Hero's Manual: Chapter 5
Sep. 13th, 2006 12:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesA:N: The strange clapping man was inspired by the rock song “Clap for the Wolfman” and the recollection of Peter Pan clapping to bring Tinkerbell back. I got carried away with the mummy and gave him more story than intended. Deal with it.
Chapter 5: Into the Dark Closet
At the Dark Closet, haven for ghouls, vampires, werewolves and all other manner of monster, an almost naked mummy had just walked in. He had a kitchen apron on, saying “Kiss the Cook’s Ass.” This, in his case, might result in his having it handed back to him in a dustbin. He ambled up to the bar, where he completely ignored the following conversation because he was staring at the lovely Miss Frankenstein, a lady who appeared to be having the same physical looseness as he. Unfortunately, she was too occupied with a werewolf to notice.
“Go away, Quasi. We don’t serve normies here.”
“What do you mean?”
“ ‘S there anything wrong with you?” asked the barman, squinting his jaundiced eyes. “Physical-wise, I mean?”
“No!” squeaked Quasi, a tad too quickly. He coughed and repeated the negation.
“There you go then. We’re a Thing of the Night bar only, and so serve only monsters and th’ like. ‘N monsters look like monsters. You,” he said, poking Quasi in the chest, “look like a butler.”
“An evil butler,” offered Quasi.
“Nope.”
“I’ve got a diseased mind,” he insisted. “Terrible soup of a mind, full of nasty dark, er, things.”
“It look diseased?”
“Well, I don’t know how you’d –”
“If Hank there stuck a cleaver into your head, would the insides look off?” asked the barman, quite seriously considering these actions within he realm of both alcohol provider and client. Besides, it often took much more than that to kill his customers.
“No,” said Quasi. “Because he’s not going to.”
The barman, nicknamed Pretty Face, was of impressed by Quasi’s threatening look. “Sorry then, Q., old boy. Only physical deformities make the monster. And this here,” he waved a claw about, “is for monsters, not evil minds. Some of my customers are quite decent folk.”
“I’m sure,” mumbled Quasi, still stunned at the injustice of being refused a beer. Oh, and recognition as an evil Thing of the Night, of course. He looked around the bar, not about to give up yet. “What about him? He looks normal enough.”
“No reflection.”
“And those two?”
“Werewolves. Bit hairy in the toes this time of month.”
Quasi cast about desperately for a normal face. “Well, what about that chummy couple?”
“Look,” fumed Pretty, “Red Eye’s got a red eye, and that there with him is Frigid Frida, succubus by trade. Not very keen on her customer this evening, though.”
Quasi was crestfallen. Seems that he didn’t even have a mole out of place, or a slightly disfiguring scar. They’d been all the rage at Butler School too: the other students had said it’d surely get them a place with some mad, rich scientist. Damn his butler studies! He’d failed to acquire even the slightest stoop! That...that was something he could do.
Quasi slumped down in his stool and looked up hopefully at Pretty Face.
“You can’t keep that up forever, Q. Too much butler blood in you.” The pale man beside Quasi looked up from what might have been a Bloody Mary. Or possibly a Sue. Quasi watched as he reached into a gold case, slipped out a set of teeth and put them on. “Go home and steal your Master’s gin like a good boy.”
Quasi didn’t bother to correct the error in that statement. Neither did he mention, as he walked out of the bar, that Vicky’s gin stock was as low as Quasi could safely take it. He’d stopped diluting it back up in the hopes that his Master would realize the crisis and ask Quasi to buy more. But crises had to crawl into Vicky’s bed and scream into his ear before they registered.
And that Quasi had tried already.
Shortly after Quasi’s exit, the apron-clap mummy was able to put his current experiences with loss of appendages to the good use. The werewolf who’d been slobbering all over the attractive lady suddenly sprang up with a howl and threw himself to the ground in the centre of the bar, where he began to froth at the mouth and rub at his lips.
Instantly, a man rushed up to the writhing form and began patting and jostling the werewolf who’d been unfortunately trying to neck with Frankenstein’s sister (who mysteriously appeared just days after the village was town apart by a monster, and weeks after Dr Frankenstein was questioned regarding suddenly empty caskets).
“My bolt! He swallowed my bolt!” screamed the woman over the werewolf’s howls.
“By the Blackberry!” gasped the man as he crouched by the werewolf. He jumped onto a chair and shouted out to the bar crowd. “Clap! Damn it, ghouls, clap those claws! And you, bogeyman in the corner,” roared the man, “clap for the werewolf!”
The clap-leader was one of those men who always had a boyish look about them, as if they never had truly grown up. He also seemed to believe that any wound, dismemberments and beheadings included, or poison of any type (e.g. silver or garlic) could be cured by clapping loudly and shouting, “I do believe!”
Miss Frankenstein ran into the bathroom, accompanied by Frigid Frida and Hoarse Mary, the banshee, as the clapping continued in the bar. Mary was wailing helpfully at how asymmetrical Frankenstein had become.
Eventually the clapping stopped, and a little while later the werewolf’s moans stopped too, replaced by the sound of whiskey being lapped up greedily. As the ladies were about to leave the bathroom, Miss Frankenstein still dabbing at her neck and weeping softy, there came a knock at the door.
It opened slowly to reveal first a hand bearing the silver bolt in its palm. As it opened wider it revealed a hand holding the severed arm and a very thin and very tanned old man in an apron.
“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” he said softly.
