Not So Very Weird
Figgis stood outside his house. It was well aflame. In fact, there wasn't much left of it at all, and even as he watched, the roof fell in.
"I am so sorry," Theresa said.
Figgis slumped to the floor. There was nothing he could do about his house. He couldn't even rush up to the firefighters and claim it as his, for the sympathy vote if nothing else. He suspected if he tried, he'd find himself locked in the back of the fire engine for his own safety. Either that or in a cage destined for the local dog pound. Where he would probably be adopted by some obese middle-aged lady and renamed babykins. The way his life was going recently, this didn't look at all far-fetched.
"What are you going to do?" Theresa asked.
Figgis tried to shrug. It made him look like he was being attacked by a particularly savage flea between his shoulder-blades. Did dogs have shoulders? He wasn't even sure. He mentally ran through his list of canine body gestures. Tail-wagging was too happy, growling too belligerant and howling just seemed a little dramatic, even for this situation. He settled on throwing himself to the floor and whining.
"Looks like it's your house or bust," Bel advised.
Theresa nodded. After a few more minutes watching Figgis's life smouldering, they walked off down the street.
"So," Bel tried again, "your parents, why are they weird?"
"Oh, you'll see," Theresa said. "Would you mind turning invisible again?"
Bel obliged.
Theresa's parents lived in a very normal house in the middle of the street. The lawn was neat and tidy (though Figgis did notice the presence of Gnomes, which he felt really did indicate some form of social abnormality), the front door was quite ordinary and the windows were all adorned with clean and rather pretty net curtains. A house you could walk past a hundred times and not remark on it. Given it's location, Figgis probably had.
Theresa didn't knock, but opened the door and walked straight in. The hallway was also neat; a large mirror ran down one side, a shelf ran beneath it covered in small ornaments. As she turned to close the door, she knocked several of these off. They clattered on the tiled floor.
"Theresa? Is that you?" A woman's voice.
Figgis wasn't sure what he had expected. Theresa had described them as weird. Her mother looked very normal. Late forties, blonde hair going a little grey, slim. Nothing weird at all.
"You're back," her mum said, then paused, "and you've brought a dog."
"His name is Figgis," Theresa said. "He's very good with cats, I checked."
Figgis wasn't sure what she meant by that but dismissed it, obviously they owned a cat, no big deal. He watched with a smile as mother and daughter embraced. It seemed that Theresa was more welcome back at home than she'd imagined.
They embraced so long that Figgis actually turned away in embarrassment. He turned his gaze to the ornaments on the shelf. Each one a small, porcelain kitten. Then he noticed the door at the end of the hall. It had a cat flap in it. Unusual for an interior door.
As he watched, a cat came through it. A small grey tabby. Swiftly followed by a ginger tom. Okay, so they owed two cats. That was okay, he wasn't a fan exactly, but he could cope with two.
"Why have you got a dog?" her mother asked, "and where have you been?"
"I, um, stayed with friends. I had to bring the dog, he's been made homeless. I promise he'll be no bother, I'll keep him in my room, he's fine with cats." Theresa begged. "Is Dad in?"
"In the lounge."
Figgis followed them into the living room. Then stopped.
It looked more like a cattery than a house. Two black cats adorned the window sill. A brown tabby and two kittens snoozed in front of the fire. Three more laid on the back of the sofa. One was preening itself on the coffee table. There was a cat sat beside a large television, another on the top. The armchair held another three. The other armchair was occupied by a small man reading a newspaper; he had one cat on his lap and another on his shoulder.
"Bloody hell," Bel whispered, "it's the house of the mad cat lady. I'm really really glad I don't have a sense of smell any more."
Figgis did, and to be honest, the smell could have been worse. They must all be very clean cats.
"So" Bel whispered, very quietly into his ear, "let the pussy jokes begin,"
Showing posts with label The Figgis Chronicles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Figgis Chronicles. Show all posts
Friday, 18 January 2013
Friday, 11 January 2013
Figgis 11: A little breather...
