Yeah, but that's the brilliance of it. He hasn't got a clue about anything, so if he doesn't understand what's going on, how can I be accused of taking advantage of him? He only knows the sky is above him because it's a slightly different colour to the ground and has fewer buildings in it. Besides, it's compensation for having to look after him all the time.”
Mrs. Ladle took a drag of the cigarette that had appeared in her hand as if by magic, which was ironic because that's exactly what had occurred. She tapped a leather booted foot on the roof and stared at the zombie with nary a blink.
Stitches could tell that she was angry. He was quick on the uptake like that, plus he was used to it. There weren't many beings that he had met that he hadn't annoyed at some point. Even the stream of smoke that she exhaled looked annoyed. When she spoke it was in a tone of voice that required obedience, oozed command, and left the perceptive listener under no illusion as to what might happen if the speaker was disobeyed. Stitches disregarded the signs and carried on, though.
“But surely his innocence and lack of understanding are the very reasons that you shouldn't be doing those things to him in the first place. It's got to stop, understand?”
“Spose.”
“Excuse me.”
“Okay. Okay. I understand.”
“Good. Right. I'm glad that we've reached an agreement. Now don't let me catch you being mean to Flug again or I'll turn you into something nasty.”
With that she grabbed her broom and flew off, leaving Stitches in her nicotine shrouded wake.
* * *
Ronnie sat at the kitchen table and drained the last of the tea from the cracked mug that, despite it's off white and slightly grubby appearance, was his absolute favourite. It had character, history, and made the tea taste just right. It probably had trillions of bacteria and pathogens capable of wiping out entire civilizations in it as well, but it all added to the flavour. The fact that it had a picture of a cute and fluffy teddy bear on it was neither here nor there. That's what he told people anyway. He swallowed with relish, enjoying the burning sensation as the searing liquid flowed down his throat. He liked it hot. In fact the hotter the better, to the point that if you were unlucky enough to spill any of it on yourself, you would be in real danger of having to take a trip to the nearest accident and emergency centre. Stitches reckoned that Ronnie must have asbestos in his throat, but Ronnie knew that it was from years of dedicated smoking. He might very well have the lung capacity of an asthmatic coal miner, but at least he could get a steaming hot brew down without wincing.
He fished around in a coat pocket, retrieved his leather tobacco pouch and flipped it open. “Bugger.” It was empty save for a few lonely wisps of brown dust languishing at the bottom. Usually Ronnie kept a spare with him at all times so that he would never run out, but he was recovering from a weekend away with a couple of friends during which he had made a spectacularly heroic effort at drinking and smoking himself to death. He put the bereft pouch back into his pocket, rinsed his mug and made his way to the office. When he got there he met Stitches, who was standing outside. The door was closed.
“Is he in?” Ronnie asked.
“Not sure,” replied the zombie, giving the door a gentle knock. “You see, when it's closed it usually means that he's just got up, and you know what he's like about his appearance. He doesn't like to be seen in a mess. Of course he hasn't got a reflection, so he can't see what he doesn't want us to see, so he just assumes that what he can't see is bound to be something that he wouldn't want us to see, or that we would want to see.”
“I see,” said Ronnie, ever so slightly confused.
“I can hear you out there you know,” came Ollie's voice from the other side of the door. “I know you're talking about me.”
Stitches inclined his head and spoke to Ronnie in a hushed whisper.
“When he says `I can hear you out there you know' that usually means that he doesn't mind us seeing…”
“WILL YOU GET IN HERE, YOU DUSTY TW…”
Tired of the verbal badinage, Ronnie flung the door open and marched in, closely followed by Stitches. Ollie was sitting behind his desk and had a `just got up from a nap and haven't had time to sort myself out properly, you try it when you have the sleeping pattern of a two year old' look about him.
“Nice kip?” asked Stitches.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Ollie, staring in horror at the pint of blood that had been sitting on his desk when he came in. “And to what do I owe the pleasure? Please note that was directed at Ronnie, not you.”
“Charming,” said Stitches, feigning offence quicker than a die hard, soap box anti-racist who thinks it's disgusting that people of colour have to ask for black coffee in this day and age. He glanced around the room, desperately trying to find something to talk about in order to lighten the mood. His gaze finally came to rest on the wall above the fireplace.
“How long has that been there?” he asked.
“Couple of days,” said Ollie, rising from his chair for a leg stretch.
“It's a mirror,” said Stitches.
“Indeed it is. Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me. What do you think of it?”
“Well,” Stitches said, “on reflection…”
“Forget it,” snapped Ollie.
“What!”
“I asked you a simple question. All I wanted was a simple answer. Is that too much to ask for just once?”
“Alright, calm down. Mister got out of the coffin on the wrong side. I was only…hang on. What the hell do you need a mirror for?”
