Old Betty swung one leg idly, a dangerous thing to do mid-step, mid-thought, and mid-mental breakdown. Ensconced in the hospital green dungeon of the Leaky Weasel, or Weaky Leasel, as he’d been thinking of it since the fourth pint, Old Betty felt the burden of a mind ill-at-ease, well, ease a little. The fellow next to him scooted his stool away from the swinging leg in a manner he thought both polite and well-concealed. As with all men after quite a bit of adult-only liquid, it was neither.
Leaning towards this man, Old Betty tapped his fingers against the bar in what would have been the rap-rap-rap of the nervous had it not morphed into the squelch-squelch-squelch of the unidentifiably sticky, and caused a whole new realm of paranoia to open up in the already fragile man’s mind.
“The thing is… right, well… the thing is…” and here he paused for effect, though to his neighbour it came across as a pause to sway gently, “one has a scythe.”
“Mmm,” came the reply, from somewhere located in the middle of a pint glass.
“Nought wrong with a scythe, good tool, good tool. But… well, them fingers around it aren’t none too reassuring, y’see.”
“Mmm,” replied the garden gnome resembling man with the averted gaze.
Old Betty wasn’t sure that the bloke quite understood the burden of his mind, and so wrapped one sweaty hand around his palm.
“They just ain’t right. No one should play pool with a bloody scythe!”
Old Betty was no nancy lad, being 6’5 and built in a way that some described as ‘like a house’ and others ‘bloody fat, Betty, lose some bloody weight!’ he was none too used to feeling what could be described as vague panic, but as he darted a look at the pool players in the corner, his skin prickled and his lank hair stood on end. The player he took particular exception to was lining up a shot for the black ball, and a certain sense of irony struggled to be noticed in Old Betty’s brain. ‘Here, that’s irony, that is!’ it shouted at a few drunken neurons, to no avail. ‘Finality’ was the word he would have described the picture as, had anything but ‘oh s**t!’ come to him.The player, hooded in a manner that somehow escaped the notice of all the patrons save Old Betty, lined up the shot perfectly, drew his makeshift cue back, released it fluidly, and made contact with the white. Old Betty’s bloodshot eyes were glued to the roll of the white as it careered towards its fellow, made contact, and stopped dead. ‘Here, irony again!’ piped up the poor little drowned voice surrounded by sodden grey matter. The 8 ball then lazily made its course to the corner pocket, hovered indecisively on the edge, considered its options, saw the one making the shot, and hopped in with alacrity. The figure gave a distinct sense, though Old Betty couldn’t see his face, of grinning, and pumped one fist into the air. The image seemed somehow out of place.
Old Betty leaned once more towards his fellow drunk, and confided, “here, he’s a scary wotsit, but he can play pool!”
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I smell peanuts.
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Naita
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I'm on a mission from Glod.