More Figgis!
A Little Breather...
The police let them go. They had to really, no crime had been committed. Not to mention their prime suspect was now sitting in the back of the car, waving his tail and dropping fur everywhere. The male officer got out and opened the back door, Figgis jumped down. The officer closed the door again. He wore an expression of complete bemusement.
"So he can change into a dog?"
"He was meant to be a werewolf" Theresa said, "and I was supposed to become a vampire. Hence the wings." She waggled them, almost knocking off the off-side wing mirror.
"They fucked up," Bel said. "And now they have done a moonlight flit and left us all in this predicament."
"Where do we contact you about funeral arrangements?" Female officer asked, "and the car?"
Bel gave them Figgis's address and the police drove off.
"So what do we do now?" Theresa asked.
"Back home," Bel replied.
Figgis was a little annoyed at Bel's presumption that they were still all going to be living at his place, but given his regained canine status, didn't feel in a position to argue. As he'd already noticed, no matter how much barking and chasing around he did, neither of the women saw it as anything but enthusiasm. Instead he kept his mouth shut and sniffed the pavement.
The paving stones had suddenly taken on a whole new dimension. As a human, he'd look down and see stone, maybe a bit of litter, possibly some weathering. As a dog however, they gave up so much more. He knew (although he wasn't quite sure how), that a female dog had walked down this street just half an hour before, not only that, but the matching human trail was also female, was a cat owner, and had a preference for cheap perfume. There was a masculine trail that reeked of sweat and sex, the scent of rats and on the breeze, the waft of something on fire. He raised his nose and sniffed. Dismissing it, he turned his attention back to his companions.
"What we need," Theresa said, "is a long term plan."
"What I need," Bel replied, "is an afternoon where sod all goes wrong."
Theresa dropped her hand down to Figgis's head and idly stroked his ears. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or just enjoy the sensation, though he was startled to discover his back leg jerking as she scratched. "I'm grateful for you hospitality, but I think I need something more permanant."
"Can't you go back to your parents?" Bel asked.
"I don't think so."
"We should go see them," Bel decided. "Come on, where do you live?"
Theresa gave her the address then added "we really shouldn't, they were freaked out enough at the wings, I'm not sure turning up with a ghost and a dog is going to help."
"Do you want to know what I can do?" Bel asked. Then she vanished.
Figgis knew she was still standing with them, he could smell her. Bel's scent wasn't quite human. It was more a suggestion of a scent, like the whiff of electricity, ions and particles in the air. And also of blueberries.
"Hey look!" Bel cackled. "Oh, you can't, I'm invisible."
Figgis wanted to point out that if Bel wanted to argue Theresa's case with her parents, invisibility was probably not an advantage. But he was a dog, so didn't.
Bel reappeared. "Let's go see your mum and dad."
Theresa reluctantly agreed. It turned out that she didn't live too far from Figgis, just a couple of streets away from him. They would pass his house on the way to hers. He thought it was a shame that he had not met her before this entire transformation debacle. And again, it was a pity he was now a dog. Although the wing thing, he liked that, he'd like to wrap himself up in her wings. Preferably naked.
"My parents," Theresa began, "I just want to prepare you, they are a little... um, different."
"What do mean different? They can't be that bad."
"You might think them a little strange," Theresa warned.
"Really? I can deal with strange. Seriously, why are they weird? Born again Christians? Hoarders? Can't be that bad."
"No, nothing so normal," Theresa frowned.
"So, what is it?"
They were passing the end of Figgis's street now. He glanced down and was startled to see two fire engines parked halfway down. He stopped. Stared.
"No, they are..."
Figgis barked. A shrill, panicked shriek of surprise.
"Oh shit," Bel said, "his house is on fire!"
A Little Breather...
