A little of this and a bit more

Alan Crawford presents twisted short and some longer stories for adults, with quite a number of his rants and observations as well.

Several curious people, really it’s just one, asked me how or where the ideas came from. Thankfully there’s no clear answer. When the trousers, mind, or weather conditions suit such things, the computer opens, a page appears, and it starts to flow. See menu for the main Short Stories.


Last drinks

Reading Time: 6 minutesIt was last drinks for the four desperate men left sitting at the bar. The Fat Pigeon pub had shut but they’d been granted a lock-in for no reason in particular. The publican Peter, left them nursing their fresh pints while he dizzied about sorting out spirit bottles, the drip trays, slop buckets and bar towels. He discretely hid the day’s takings in the very mysterious container that sat frightening patrons on the top shelf all day long.

It was a bust of Peter’s bare torso, his portly stomach and huge man boobs, moulded from and for him the last time he was in Amsterdam. This thing even had some faux chest hair and a small pimple just to add to the realism. Roy was the first to mumble some politically astute beer driven drivel.

“That fuck can’t possibly be serious? How the hell can he think that we’d stand for that gay marriage shit? I mean it’s unnatural and just plain wrong, being fucked up the arse.”

Roy was an idiot

He giggled as he added the up the arse line. He was a professional simpleton. The most basic, tabloid, dumbest mother fucker TV type of a fellow. Anything not funny but vaguely schoolboy rude such as bum, tit or fart type gag, made him laugh a bit too much. That’s why he was there, destined to be sharing his great unwashed brain dead view of the world, pissed out of a few peoples minds, past midnight and drinking with the other 3 hapless drunk buggers that shared the bus shelter they called home. Again, it was last drinks for the four.

Peter didn’t mind letting them stay for a half hour after closing, most nights he was happy enough to give them a final beer before they headed for the cold bench at the corner stop. Stop 345 was home to a few people over the last couple of months and these 4 were just the latest. Peter wondered what happened to the others but never really enquired. The new occupants didn’t know and there was no trace of the previous at all.

Stop 345

Was, in fact, an impromptu, necessary by circumstance storage area. Developed that way for the overly active sweat gland ladened creature that came out of the nearby woods when it desired a feed. It would grab up to 4 at a time and take them back for either an immediate eating or to be stored and matured for a snack later on. It was due to replenish the stocks it had hiding in its lair and surely would be last drinks for the four.

It’s lair was a bit fancy, simply a hollowed out fallen tree and cavern space which offered some out of view eating and sleeping action for the creature. The creature actually had a name and it was Yvonne. It stank, had far too much hair and when seen from the side, which was rare as you’d be lucky to survive such a sighting, looked like a 60-year-old man with a paunch belly and man boobs. Remarkably just like Peter’s bar-mounted torso thing.

Yvonne was a by-product of too much drink, a hunting accident, genetic transformation brought on by a very large dose of an out of date flavoured milk and no preventive vaccination during her early years. Yvonne used to be an attractive human being, well for 15 years, then she transmogrified into the creature that sought the unique taste of homeless drunk folks in Blessington. She‘d found the hollow and found stop 345 all in the same day – all was good in the world.

Time to go

Peter had completed his tasks and asked the foursome to drink up and vacate the premises. They did and they left. That was the last time anyone would see simple Roy, skinny Tim, boring Bill and always Alonso. The four were taken, Bill was the first fresh course and the remaining remains, matured on the vine as it were. Delicious fare for the creature, the it that used to be Yvonne. It was falling into a peaceful full belly, farting freely snooze when the noise started.

Peter had looked out of the window and for the first time seen what took place at stop 345. Not the catching of buses or the restful smelly uncomfortable resting of homeless drunk folks, but the violent capture of these innocents by the creature. The creature swooped down on the unaware occupants, scooping up one in each extremity via the large gauge claws and strode off into the woods as quick as it had appeared. Peter got on the phone.

Time for security

The dumb arsed fun stoppers didn’t believe Peter at all so he called up his security duo. They’d seen some shit and were eager to involve themselves in some high paying violent shit whenever it was on offer. The pub gig was a gym, training like atmosphere for such behaviours and the psychical experience of tossing idiots of the pub sure helped.

