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Posts : 1029
Join date : 2010-04-01
Age : 25
Location : Earth, Milkyway

PostSubject: A.D.M.I.N   Wed Jun 09, 2010 3:43 am

This is a day of two halves.

It was a dreary Tuesday amongst the line of black cars. The pathetic fallacy struck the right tone Aunty Drasel thought as she beamed her smile from the two solemn children in the traditional carriage to the overhanging willows drooping outside. The afternoon would be a wonderful evening filled of reminiscing about Terry. The woman's head filled with the mush considered below even the most mulch-rich romance novels. Cathryn watched the menopausal equivalent of sugar plum fairies dancing provocatively around her Aunt's head. She shook her head, paying the poor woman be. Staring out the window, she stares at the passing willows, their casted gloom. Everyone in the carriage did. It was better than acknowledging why they were in black, in the black carriage and trundling down a gritty path in silence. Doing and it lead to why they were in the carriage. It also avoided the elephant in the room hiding in a thick layer of tartan. The stranger dressed in a kilt that sadly solved the mystery of what's under it to those opposite. The old, gnarled, even beaten face had clearly been scrubbed to within an inch of its life for the first time in it's life under the tied-back, light brown of his hair. The Scotsman was out of place in the carriage of English royals in their pressed black suits. Smart, uniform. The kilted man seemed to be carrying the set of bagpipes like a machine gun for some reason...Almost as though he was waiting for the first unfortunate soul to try and remove him from the carriage...what damage could be caused would be left to the imagination...

The dreariness continued as they basically stood around a hole in the soil with the hardwood box above it. Cathryn couldn't help but just stare at the unimpressive earth, forced to listen to her internal monologue as it urged at her.

Y'know...you should be crying. Look at...Uncle Donaven, he wiped a tear away. Why can't you? This is it! This is the day they bury your Dad! Your Dad! The reason your here. Its not just to look after Uncle Morris...

She looked towards the 80-something old behind everyone, necking a little from his bottle. His suspicious hair sliding back a little, his glasses a little condensated with lenses the size of coffee filters.

OK...so he won't listen to a single thing I say... And so is not doing something at this point! Come on! Pinch yourself if you have to! This is the last time you will see anything of the man that helped raise you, clothe you, hugged you, educated you! There's, there's more than an empty void where no emotion is felt! CRY!

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May his spirit be carried into his next life, whatever that maybe.”


“Whatever that may bring.”

AHHHHH!!! Dead puppies! Dead babies? Drowned Kittens? Fromsious the Clown with an axe in his temple? Actually, that would be a relief. Gabriel kidnapped?

“And may his family”

Uuuuuhhh...the first scene in Clementine!

Cathryn's ducts began to fill with a resivour that burst its banks, spilling down her cheeks and flooding her eyes. She blinked to get the full effect with a few sobs to show she was breaking down. Aunty Drasel leapt on the opportunity to express her new maternal rights as 'Guardian'. Her arms, up to the elbow in glove, hugged around Cathryn's shoulders. This gesture was returned to get full effect.

Congratulations Cathryn Leeds, you have fooled everyone that you actually care about the death of your father. A certificate and a man to slap you in the face is on its way! And you, yes you, are the proud new owner of some Guilt. This model comes with all the big features such as secrecy, being unable to talk about your Dad from now on, wishing you'd known the man that influenced your life from the other end of the servant messaging service, a leather interior, loneliness, four seats and a spacious boot!

“Feel content that he is now at piece.” The Vicar snapped his book shut far too loudly, making all those around the hole jump.
“A moments peace for the departed. To reflect.” You had to hand it to the man with the big book. He had the knack for funerals...Apparently, even in the fixed status of death, so did the King of England. Thank all that is holy that he hated public funerals. And that press were at least a mile away as a loud creaking came from the box that hovered over the oblong hole. The wood strained, not loud enough to mask the sound of a nail or two falling to the ground. Then the bottom fell out, literally. The rag doll that used to be the king flopped on top of a plank of wood lined with a thin white mattress underneath the rest of the box. The silence was for another reason.
“I don't believe it!” Cried Terry as he fumbled with his glasses.
“I thought we'd done that coffin right!”
“You actually built the coffin yourself?” Came a second cousin's shrill deficiency she calls a voice.
“Yes! It said so in Thumper's will!”
“Daniel, I owe you a drink.”
“What do you mean? Why would I ignore Thump's will?!”
“Will you stop calling him Thumper!”
“I call him what he wants! There's nothing wrong with Thumper!”
“But you ruined the coffin!” Rose another woman from...somewhere....
“We were sure it was perfectly fine to be used!”
“You couldn't even nail your hand a door, let alone wood together.”
“Be quiet you carnivorous bat! I'd like to see you do something better! I'd like you to do anything at all!” And then the argument kicked off as the war of the genders broke the feeling of bereavement as Aunty Drasel dragged Cathryn and her little brother away as quickly as possible. The sombre mood shattered by Royal problems.