The police let them go. They had to really, no crime had been committed. Not to mention their prime suspect was now sitting in the back of the car, waving his tail and dropping fur everywhere. The male officer got out and opened the back door, Figgis jumped down. The officer closed the door again. He wore an expression of complete bemusement.
"So he can change into a dog?"
"He was meant to be a werewolf" Theresa said, "and I was supposed to become a vampire. Hence the wings." She waggled them, almost knocking off the off-side wing mirror.
"They fucked up," Bel said. "And now they have done a moonlight flit and left us all in this predicament."
"Where do we contact you about funeral arrangements?" Female officer asked, "and the car?"
Bel gave them Figgis's address and the police drove off.
"So what do we do now?" Theresa asked.
"Back home," Bel replied.
Figgis was a little annoyed at Bel's presumption that they were still all going to be living at his place, but given his regained canine status, didn't feel in a position to argue. As he'd already noticed, no matter how much barking and chasing around he did, neither of the women saw it as anything but enthusiasm. Instead he kept his mouth shut and sniffed the pavement.
The paving stones had suddenly taken on a whole new dimension. As a human, he'd look down and see stone, maybe a bit of litter, possibly some weathering. As a dog however, they gave up so much more. He knew (although he wasn't quite sure how), that a female dog had walked down this street just half an hour before, not only that, but the matching human trail was also female, was a cat owner, and had a preference for cheap perfume. There was a masculine trail that reeked of sweat and sex, the scent of rats and on the breeze, the waft of something on fire. He raised his nose and sniffed. Dismissing it, he turned his attention back to his companions.
"What we need," Theresa said, "is a long term plan."
"What I need," Bel replied, "is an afternoon where sod all goes wrong."
Theresa dropped her hand down to Figgis's head and idly stroked his ears. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or just enjoy the sensation, though he was startled to discover his back leg jerking as she scratched. "I'm grateful for you hospitality, but I think I need something more permanant."
"Can't you go back to your parents?" Bel asked.
"I don't think so."
"We should go see them," Bel decided. "Come on, where do you live?"
Theresa gave her the address then added "we really shouldn't, they were freaked out enough at the wings, I'm not sure turning up with a ghost and a dog is going to help."
"Do you want to know what I can do?" Bel asked. Then she vanished.
Figgis knew she was still standing with them, he could smell her. Bel's scent wasn't quite human. It was more a suggestion of a scent, like the whiff of electricity, ions and particles in the air. And also of blueberries.
"Hey look!" Bel cackled. "Oh, you can't, I'm invisible."
Figgis wanted to point out that if Bel wanted to argue Theresa's case with her parents, invisibility was probably not an advantage. But he was a dog, so didn't.
Bel reappeared. "Let's go see your mum and dad."
Theresa reluctantly agreed. It turned out that she didn't live too far from Figgis, just a couple of streets away from him. They would pass his house on the way to hers. He thought it was a shame that he had not met her before this entire transformation debacle. And again, it was a pity he was now a dog. Although the wing thing, he liked that, he'd like to wrap himself up in her wings. Preferably naked.
"My parents," Theresa began, "I just want to prepare you, they are a little... um, different."
"What do mean different? They can't be that bad."
"You might think them a little strange," Theresa warned.
"Really? I can deal with strange. Seriously, why are they weird? Born again Christians? Hoarders? Can't be that bad."
"No, nothing so normal," Theresa frowned.
"So, what is it?"
They were passing the end of Figgis's street now. He glanced down and was startled to see two fire engines parked halfway down. He stopped. Stared.
"No, they are..."
Figgis barked. A shrill, panicked shriek of surprise.
"Oh shit," Bel said, "his house is on fire!"
Sunday, 6 January 2013
Figgis 10: The Corpse In The Boot
The Corpse In The Boot
"So what now?" Theresa asked.
Figgis shrugged.
