I wrote this for the
Mad Tutu Writing Competition
over at writer Ksenia Anskes blog (check it out, it's choc a blog full of good advice, with a dash of wonderful madness thrown in).
Had a lot of fun writing, hope you like reading it.
Check out the other entries here.
It's well worth it.
And now, enjoy!
Fifty Shades of Bacon
I had just started on my third whisky of the evening, contemplating my next move, when the frog stumbled in my room. He wore a pink tutu and cried like a baby. Never nice to see an old frog cry.
„You've got to help me, Big O.“
„Why? Because it's not easy being green?“
Well, he wasn't really. He was a sickly sort of greyish hue, like green mould in the fog.
He bawled some more.
„The pig is dead!“
Suddenly the whisky burned my throat. Sooner or later we'll all snuff it. Most of us, sooner. That's why we were here. Still...
„Some...somebody...killed her“, the frog croaked.
I was surprised, at how much it hit me, hearing it like that. I always took great pride in my thick skin. But she got to me. I'll never forget that. I never forget anything.
“I...I want to know who did it!”, the frog howled.
That pig had been no Lady, but a damned fine woman. I drank a quiet farewell drop while the frog calmed his pond waters.
“What's in it for me?”, I wanted to know.
“My pudding, every day, for the rest of the year.”
“Your pudding, every day, for he rest of your life.”
He croaked, his eyes bulging out. Said “OK”, and then I knew that he must have really loved her.
“We were playing. Downstairs, in the kitchen.”
Risky. But I knew the frog liked it kinky.
“She ordered me to my room to get dressed. And when I came back, she...”
I looked at my watch. Lunch time was long over, most of the residents would be in bed by now, sleeping, or being glued to the telly screens. They were showing a rerun of 'Take Manhattan', in which most of the residents once starred. Even the night nurses would be watching, popping a pill or two.
The frogs tongue shot out and picked a dead fly from a heap of paper on my table. He chewed absent-mindedly.
We took the back staircase, just to make sure.
They hairy guy jumped at us from a dark corner on the second floor and opened his long black coat. “Hey, wanna buy some cookies? The finest shit cookies you ever tasted!”
“Cookies?” the frog shouted exited.
“Shhht!” the guy said and looked around. “I also got lollipops, Big O. Special lollipops. They're not only beer flavoured, they are made of beer! The nurses will never find out!”
The frog fumbled for his purse. I put my foot down. The stairwell groaned, they guy took a step back.
“Hey, Big O, don't need a breathalyser to know that you've been on the whisky again. No more AA meetings? Never mind. These cookies will make you fly!”
I can't fly any more. Grown too old, to heavy. And sick of the circus. I made enough money, I didn't need to fly any more. Playing detective was more of a hobby. Still...
I whacked the hairy guy. Only lightly.
We walked down and into the kitchen.
A strong smell of cooking lingered in the air, grease and fat. Overwhelming, but still better than the odour of disinfectant and piss, which permeated the rest of the building.
“I...I can't come in any further”, said the frog.
The first thing I saw were her black stilettos scattered on the floor. Next to them, a whip, handcuffs and the black leather dress that used to cling to her curves so nicely.
I knew she was into this shit. Some of us still liked a good spanking. The bear, for example. Nothing as queer as Movie-folk.
Then I saw her. The pig had been a looker, even at her age. Now she was dead meat. She had been butchered by an expert. Sliced up and deep fried.
Fifty shades of bacon.
I looked away and saw, on the table, her head resting on a platter, an apple stuffed between her blood red lips. She was staring at me reproachfully.
I never thought, this would happen. My Whisky came up.
“Pork de dooh da, de porkyporkydooh”, somebody was singing in the pantry. “dödu bananadidooh, banana split!”
The chef appeared, wielding a big knife, grinning madly. “Hey, Big O, look what I found. Couldn't let that go to waste, could I?”
He wasn't Swedish at all, they only made that up because they thought it was funny. But he was mad. Even then he had been a lunatic in the kitchen. Now he was completely gone.
“Call the others! We'll be having a feast! We are all sick of this tasteless, bland rubbish they serve us every day and call food!”
He had a point.
“Murderer!” Something flew past me and hit the chef right in the face. A big, brown brick. The chef fell down and his head made a dull cracking sound, when it connected with the corner of the iron cooking stove. He was dead before he kissed the ground. Just like the pig.
Only, I didn't throw a brick. I just whacked her lightly. Didn't expect her to die. Didn't expect the chef to turn her into a meal, either.
“Nice throw”, I said to the frog, “Where did you find that one?”
He just started crying again.
She wanted to marry him. Him, this pathetic old looser. Him, not me. And why? Because he made her laugh! And she never loved me. I wasn't cute any more, anyway. Just a fat, old, stupid elephant.
I picked up the knife and run the frog through. He looked utterly bewildered and died. I contemplated skinning and boiling him. Never have tasted frog's legs before. But then I decided to go upstairs and finish my whisky.
Don't call me dumb.