Ollie reached up and adjusted the mirror slightly. Very slightly. So slightly in fact, that it was reminiscent of the type of thing that people do when they haven't got the first clue about paintings, or art in general, and the only way that they can convey any artistic knowledge whatsoever is to stand in front of their latest acquisition, with a feigned knowing look on their face whilst they move it by infinitesimal fractions of an inch before spewing forth with drivel such as `Isn't it amazing, the eyes seem to follow you around the room' or `Of course the artist's medium was light, don't you know.' You know the sort of pretentious idiot we're talking about. Everyone has an acquaintance like it. Ask them who their favourite impressionist is and they say `Well, Jon Culshaw relies too heavily on costume but Robin Williams really nails the voices and mannerisms.'
“Ethan suggested it,” explained Ollie. “He reckoned it would give the office the illusion of space.”
“You could have used the inside of Flug's head for that,” said Stitches, checking his own appearance.
“Funny you should mention him,” said Ollie as he returned to his chair. “He walked past it the other day and thought there was an intruder in the place. Obviously I had to explain to him what an intruder was. And a reflection. And a mirror, for that matter.”
“I'll bet. I'm surprised he didn't attack it, that's what he normally does,” said Stitches.
Flug did have a tendency to either attack or flee in terror from things he didn't understand. It was a long and varied list that's far too extensive to write here. It's far, far simpler, and much, much quicker, to note down the things that he does understand.
List of things that Flug understands
1.
And that was as far as it went. Still, we live in hope.
Ollie relaxed into his chair and suddenly remembered that Ronnie had come into the office as well.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Ronnie walked over to the desk and plonked himself heavily down onto the edge.
“I didn't notice it before,” said the half vampire with a friendly smile before Ronnie could get a word out, “but
you don't half look rough. Another few interesting days away, I take it?”
“You could say that,” answered Ronnie, stifling an epic yawn.
“So, where did you get to this time?” asked Stitches from his usual place in the ancient, cracked, and desiccated leather chair opposite the desk, a chair he was rapidly coming to resemble. “Because from the looks of you, I think we should have an undertaker on standby.”
“Tell me about it,” said Ronnie. “I've really got to stop doing this to myself. I'm getting too old and it's taking me longer and longer to recover each time.”
“Still,” said Stitches, adjusting his right cheek which had dropped slightly, “look on the bright side. At least when the time comes we won't have to get you embalmed. I reckon you've got enough alcohol in your system to preserve you for centuries. Years from now, your perfectly uncorrupted corpse will be on display as an unsolved wonder of nature. You'll be famous.”
“Flammable, more like,” said Ollie. “Anyway, what's up mucker?”
“Mucker?” said Ronnie with a confused expression.
“I thought I'd try out a few new terms of endearment,” explained Ollie. “I reckoned it would make me appear more approachable and friendly.”
Stitches raised an eyebrow as a deafening silence descended.
“Boss, I implore you. Don't. It doesn't work. It's kind of creepy if I'm honest.”
“Right. Well, now that's cleared up, I came in because I thought we could kill two bats with one stone. I've run out of tobacco and I can't be arsed going to the shop, so I was thinking that as we're trying to encourage Flug to take on a little bit more responsibility round here, maybe he could pop down there and buy it for me. What do you think?”
“I suppose it might be worth a go,” said Ollie after considering the idea for a few moments. “It's a big step, but to be fair to him he has been making good progress lately.”
“And by that he means that the big dope is now using toilet paper instead of any items of clothing that he finds lying around the place,” said Stitches with a snort of derision.
Ollie looked at the zombie, his head tilted to one side.
“Now, you know that was an accident, and when I explained it to him he got it.”
“Yeah, I know, but that was my favourite shirt,” replied Stitches indignantly. “I've never seen such a mess. Poor old Ethan felt queasy for days. It looked like an explosion in a peanut butter factory.”
“Lovely imagery,” said Ronnie who had gone ever so slightly green.
“And not the smooth kind either.”
“Alright,” said Ollie, “calm down. It won't happen again.”
Ronnie sighed and thought that maybe his regular getaways weren't such a bad idea after all. If it kept him out of the way of dealing with a five hundred pound toddler who wasn't quite potty trained, then so much the better.
“Flug,” called Ollie, “can you come in here for a moment, please?”
“Yeah, Boss.”
Flug came into the office, but his arrival wasn't accompanied by the usual THUD of his head connecting with the top of the door frame. Flug had a major problem remembering the fact that the doorway was six feet six and that he was over eight feet, so rather than see his insurance premiums go through the roof (Flug had done that as well), Ollie asked Ethan to chisel out an extra twenty four inches above the frame. It had worked a treat and Ollie's office had remained intact and plaster free ever since. Obviously that couldn't be said for all of the other doorways in the building but hey, you can't have everything. It's all about taking those baby steps, even if the baby in question is roughly the size of a bison with a pituitary problem, and has the IQ of a tree stump.
“Hi, big guy,” said Ronnie to the patchwork behemoth.
“Hi, Ronnie. Me missed you lots and lots.”
“I missed you too, dude. Do you fancy doing me a favour?”
“And lots and lots.”
“I get it, mate.”
“And lots and lots.”
“Flug.”
“Yeah, Ronnie.”
“I need a favour. Try and focus.”
“Kay. Wot?”
“Can you go to the shop and get me some tobacco?” asked Ronnie, slowly extracting some money from his trouser pocket.