It was a bloody awful Tuesday. The weather was bloody horrible. The streets' pavement had soaked the water up thirstily, showing that they couldn't take another sip from the cascade of water with their dark stains. The brobdingnagious buildings stood in the torrent, apparently defiant. Daunting to look up at. London is not for the vertigo sufferer, lets put it at that, shall we?

So, through the drab streets to the Angel's Wing, a pub that boasts the best cheesy chips in town. I can only imagine that the strange woman and her stick-like husband want to attract children, who aren't old enough to order anything from the bar they have to go to to order things, and surrounded with increasingly drunk men? No-one really through it through for long enough...But now to the reason we're here.
“Pah!” The ginger beard spouted, pulled neatly into two plaits that hung from his chin then ran the front of the frayed material of his simple shirt. “If you ask me, I honestly couldn't care any less! I weren't pawing at the gates when his missus wen' an' I don't care for him either.” The thick Scottish accent came with all the subtly and volume of being stuck by lightning in a library. Every syllable made it out with a manic, but well-meaning growl. Like talking to a cheery monster. His hand was covered in several loose strips of leather that were knotted on the back. It raised the mug of golden ale to his lips, taking two horse-sized gulps. The teen he was talking to watched as a snake of yellow got soaked up by the beard.
“An' now a li'le gal is tak'n the throne? Bloody stupid!” Another load of ale washed down his throat.
“Could be worse.” His companion said. The ale...jug slammed on the softened wood.
“Course is worse! A li'le girl tak'n England! Like givin' 'er a gun!Yer can neh think she's better than a experienced man like.....me!”
“You? Really?” The companion said, a smile spreading along a white muzzle.
“Aye! Cemon! I got more life knowledge in my...leg than 'er!”
“OK but you still can't.”
“Why, eh? Cummon!”
“The entirety of the royal family and most of government would have to vanish to make that happen.”
“Ah could arrange that...” He said, grinning into the final dregs of his drink. He slammed the tankard back down. “Are ya sure yeh don't want anythin' stronger to drink than pop?”
“I don't drink.”
“What?! When I was your age, you, you couldn't get me away from the stuff! Nectar of GODS! Hahahahaaaa!”
“Yeah, I prefer something that makes me faster than slows me down.” There was a widening of the grin on the white muzzle.
“Smart git. Fine! I'll drink to mah own health and yeh can get hyper with ya boy's fizzy pop. Happy?” The companions eyes roll underneath a scarlet fringe that nearly completely obstructed them. “All right, all right! I'll have a cider.”
“Better! Hahahaa!” His laugh was like a powerful car turning over then finally starting. It was at this point that someone had stood up, red faced and fists clenched. He stopped over to the two at the bar.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” Came this articulate English from the man in the fine, dark emerald suit. His sleeves ended in hanging white. A scarf around the man's neck. One hand rested on a rapier.
“Eh?” The Scott looked up. “Look, I'm havin' a nice talk with...” the name of his drinking buddy had been flushed out of reach of his memory at the moment. Just get round it. “this kin'ly Kitsune. I jus' want a bit o' peace.”
“And so sir would the rest of us. Especially from the idiotic idea's that you could rule England with any skill at all. So sir, your name.” The hand moved to the rapier's handle.
“What!?” The Scott stood, glaring straight into the man's small eyed scowl.
“Stop it!” The Kitsune growled.
“I'll be dead before a Scottish orang-utan such as yourself becomes King. Even managing to get into Buckingham palace without being immediately thrown out.”
“Is tha' so, pal, eh?!” Both men could sense a fight. In fact, only the daft woman at the bar continued as though nothing unusual was happening...
“Yes, you half-witted alcohol sponge, yes!” He man in emerald said, his face advancing in his attempt at intimidation. “Wish to take this outside, sir?”
“Aye! You first!” The Scott snarled. His cloth-bound mitt grabbed the Emerald suit's scruff. Effortlessly, polished, black winkle-pickers lifted of the floor. Then with a simple push of the arm, the emerald man flew out of a closed window into a puddle outside. As he stood, quickly as possible, the rapier was pulled free. The Scott emerged from the front doors to have the thin blade pointed at him.
“Have at you!” The blade was thrust forward, caught then bent by The Scott's hand. The free one then launched at the slightly hooked nose. The entire head reeled back from the impact. For those looking for an epic fight to the death in the levitating drizzle will have to wait...
“Not a conversational kind of guy then?” Came the drinking buddy from the door. The Scott looked around.
“He had it comen!”
“Hopefully, so will and ambulance.” The Scott laughs.
“I should get out of 'ere really. Remember tha' you never saw me, OK?”
“My lips are sealed.” The Scott nods then begins to move.
“Good. Ah'll see yeh again then.” Picking up a little speed.
“Don't count on it.” The Scott just kept moving, slowly into a jog as the wind whipped droplets around in a sudden lash-out of a tantrum. He tries to look back only to see that the teen had gone...He must be able to move really fast...
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