Miss Frankenstein blushed and covered her neck. Mary and Frida escaped into the bar as the mummy walked into the bathroom. “Why, that’s very kind of you,” she whispered.
“I have some experience in these matters,” he said, smiling. “And, of course, others.”
At the Dark Closet, haven for ghouls, vampires, werewolves and all other manner of monster, an almost naked mummy had just walked in. He had a kitchen apron on, saying “Kiss the Cook’s Ass.” This, in his case, might result in his having it handed back to him in a dustbin. He ambled up to the bar, where he completely ignored the following conversation because he was staring at the lovely Miss Frankenstein, a lady who appeared to be having the same physical looseness as he. Unfortunately, she was too occupied with a werewolf to notice.
“Go away, Quasi. We don’t serve normies here.”
“What do you mean?”
“ ‘S there anything wrong with you?” asked the barman, squinting his jaundiced eyes. “Physical-wise, I mean?”
“No!” squeaked Quasi, a tad too quickly. He coughed and repeated the negation.
“There you go then. We’re a Thing of the Night bar only, and so serve only monsters and th’ like. ‘N monsters look like monsters. You,” he said, poking Quasi in the chest, “look like a butler.”
“An evil butler,” offered Quasi.
“Nope.”
“I’ve got a diseased mind,” he insisted. “Terrible soup of a mind, full of nasty dark, er, things.”
“It look diseased?”
“Well, I don’t know how you’d –”
“If Hank there stuck a cleaver into your head, would the insides look off?” asked the barman, quite seriously considering these actions within he realm of both alcohol provider and client. Besides, it often took much more than that to kill his customers.
“No,” said Quasi. “Because he’s not going to.”
The barman, nicknamed Pretty Face, was of impressed by Quasi’s threatening look. “Sorry then, Q., old boy. Only physical deformities make the monster. And this here,” he waved a claw about, “is for monsters, not evil minds. Some of my customers are quite decent folk.”
“I’m sure,” mumbled Quasi, still stunned at the injustice of being refused a beer. Oh, and recognition as an evil Thing of the Night, of course. He looked around the bar, not about to give up yet. “What about him? He looks normal enough.”
“No reflection.”
“And those two?”
“Werewolves. Bit hairy in the toes this time of month.”
Quasi cast about desperately for a normal face. “Well, what about that chummy couple?”
“Look,” fumed Pretty, “Red Eye’s got a red eye, and that there with him is Frigid Frida, succubus by trade. Not very keen on her customer this evening, though.”
Quasi was crestfallen. Seems that he didn’t even have a mole out of place, or a slightly disfiguring scar. They’d been all the rage at Butler School too: the other students had said it’d surely get them a place with some mad, rich scientist. Damn his butler studies! He’d failed to acquire even the slightest stoop! That...that was something he could do.
Quasi slumped down in his stool and looked up hopefully at Pretty Face.
“You can’t keep that up forever, Q. Too much butler blood in you.” The pale man beside Quasi looked up from what might have been a Bloody Mary. Or possibly a Sue. Quasi watched as he reached into a gold case, slipped out a set of teeth and put them on. “Go home and steal your Master’s gin like a good boy.”
Quasi didn’t bother to correct the error in that statement. Neither did he mention, as he walked out of the bar, that Vicky’s gin stock was as low as Quasi could safely take it. He’d stopped diluting it back up in the hopes that his Master would realize the crisis and ask Quasi to buy more. But crises had to crawl into Vicky’s bed and scream into his ear before they registered.
And that Quasi had tried already.
Shortly after Quasi’s exit, the apron-clap mummy was able to put his current experiences with loss of appendages to the good use. The werewolf who’d been slobbering all over the attractive lady suddenly sprang up with a howl and threw himself to the ground in the centre of the bar, where he began to froth at the mouth and rub at his lips.
Instantly, a man rushed up to the writhing form and began patting and jostling the werewolf who’d been unfortunately trying to neck with Frankenstein’s sister (who mysteriously appeared just days after the village was town apart by a monster, and weeks after Dr Frankenstein was questioned regarding suddenly empty caskets).
“My bolt! He swallowed my bolt!” screamed the woman over the werewolf’s howls.
“By the Blackberry!” gasped the man as he crouched by the werewolf. He jumped onto a chair and shouted out to the bar crowd. “Clap! Damn it, ghouls, clap those claws! And you, bogeyman in the corner,” roared the man, “clap for the werewolf!”
The clap-leader was one of those men who always had a boyish look about them, as if they never had truly grown up. He also seemed to believe that any wound, dismemberments and beheadings included, or poison of any type (e.g. silver or garlic) could be cured by clapping loudly and shouting, “I do believe!”
Miss Frankenstein ran into the bathroom, accompanied by Frigid Frida and Hoarse Mary, the banshee, as the clapping continued in the bar. Mary was wailing helpfully at how asymmetrical Frankenstein had become.
Eventually the clapping stopped, and a little while later the werewolf’s moans stopped too, replaced by the sound of whiskey being lapped up greedily. As the ladies were about to leave the bathroom, Miss Frankenstein still dabbing at her neck and weeping softy, there came a knock at the door.
It opened slowly to reveal first a hand bearing the silver bolt in its palm. As it opened wider it revealed a hand holding the severed arm and a very thin and very tanned old man in an apron.
“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” he said softly.
Miss Frankenstein blushed and covered her neck. Mary and Frida escaped into the bar as the mummy walked into the bathroom. “Why, that’s very kind of you,” she whispered.
“I have some experience in these matters,” he said, smiling. “And, of course, others.”
