Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction
Intangible By Keith Large
Dry grass, wet floor, lay down, show em’ the door. Too nice for the latter! Softly, nasty, softly, nasty, an illusion to lure a fool! Enter my gothic world. They never think it might be possible of course, from being one, we may possess two selves.
I despise the scrooge-ness of their nights out. The meanness they never invite the wage payer. How I miss out seeing them indulge... in their favourite pastime, of round dodging! Disappearing to the toilet when its next orders at the bar! Listening to their parsimonious tales when they should be working, I go home to my Augustus Pugin replicated property to eject my anger. Revenge is best served invisible.
I’d be intangible to them in my gargoyle style attire with crimped hair. Far removed from the daily shirt and collar, I try to look authoritative enough to motivate their idle limbs.
I smiled earlier. They’ve got braver. Discovered there’s a free bus from our town to the newly acquired city status of Olumpool. I grew up there. Danced many a night, through the evolution of horror punk and dream pop to gothic metal, then when I won a few thousand on the pools I bought myself a share in a pub. It’s a kind of Cannick Tapps, a basement bar with craft real ales and alternative music. The side of me they don’t see, yet I get the full picture of them.
Givers give. Takers take. I left several free tickets on Rob’s desk, highlighting all drinks four for the price of one, plus at our expense, chauffeur transport home. I’ll enjoy driving them somewhere in my old school hearse.
The usual quartet of Rob, Lily, Billy and Steve brushed past the paintings of Florence cathedral and the Basilica of St Denis. Contrasting the decor in their Aldi trainers and Primark jeans! Rob fumbled for a penny, to begin the coin tossing process of who would get the bottles of Doom bar in. I laughed behind my make-up. Predicting Lily would lose. She opened her purse, oblivious! My velvet gloved fingers were pouring her drinks.
I signalled to the DJ to turn the Depeche Mode up. I knew they would want to leave early if nobody could hear Rob’s cow muck waffle. Lily came back up to the bar.
‘We need a free taxi,’ she shouted
‘My pleasure,’ I replied.
Rob insisted Lily and him got in the back and Steve joined them.
‘Who am I dropping off first?’ I asked.
‘Steve and Billy,’ yelled Rob.
Maybe I should let the sheep escape. Then I remembered why it was too late for that. I ensured they got home, even though they wouldn’t be at work tomorrow. The two love birds in the back were too engrossed to suspect my detour. I’d spent the rest of my pools winnings on a private plot that resembled a min-Highgate cemetery. Yet to find a Karl Marx, but that slow poison gave me a Rob and Lily.
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