When You Just Can’t Go No Mo’

Yep.

Sometimes, the stories speak for themselves, with a wee bit of an accent.

 

 

 

 

 

I am a Horrible Man

By Doubleback McGillicuddy

I am a horrible man. And I’m far worse when I’m in the cups. After a few pints I’m despicable, and oh, if me tongue has the saint’s good fortune to taste a dram of good rye, me murderous heart is as dark and cold as a pan of black pudding in the icy ashes of yesterday’s hearth. Though I trace me proud lineage from the unfettered highlands where the tall grass grows wild and free, I’ve made me living for years now here in London. I do unsavory things, you see, on demand.

Now, me horrible nature bothers me goodly heart to no small degree, so every great once in a while I try to bestow me favor upon someone at the train station. Take this evening on the platform. I had a lovely chat with a kindhearted grandmother headed to holiday at her daughter and grand’s estate. She was headed straightaway to Kingston-Upon-Hull, a journey nor’east of some two hours duration. Her train would not stop until it reached the proper station. I made sure of it, and told her so. I thought proudly, I do have a redeeming quality, and I felt the kindly warming gaze on me shoulders from the patron saint of train travelers, whoever that is.

She was frail and seemed a bit confused at times, so I carried her bags into a lovely private compartment, three doors from the loo. I stowed them in the bin above, took out her knitting, issued orders with the porter that she be served a steaming cup of tea, then wished her pleasant journey and holiday. She called me ‘little Charlie’ and tried to hand me fifty pence from her handbag, for sweets. I closed her hand around her coin, gentle like, held her face with both hands and kissed her square on the forehead as tenderly as I would a wee babe. I said I could never accept anything but her kindness and love. The look in her eyes made me own tear up a bit, and we parted like dear family. Like sayin farewell to me own beloved ma.

Now, it was from the goodness of me heart I did this, and it had nothing to do with me having lifted her fat leather coin purse and her ruby encrusted diamond ring and matching earrings she was given by the Duke of Angora…or that I made certain she headed to Chippenham, in the lovely sou’western part of our land. Some kindhearted soul there will take her in and eventually she’ll holiday with her family. Or not. Can’t have her approaching Scotland Yard with little Charlie’s description, now, can we?

I had a spring in me step and new weight in me pocket as I left the station for the Dog and Thistle Pub and the Guinness I could already taste. I had unsavory work to do later this evening and I needed to be at me worst.

Like I said, I am a horrible man.

8 comments

  1. Parisianne Modert says:

    Aye, we have rye wit with a tinge of an unsavory man to drink to here for in these words written by a rogue there is much to raise a glass to. This author writes words as dark and stout as Guiness with mischief rich as gravy dripping from the tongue from leaving us in a stew to thick to escape. For he is indeed a horrible man who writes as if he were king of the realm.

    • Parisianne Modert says:

      “…me tongue has the saint’s good fortune to taste a dram of good rye, me murderous heart is as dark and cold as a pan of black pudding in the icy ashes of yesterday’s hearth.”

      Does writing get better than this? No it doesn’t. If I were a publisher, I would murder an entire Anglican church perish to sign this author, but then again I am a horrible woman. Hello…finalist.

  2. Parisianne Modert says:

    Now that all 32 stories/poems as well as one withdrawn one have been posted and/or removed once, I wish to say that this story was the only one of my top 5 to be chosen for the finals. My guess as to the author is still not clear, because this is a cut above what is normally published here. The anonymous name given seems to indicate a puzzling woman who used Lucy McGillicuddy Recardo as an excuse during the last finals, but the writing style says European crime novelist. If so I will add that I admire him very much. I would love to see a revealing of the authors to see how good or poor my guesses have been as to each identity.

  3. Maria Elena says:

    This story’s beginning was as attention grabbing as any Dean Koonz novel! Dark and mysterious! I loved it and well done!

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