They walked home. It was four miles. Bel moaned the entire journey. She complained about leaving her body in the car, she moaned that she hated that she had no way of knowing where she was, she said she'd wring the necks of the bastards who nicked the car but she didn't have a physical presence to do it with. Figgis suggested she go haunt them instead and this was met with a snippy reply. Apparently this was all his fault. They wouldn't have nicked it if she's still been on the back seat. She berated him for being careless, for being unfeeling and for being an insensitive prick. Figgis suggested if she didn't like his company, perhaps she should just fuck off.
So she did. Five minutes from home she announced she was going to find someone who appreciated her situation and stormed off in the opposite direction. Theresa sighed.
"I'll go after her," Theresa offered.
"Do what you like," Figgis replied. He watched the ghost stomping silently down the pavement and the winged bat-angel run after her, trip and fall flat on the pavement. For a moment he considered going after them. But they weren't his problem. If they wanted him, they knew where he lived. He had other things to do.
Back at home he was going to report the car stolen. He still hadn't reported the burglary. He figured he may as well do both at the same time. But first, tea.
He didn't get a chance to phone the police, they knocked on the door not ten minutes later.
he opened the door to two burly police officers who seemed to have been cut from the same mold; five foot six, two feet wide, stern eyes and stubble. Even the female officer.
"Figgis?" The woman officer asked. "Mr..."
"Yes, that's me." Figgis replied.
"We're here about your vehicle."
Figgis smiled. "Oh, that was quick, I was just about to phone you."
"Do you own a Volkswagon Beetle? A purple, white and blue Beetle?"
"I do."
"And do you know anything about the contents of the boot?"
"Yes, there's a body in it," Figgis said. "We put it in there for safekeeping whilst we were in the pub."
The male officer turned to the female officer. "Excellent. Cuffs?"
The smile dropped from Figgis's face. "Wait, it's not a dead body,"
"Oh really?" Female officer checked her notes. "Well, we'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Regarding this not-dead corpse."
"It's not a corpse." Figgis said. "Look, I can explain."
Male officer's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh really? Let's get you down to the station and you can tell us the tale."
Figgis was led to the car and invited to sit in the back seat. The drive to the station was short. Figgis tried to tell them that the body was not a corpse, but was detached from the spirit, that its owner was still very much alive and whinging and would probably appreciate her body back. The officers ignored him.
Figgis had all but given up when they drove past Theresa and Bel. Figgis had never been so glad to see anyone in all his life.
"Look! It's her body! Her there!"
The car stopped.
"That woman has wings," female officer said.
"It's not her body. The other one." Figgis tried to open the car door. It didn't open, the police not being overly trusting of potential criminals.
The male officer wound down his window and called to Bel, who stomped over to the car, her face still not a picture of cheerfulness.
"What have you done now?" Bel demanded of Figgis.
"I didn't do anything!" Figgis snapped. "Tell them it's your body in the boot of my car."
"It's my body." Bel said. "Is it okay?"
The officers looked at each other. "You're a ghost?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't kill you?"
"Nope. Although if I was reunited with my body I might consider killing him, bloody careless imbecile."
"We were victims of a fly-by-night transformation studio," Theresa said, "I am a vampire - sort of - and Bel was seperated from her body. We put it in the boot whilst we went for a pint. Nobody killed anyone, we were just trying to think of something to do with it,"
"So if we could just come with you and collect it, all will be sorted out, won't it?" Bel asked. "I'm going to look into some sort of long term storage, I hear they have these things now."
The officers looked at one another again. Finally the woman spoke. "I'm afraid I have some really bad news for you. The car was involved in a rather serious collision. I'm afraid your um body, is now definitely dead."
"And my car?" Figgis asked.
"Never mind your bloody car!" Bel shouted, "I'm dead and all you can think of is your bloody piece of crap car?"
"To be fair, you were mostly dead before," Theresa commented mildly.
Figgis opened his mouth to complain but found the world going swimmy. He felt the most odd sensations in his skin and his bones. He opened his mouth again. Barked.
Oh great, he thought, I'm a dog again.
"So what now?" Theresa asked.
Figgis shrugged.
