People are Strange

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: The Imaginarium


a mad little story.

Submitted: August 01, 2018

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Submitted: August 01, 2018

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So there I was on my way to the next whiskey bar; no don’t ask why. I guess I just wanted to be somewhere other than home with the family mariachi band. I’d always hated maracas, but my Uncle insisted they were the only instruments that suited my musical ability.

I walked in through the door and up to an old wooden bar, which I tripped over. I still don’t know why it was lying there.  As I dragged myself back to my feet by pulling myself up to the counter; I perused the drinks on offer.

“Give me a whisky” I said to the barman.

“Get out, you fecking Scots ejjit!” he said, and I could tell instantly this was a man with a discerning palate and a fine ear for vowels.

“Okay, I’ll have a whiskey then,” I said while propping up the bar and trying to sound sober.

“No can do I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

He just pointed at the clock and said “it’s time to close now.”

I slipped to my knees and begged. “Come on it’s night time now, but the dawn can’t be that far away, and you know the day destroys the night.” Admittedly I was rambling by this point

“Before you slip into unconsciousness,” he said, “would you like to meet my wife?”

I don’t know why he asked really, because she came into the room even before I answered.

“Well, what do you think?”

The barman’s voice broke into my thoughts, just as I was thinking “Well she’s fashionably lean.” I should have known there was more to this woman than meets the eye when she said her name was Willie Dixon, but if I were to say to you that I was not under the influence of anything, well you know that it would be untrue.

That was when I heard her voice for the fist time; now I’m not saying it was loud or harsh, but ships were turning back at Cape Race fearing icebergs.

“I looked at you,” she said, “and I thought you were just the sort of man I could go with and take the highway to the end of the night.”

“Very well.” I thought “time to live.” But as I took her hand to lead her out of the bar, the barman raised a rifle and pointed both barrels at me. They looked as though they were made of oak and heavy, and I don’t know which I was most worried about, them or the gun. I just thought “This is the end.”

“You’d best be leaving here and be keeping your hands off my wife and on your maracas,” he said.

“Never was a truer word spoken,” I thought, and hastily made for the door. Once outside I turned to see whether he was following me, and I saw the bar disappear. I don’t know how long I stood there, before a middle-aged couple came by. He wore a doublet and hose, and she a kirtle. I went to grab them and point at where the bar had been.

He went to draw his sword, but she stayed his hand and said “Just leave it Sir Edward Cadwallader, he’s not worth it.”

As they walked off, and I was wondering what I would do now, I heard her giggle as he said “People are strange.”

"That's not the half of it," I thought as I sank to the ground and into a comforting sleep. 

 


© Copyright 2018 Kevin Broughton. All rights reserved.

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