They also pulled many a tipsy girl from the venue and allowed them to have their way with their heavily tattooed steroid topped cloud like bodies. Sometimes they rescued girls from their boyfriends and played with them whether the girls wanted them to or not. They were those kind of complete arseholes but very handy for Peter to have onsite. The Police said no but Mick and Terry said yes and were back at the Fat Pigeon very quickly.

Racing to the scene

It was this threesome of men that were racing into the hollow and cavern below. Peter had described the situation on the phone and the duo had brought bats to pound the crap out of it. As you’d understand, it had other self and dinner preservation ideas and defended itself very handsomely. It tore Terry in half and smacked down Mick like he was a stick. Mick broke into three pieces as one of the claws sliced through his body. Arms flew, legs fell, belly blew out, Peter watched the whole lot and then saw something else.

Peter has glimpsed a photo on the side wall area of the cavern and it was of him. Him and Yvonne Darlington smiling in a silly pose, being stupid and poking out their tongues. The kind of photo your Mother screams at you for having taken during the school photo day. She’d also denied paying for the larger copy.

Peter remembers

Yvonne’s Mum bought this particular photo and here it was on the wall of the creature’s lair. It sat just below the hanging freshly dripping corpses of Tim, Roy and Alonso. Yvonne, the creature, it – couldn’t talk anymore but it could still write. It wrote down a nervous shy hello and then asked how Peter had been. This seemed very odd considering the scene but what the hell thought Peter.

“I’ve been great.” Oh, can you hear me?” … Peter rummaged about and wrote the question on a handy paper pad well.

Yes flowed its reply on the same bit of dirty paper. I can hear you but I can’t speak. I can make grunting noises but they don’t do me much good when communicating with my meals. My meals are too busy screaming to realise I can write them notes, but I completely understand their feelings, it is traumatic becoming my meal whilst hanging upside down. What are you doing here? … it continued.

Fuck me thought Peter, how am I going to deal with this? … “Well, funnily enough, I’m the governor over at the Fat Pigeon and these four jollies just left my place after last drinks. How long have you been down here?”

Time’s up

Yvonne realised that Peter realised that a change in the situation was called for. It couldn’t let Peter go, Peter would want to kill it and both may die if Peter could actually aim that stonking great shotgun he’d suddenly pulled around from behind his back. He’d pulled it up to the hip gangsta firing position and was ready to pull the trigger. It was within dissecting range so both waited for its answer.

It scribbled with its foot .. not long about eight months I think. I was planning on staying for a little while longer … what are you going to do?

Peter had managed to read the word do? as it was written and pulled the trigger. The shell’s contents tore a whopping big hole in its chest area. It lashed out its free non writing hand and but just missed Peter. It scraped the leather coat he had on but failed to hit flesh.

The shotgun’s second shell took its head thing clear off. It bounced out of the body and neck shaped mass and rolled on the floor. Peter fired a few more into what was left of the mass and destroyed anything left sweating. It stank, bled and fell apart into small chunks as Peter watched it decay at a terribly fast pace.

The Police did arrive

They realised there was no fun to stop so they did their job. Tidied everything up and spoke in hushed tones at the men who arrived in blacked out Range Rovers. They seem to take over and demand that Peter go back to the Fat Pigeon and open up for some late discussion and quiet drinks. He was also asked if he could heat up any party pies, the guys in the Rovers liked pies. They normally got what they wanted. They raised their glasses in honour of the last drinks for the four.

In the end, it was gone, never spoken of. The incident, completely forgotten and the 4 disposed of with as much dignity as the situation and their remains allowed. Peter, on the other hand, was made an offer for the Fat Pigeon, he took it and the three million pounds the Rovers gave him and moved to Spain. There would be no more last drinks.

He took the photo with him. It used to be Yvonne.

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I'm an increasingly grumpy old fart posting rants, observations and trying to write somewhat twisted short and slightly longer stories for adults. All rights reserved unless otherwise credited © Alan Crawford - 2024

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