They walked home. It was four miles. Bel moaned the entire journey. She complained about leaving her body in the car, she moaned that she hated that she had no way of knowing where she was, she said she'd wring the necks of the bastards who nicked the car but she didn't have a physical presence to do it with. Figgis suggested she go haunt them instead and this was met with a snippy reply. Apparently this was all his fault. They wouldn't have nicked it if she's still been on the back seat. She berated him for being careless, for being unfeeling and for being an insensitive prick. Figgis suggested if she didn't like his company, perhaps she should just fuck off.
So she did. Five minutes from home she announced she was going to find someone who appreciated her situation and stormed off in the opposite direction. Theresa sighed.
"I'll go after her," Theresa offered.
"Do what you like," Figgis replied. He watched the ghost stomping silently down the pavement and the winged bat-angel run after her, trip and fall flat on the pavement. For a moment he considered going after them. But they weren't his problem. If they wanted him, they knew where he lived. He had other things to do.
Back at home he was going to report the car stolen. He still hadn't reported the burglary. He figured he may as well do both at the same time. But first, tea.
He didn't get a chance to phone the police, they knocked on the door not ten minutes later.
he opened the door to two burly police officers who seemed to have been cut from the same mold; five foot six, two feet wide, stern eyes and stubble. Even the female officer.
"Figgis?" The woman officer asked. "Mr..."
"Yes, that's me." Figgis replied.
"We're here about your vehicle."
Figgis smiled. "Oh, that was quick, I was just about to phone you."
"Do you own a Volkswagon Beetle? A purple, white and blue Beetle?"
"I do."
"And do you know anything about the contents of the boot?"
"Yes, there's a body in it," Figgis said. "We put it in there for safekeeping whilst we were in the pub."
The male officer turned to the female officer. "Excellent. Cuffs?"
The smile dropped from Figgis's face. "Wait, it's not a dead body,"
"Oh really?" Female officer checked her notes. "Well, we'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Regarding this not-dead corpse."
"It's not a corpse." Figgis said. "Look, I can explain."
Male officer's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh really? Let's get you down to the station and you can tell us the tale."
Figgis was led to the car and invited to sit in the back seat. The drive to the station was short. Figgis tried to tell them that the body was not a corpse, but was detached from the spirit, that its owner was still very much alive and whinging and would probably appreciate her body back. The officers ignored him.
Figgis had all but given up when they drove past Theresa and Bel. Figgis had never been so glad to see anyone in all his life.
"Look! It's her body! Her there!"
The car stopped.
"That woman has wings," female officer said.
"It's not her body. The other one." Figgis tried to open the car door. It didn't open, the police not being overly trusting of potential criminals.
The male officer wound down his window and called to Bel, who stomped over to the car, her face still not a picture of cheerfulness.
"What have you done now?" Bel demanded of Figgis.
"I didn't do anything!" Figgis snapped. "Tell them it's your body in the boot of my car."
"It's my body." Bel said. "Is it okay?"
The officers looked at each other. "You're a ghost?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't kill you?"
"Nope. Although if I was reunited with my body I might consider killing him, bloody careless imbecile."
"We were victims of a fly-by-night transformation studio," Theresa said, "I am a vampire - sort of - and Bel was seperated from her body. We put it in the boot whilst we went for a pint. Nobody killed anyone, we were just trying to think of something to do with it,"
"So if we could just come with you and collect it, all will be sorted out, won't it?" Bel asked. "I'm going to look into some sort of long term storage, I hear they have these things now."
The officers looked at one another again. Finally the woman spoke. "I'm afraid I have some really bad news for you. The car was involved in a rather serious collision. I'm afraid your um body, is now definitely dead."
"And my car?" Figgis asked.
"Never mind your bloody car!" Bel shouted, "I'm dead and all you can think of is your bloody piece of crap car?"
"To be fair, you were mostly dead before," Theresa commented mildly.