“Kay. Which one?” asked Flug proudly, pleased to be given the chance to perform such an important task.
“Get me Smouldering Fluff. Not that other stuff he sells, what is it now, Burning Hell or something.”
“Kay. Which shop?” said Flug.
“Come on now, mate. Think hard.” said Ronnie. “It's the same one we get your sweets from remember?”
Realisation dawned in Flugs mind. It didn't show on his face though, because that could take upwards of a fortnight.
“Oh yeah,” he said as a thin sliver of confectionery inspired drool leaked onto his chin. “Can I get some Corpse Crunchies please, Ronnie?” he added excitedly.
“Course you can. Now, can you remember what I want?”
“Uh, yeah. Burning Fluff,” Flug announced.
“Not quite,” said Stitches. “That's what you get if you spend too much time with the Stella triplets.”
Ollie shot the zombie the sort of look that the parents of a five year old employ when they see said little cherub remove its finger from its nose and attempt to divest it of the glistening, sticky globule it has excavated onto the carpet.
“No,” continued Ronnie patiently. “I want Smouldering Fluff. I do not want Burning Hell. Got it?”
“Kay. Wot difference?” asked Flug.
“Well, not that it really matters, but Burning Hell is pipe tobacco. It's far too rough for making roll ups.”
“Kay. Um, me no get,” said Flug.
“Think of it like this,” said Ollie, seeing that Ronnie was changing colour rather quickly. “It's like cheese. You can have it coarsely grated or finely grated. Ronnie wants it finely grated, you see.”
Outside of any and all sweets, Flug's second favourite food was cheese. Ollie thought that if he put it into the context of something that he was familiar with, Flug would be more likely to understand.
“Ah, me get it now,” said Flug, slapping his head in a way that would have stunned an elk.
“Finally,” commented Stitches.
Ronnie put the money into Flug's outstretched hand. “Get yourself some sweets with the change.”
“Fanks.”
“You're welcome.”
“Ronnie?”
“Yes, Flug?”
“Won't da cheese get stuck in your pipe?”
“That's it,” said Ronnie, snatching back the money amidst howls of laughter from Ollie and Stitches. “I'll go myself. Anybody want anything?”
“No thanks,” said Stitches, slowly recovering to the point that it was now safe to take his hands away from his rib cage. “I had a couple of slices of tobacco on toast earlier.”
Ronnie swore colourfully and walked out.
* * *
Ollie was alone in his office. Ronnie had gone out to the shop, Flug was doing whatever it was that Flug did in his spare time, and Stitches had left, muttering something about some part of his body that needed ironing.
“What to do?” he said to himself. “I know. Check emails.”
He logged onto the Darknet and accessed his account. As usual, it was mostly crap apart from one that looked quite interesting. It was a link to an information site called Wickedpedia and had been sent to him by Dr. Jekyll.
`I thought this looked good,' he had typed. `It's the place to go if you want to find out anything about anything'.
Being reasonably new to the world of the information superhighway, Ollie and the rest of the residents of Skullenia hadn't quite got to grips with the fact that most of what you read on the intertubes should be taken with a pinch of salt large enough to disable an elephant's kidneys, and a very healthy dose of scepticism. This was because most of the information was usually updated by bored eleven-year-old
s who had nothing better to do after the batteries in their handheld consoles had run out. God forbid that they do something radical, like go outside and play. This was the precise reason that a lot of people actually believed that Stephen Hawking celebrated his fortieth birthday on the summit of The Eiger after a particularly challenging ascent of the North Face. This is, of course, utterly ridiculous and anyone believing such patent nonsense would be very silly indeed. The eminent Professor couldn't possibly have achieved this incredible feat because the escalator was closed for repair. You see, it's all in the details.
Ollie typed in some random subjects just to see how accurate it was. To be fair it wasn't too bad. There was quite a detailed history of Skullenia that contained several references to his Dad, and a nice piece about the Fibulan Museum. Eventually he tired of surfing; one, because he couldn't find anything of interest, and two, his computer began to throw some very dodgy sites his way that made his eyes itch. That being the case, he shut the computer down and went off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes, two cups of Earl Grey and some Marmite on toast later (who says half vampires aren't afraid to try something different), Ollie decided to pop down to the lab to pay Professor Crumble a visit. He hadn't seen the old boy for a week, what with one thing and another, so he thought it best that he check in on him to make sure he hadn't caused a rift in the space-time continuum or lost his glasses again. If he was honest with himself though, he rather enjoyed seeing what the mad old duffer had come up with every time he visited. As he opened the lab door, he was greeted by the usual pungent aroma that was a cross between burnt chocolate and a chemical toilet that had been used a fortnight ago and had no active chemicals of any description in it.
“Hi ho, Prof,” Ollie greeted him. “How's it going? Sorry I haven't been down for a while, but I've been a bit busy.”
The aging scientist looked up from a mould laden Petri dish and studied Ollie through lenses so thick that in direct sunlight they could easily have started a forest fire a couple of miles away. If there was a forest a couple of miles away, of course.
“Ah, young Ollie, lovely to see you. But surely you were here just the other day?”