course.
Yeah,
well, he could dream.
Porrig
returned to his shop, went upstairs to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. As
he didn’t have much money, the pub would have to wait. Until after seven.
Porrig
pulled the book from the paper bag. Beyond Doubtable Reason: The Biography
of Apocalypso The Miraculous, by Sir John Rimmer.
Porrig
flicked straight through to the photo section. There was the young Apocalypso,
looking every bit the business in his top hat and tails. And here he was dressed
in the habit of a monk. And here he was impersonating an Egyptian!
Porrig
stared hard at the faces and the faces stared hard at Porrig. But neither of
the either recognized the other of the other. As it were.
There
was the funeral. Very impressive.
And the
tomb. Even more impressive.
Porrig
flicked back to chapter one.
‘Chapter
one,’ he read. And immediately his eyelids started to close and soon he was
fast asleep.
Which
was a bit of a shame, as it went. For reasons numbering three. The first being
that Porrig would now never get to finish that chapter. The second, that he
would sleep right through the evening and miss his ‘date’ with the vision in
white. And the third, that Porrig had not bolted his bedroom door.
It is
said that great events of times cast a shadow before them and also that there
are folk, such as Danbury Collins, who can sense approaching danger. And who
amongst us can honestly say, with a hand upon the heart, that there has not
been a time when they have just ‘known’ that something was not quite right?
Porrig
awoke with a start at one minute to midnight.
‘Shit,’
said Porrig, looking at his watch. ‘Oh shit shit shit.’
And
then he said, ‘Oh dear me,’ because the handle of the bedroom door was slowly
beginning to turn.
Porrig
leaped from the bed and flung himself with vigour at the door. He pushed the
bolt home and leaned back against it. His heart was going bump bump bump and a
fine cold sweat was breaking on his brow.
Who’s
there?’ shouted Porrig, when he could find his voice. Who’s out there? Is that
you, Wok Boy? Are you having a pop at me?’
Little
hairs were now standing up all over the place on Porrig. Little hairs that
normally stayed in the down position. He felt seriously scared and he had
absolutely no idea why.
Something
had jerked him awake. Something had warned him that he was in danger. What was
that something?
Porrig
dithered at the door. ‘Come on, Wok Boy,’ he called. ‘I know it’s you. Don’t
piss about.’ He pressed his ear to the polished pitch pine. A nasty rat-like
scuttling sound had his ear go jerking back. Jerk jerk jerk.
‘Get a
grip, Porrig,’ said Porrig. ‘Look at yourself, you’re trembling like a silly
big girl.’
‘I’m
coming out,’ he shouted. ‘And I’m armed.’
Porrig
returned to the bed and sat down. ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself again. What is the matter with you?’
THUMP!
went a thump right over his head. And THUMP! it went again.
Porrig
covered said head with his hands. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ he whispered. ‘I
want to go home.’
A
bright light shone under the bedroom door and the door began to vibrate.
‘No,’
wailed Porrig. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it. Help. Help!’
The
light flashed off and the door became still. There were no more THUMPings to be
heard.
‘It’s
got to be a wind-up,’ said Porrig to himself. ‘Some sort of stupid prank. To
see if I can be frightened, or something.’
Or
something.
‘Someone’s
been hiding all day in the loft. The old bloke, probably.’
Porrig
took his fingers from his face and blew upon them. It had suddenly got rather
cold. Porrig glanced at the door. ‘I’m not going out there,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve
been to the movies. I know what can happen. If I step out of that door I’ll end
up with my face sawn off. It happens every time. It must just be a mistake that
the woman with the great tits isn’t here. She should have her
Yeah,
well, he could dream.
Porrig
returned to his shop, went upstairs to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. As
he didn’t have much money, the pub would have to wait. Until after seven.
Porrig
pulled the book from the paper bag. Beyond Doubtable Reason: The Biography
of Apocalypso The Miraculous, by Sir John Rimmer.
Porrig
flicked straight through to the photo section. There was the young Apocalypso,
looking every bit the business in his top hat and tails. And here he was dressed
in the habit of a monk. And here he was impersonating an Egyptian!
Porrig
stared hard at the faces and the faces stared hard at Porrig. But neither of
the either recognized the other of the other. As it were.
There
was the funeral. Very impressive.
And the
tomb. Even more impressive.
Porrig
flicked back to chapter one.
‘Chapter
one,’ he read. And immediately his eyelids started to close and soon he was
fast asleep.
Which
was a bit of a shame, as it went. For reasons numbering three. The first being
that Porrig would now never get to finish that chapter. The second, that he
would sleep right through the evening and miss his ‘date’ with the vision in
white. And the third, that Porrig had not bolted his bedroom door.
It is
said that great events of times cast a shadow before them and also that there
are folk, such as Danbury Collins, who can sense approaching danger. And who
amongst us can honestly say, with a hand upon the heart, that there has not
been a time when they have just ‘known’ that something was not quite right?
Porrig
awoke with a start at one minute to midnight.
‘Shit,’
said Porrig, looking at his watch. ‘Oh shit shit shit.’
And
then he said, ‘Oh dear me,’ because the handle of the bedroom door was slowly
beginning to turn.
Porrig
leaped from the bed and flung himself with vigour at the door. He pushed the
bolt home and leaned back against it. His heart was going bump bump bump and a
fine cold sweat was breaking on his brow.
Who’s
there?’ shouted Porrig, when he could find his voice. Who’s out there? Is that
you, Wok Boy? Are you having a pop at me?’
Little
hairs were now standing up all over the place on Porrig. Little hairs that
normally stayed in the down position. He felt seriously scared and he had
absolutely no idea why.
Something
had jerked him awake. Something had warned him that he was in danger. What was
that something?
Porrig
dithered at the door. ‘Come on, Wok Boy,’ he called. ‘I know it’s you. Don’t
piss about.’ He pressed his ear to the polished pitch pine. A nasty rat-like
scuttling sound had his ear go jerking back. Jerk jerk jerk.
‘Get a
grip, Porrig,’ said Porrig. ‘Look at yourself, you’re trembling like a silly
big girl.’
‘I’m
coming out,’ he shouted. ‘And I’m armed.’
Porrig
returned to the bed and sat down. ‘Get a grip,’ he told himself again. What is the matter with you?’
THUMP!
went a thump right over his head. And THUMP! it went again.
Porrig
covered said head with his hands. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ he whispered. ‘I
want to go home.’
A
bright light shone under the bedroom door and the door began to vibrate.
‘No,’
wailed Porrig. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it. Help. Help!’
The
light flashed off and the door became still. There were no more THUMPings to be
heard.
‘It’s
got to be a wind-up,’ said Porrig to himself. ‘Some sort of stupid prank. To
see if I can be frightened, or something.’
Or
something.
‘Someone’s
been hiding all day in the loft. The old bloke, probably.’
Porrig
took his fingers from his face and blew upon them. It had suddenly got rather
cold. Porrig glanced at the door. ‘I’m not going out there,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve
been to the movies. I know what can happen. If I step out of that door I’ll end
up with my face sawn off. It happens every time. It must just be a mistake that
the woman with the great tits isn’t here. She should have her
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