In the spirit of #followfriday, I set myself my own task today via Twitter. I was to write a 500-word-snippet including the random words dapper, hell-bent and Fraggle. Here is the unedited and rather miserable result I threw together during my lunch hour (and for some inexplicable reason, my mind conjured up two names of the Proops persuasion. Ho hum.):

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As a holy man, Gregory had seen his share of misery among the populace. His congregation, for a start, contained mostly old W.I. members with a penchant for crocheting and harassing the local transvestites (of which there were three: Johnny Long Johns, Mark the Spark and Mullet from the docks). When Marjorie had left the gas on and caused half her street to go up in flames (via a big kablooey), Gregory had had to comfort the old sods who suddenly had nowhere to go and no family who remembered them—or was it the other way round? He could not stand the constant smell of wee inside the church hall and was hell-bent on getting out of that awful job of his before it was too late. Also, he suspected their babbling had rubbed off—he often found himself muttering obscenities under his breath without actually remembering wilfully to have planned it that way.

Today was just another horrid day he had to face. His toast had been soggy due to bad planning—trying out a new, supposedly efficient morning routine, he had thrown a couple of slices into the toaster before hitting the shower, completely forgetting about the little machine’s rather unfortunate habit of projectile-vomiting anything which was put into it, at quite alarming speed. When he came back from the shower, the toasts were to be found in a flower pot on the window-sill and in the cat’s litter tray. He took it as a sign from God and ate them both.

When he arrived at the rectory, however, a worse sign awaited him. Mullet from the docks was leaning against the wrought iron fence, smoking a pipe. It somehow clashed with his purple dress. He did look dapper, though, and Gregory had to focus on the beard to regain control of his senses.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, reverend, I was wonderin’ if I could have a word?” Mullet’s voice boomed, bouncing off every wall around them. Gregory had never quite understood why Mullet always went for this mock-Irish, pirate-y accent when he came from Dorset, but then again there was quite a lot of things about Mullet that Gregory didn’t grasp.

He unlocked the door and motioned Mullet into the office. He was rough-looking, but had kind eyes. Two of his front teeth were missing. Gregory noted that this was a brand new feature.

“Aye, ye’ve seen me teeth, then?”
“Not really, Mullet. They seem to have gone on holiday.”

Mullet chuckled and slapped his thigh. Gregory was slightly alarmed and decided to leave the door open for now.

“I was only wond’rin’, reverend, ‘bout what ye think ‘bout Fraggles?”

Gregory put on his best holy man show—pensive pout, clasped hands, both index fingers stretched out and touching his lips. He hadn’t a clue what Mullet was on, but he certainly wanted some of it.

“I think you need to fill me in, Mullet.”
“Fraggles, those critters who live underground an’ hunt in packs. They’ve got coloured hair and big...starin’...eyes.” Mullet’s right eye was suddenly experiencing a tic overload. His hand shot up and hit the eye repeatedly. “Aye, starin’, they are. One of ‘em, don’ ask me how, got into the pub las’ night an’ was causin’ a right ruckus in there. I could barely get outta there in one piece!”

Gregory wanted to point out the missing teeth, but decided against it. At the moment, his chief concern was to get Mullet out of his office and some gin into his system.

“So, reverend, ye do those exorcisms, right?”
“I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
“Jus’ a teeny exorcism in the pub, kinda like a nice gesture, so that all of us can drink there in peace.”
“Maybe it’s a sign, Mullet—maybe God wants you to stop drinking?”
“Jeez, no need ta go all religious on me, reverend. Them Fraggles are no critters of God’s work.”
“No, I think you’re right, there, which is why you’d be better off without the drink.”
“One day they’ll come fer ya, reverend, an’ I won’t be helpin’ ye then!”
“How very Christian of you. Well, go with God, Mullet, and close the fucking door behind you, will you?”

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Labels: greg proops, humour, personal, time wasting, writing