Wuthering Frights

Wuthering Frights-2

“Well that's just charming,” said Stitches, feigning offence quicker than a die hard, soap box, anti-racist who thinks it's disgusting that people of colour still 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.

“Only a couple of days,” said Ollie, rising from his chair for a leg stretch.

“It's a mirror,” said Stitches.

“Indeed it is,” said Ollie. “And congratulations on your keen powers of observation. They 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, portraits 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 artists medium was light don't you know.' You know the sort of pretentious i***t I'm talking about don't you. Everyone has an acquaintance like it, pretending to be all erudite and interesting when they're about as engaging as a sponge. Ask them a real question about proper art like who their favourite impressionist is and just see what happens. 'Well, Jon Culshaw relies too heavily on costume but Robin Williams really nailed the voices and mannerisms.' There is a technical term for them. It starts with knob and ends with head. That's the impression they give anyway.

“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 then had to explain to him what the difference between an intruder and a reflection was and that we didn't actually have one. Then I told him what a reflection was and finally explained to him what a mirror is. He didn't get it of course and then decided that because I don't have a reflection an intruder must have gotten in and stolen it.”

“That sounds about right. I'm surprised he didn't attack it actually, that's what he normally does,” said Stitches.

Flug did have a tendency to either attack, or flee in terror from things that he didn't understand, and they were legion. It was a long and varied list that's far too extensive to write down 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. He yawned expansively.

“Dearie me. 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 with the lads I take it?”

“You could say that,” answered Ronnie, trying to stifle another 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 that 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. I'm wasted,” said Ronnie. He shook his head. “I've really got to stop doing this to myself you know. I'm getting too old and it's taking me longer and longer to recover each time.” Ollie and Stitches nodded their heads. They'd heard it all before.

Despite his well-intentioned words he didn't mean any of it and sounded as convincing as an alcoholic swearing off the demon drink just as he's opening up a new bottle (not that the actual demon drink would do him any harm. They liked a tall glass of water with a twist of lime or a refreshing pomegranate juice because all that talking in rasping, creepy growls after they've possessed a twelve-year-old girl plays hell with the vocal cords over the years. I should know. My daughter's twelve and she's an absolute monster).

“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 me ole mucker?”

“Mucker?” said Ronnie, with a confused expression.

“Yes. I thought I'd try out a few new terms of endearment for my nearest and dearest,” explained Ollie. “I think it'll make me appear more approachable and friendly. You know, not so scary and vampiry.”

Stitches raised an eyebrow as a deafening silence descended.

“Ollie, I implore you. Don't. It doesn't work and it's kind of weird if I'm honest. It'd be like Mrs. Ladle being polite or Flug saying something vaguely sensible.”

“Fair enough,” said Ollie. “What about dude? Or maybe bro?”

“Have you banged your head?” said Stitches.

Ollie didn't say any more about it.

“Right, well, now that's cleared up,” said Ronnie, glad to be off the subject, “the reason I came in is 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 able to get to his bed from the door of his bedroom without getting lost and using toilet paper instead of any items of clothing that he happens to find 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,” said Ollie. “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 and he eats things that'd make a troll sick. It looked like an explosion in a peanut butter factory.”

“Well, thanks for that lovely imagery,” said Ronnie, who had gone ever so slightly green.

“And not the smooth kind either.”

“Alright 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, Ollie. Me comin'.”

Flug duly wandered into the office like a confused tower block (as was his wont whether he wanted it or not), but this time his arrival wasn't accompanied by the usual THUD as his head connected with the top of the door frame. The problem was that Flug had a major issue 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 after he'd indulged in a bout of unsupervised standing up), Ollie had asked Ethan to chisel out an extra twenty-four inches above the frame to give the reanimate some clearance. And it had worked a treat, meaning that Ollie's office had remained intact and plaster free ever since. Obviously that couldn't be said for all of the other doorways and rooms in the building but hey, you can't have everything. Still, progress was progress and as the old saying went, 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, mate. Right, Flug. How do you fancy doing me a favour?”

“And lots and lots.”

“I get it, mate.”

“And lots and lots.”

“Flug.”

“Yeah, Ronnie.”

“Try and focus now. I need you to do me a favour.”

“Kay. Me can do dat. Wot is it?”

“I want you go to the shop and get me some tobacco. Is that something you'd like to do?” asked Ronnie, slowly extracting some money from his trouser pocket.

“Yeah, me like to do it. Which one?” asked Flug proudly, pleased beyond measure to be given the chance to perform such an important task.

“Get me a packet of 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 about it,” said Ronnie. “It's the same one that we get your sweets from remember?”

Realisation slowly dawned in Flug's mind. It didn't show on his face though. That could take upwards of a fortnight.

“Oh yeah,” said Flug as a thin sliver of confectionery inspired drool leaked onto his chin. “Can me get some Corpse Crunchies please, Ronnie?” he added excitedly.

“Of 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's 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,” explained Ronnie.

“Kay.” Flug paused for a moment then, looking thoughtful as if he wanted to say something else. It was either that or he needed to go to the toilet again. Or worse, already been. Thankfully it was the former. “Um, me no get, Ronnie.”

“Think of it like this,” said Ollie, seeing that Ronnie was changing colour rather quickly. “It's like cheese. You can have it grated into big pieces or small pieces. Ronnie wants it in small pieces you see.”