Figgis opened his mouth to complain but found the world going swimmy. He felt the most odd sensations in his skin and his bones. He opened his mouth again. Barked.
Oh great, he thought, I'm a dog again.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Figgis 9: Body Disposal
Body Disposal
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Figgis 8: At The Hospital
Latest installment, which is not quite as funny as the others. Writing has been hard this week, family commitments and such. I'm thinking writing every day may be a tad ambitious. Maybe a weekly target of 2 or 3 posts would be more achieveable. I'm not sure, I'll reassess after Christmas. Anyway, enjoy...
At The Hospital
Apparently the three of them were not the only victims of the Transformation Studio. It looked like Dr Moreau’s waiting room up at the local Accident & Emergency unit. A mermaid with human legs but flippers for arms, several human sized bats and a woman covered head to toe in fur were only some of the other people waiting. Figgis tried to engage this last person in conversation, making a joke about at least she didn’t have paws to go with the fur so she could at least shave if it off and look halfway normal.
This got them seen pretty quickly; the punch the woman delivered required stitches. Figgis had never before heard of hypertrichosis. He wasn’t likely to forget it either.
“I can’t believe she hit me!” He moaned.
“Basically you called her a dog,” Bel pointed out, “I think I would have smacked you too.”
Figgis, his newly sutured eyebrow still oozing blood, sighed. “Yeah, as chat up lines go, it wasn’t a terribly good one.”
“Cheer up, fur-face,” Bel gave him a rueful grin, “at least you’re back to normal. Me and Theresa are still shafted.”
They were back in the waiting room after their brief stint in the suture room, it appeared very few of the failed Transformation victims were getting any medical treatment, but there was already posters on the wall offering LO-COST BODY STORAGE and HAD A FAILED TRANSFORMATION? YOU HAVE A CLAIM! NO WIN NO FEE!
“You know what we ought to do?” Theresa said, “we ought to go find wherever the bastards have moved to and demand they make us human again.”
Bel snorted, “yeah, I bet they've left a forwarding address.”
“I bet you could find them on the internet,” Figgis said at last, “that’s how I found them in the first place.”
“Really?” Theresa looked interested, “I just saw the shop walking past.”
“You just saw it and went in?” Bel asked, incredulous, “and you just happened to have a spare million credits to spend? That’s one hell of a impulse buy.”
Theresa shrugged, “I’d been saving up.”
“A million credits? That’s like, two years wages!”
“It was for a house deposit,” Theresa said, and looked perilously close to tears, “I was going to buy a house with my boyfriend.”
“What happened?” Figgis asked, expecting her to confirm her single status, hoping it wasn’t something too tragic. A cheating ex being less tragic than a dead one. Better still, Theresa kicking the ex out. It wasn’t like he was hoping to step into the guys shoe... no wait. That’s pretty much exactly what he fancied doing.
“We split,” Theresa said. “He said he wasn’t ready for commitment.”
Figgis mentally hoorayed. Commitment he could do. Hell, he could go all the way through commitment into low-level stalking if that’s what she needed. Not major stalking though, that tended to get people looking at you strange and police officers having Quiet Words.
"How about you two?” Theresa asked, “how did you afford it?”
“I won it,” Figgis admitted. “Stuck hundred creds on the lottery, won ten million.”
Bel whistled. “Not bad, drinks on you then."
“What about you?” Theresa asked Bel.
“The opposite to you, I sold my house so I could lease it instead.” Bel sighed, “I decided to live out the rest of my days in reckless days and wild debauchery.”
And now Figgis got an inkling of real tragedy. He didn’t ask what she meant by ‘the rest of my days’, he didn’t have to.
“You’re dying?” Theresa clapped both hands over her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t...”
“Well, not now, obviously.” Bel grinned and shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, I asked for immortality and I’ve gotten it.”
Only one thing puzzled Figgis, “so why ask to be rehumanised? If you’re just going to die if you do?”
“I was sort of hoping they’d sort all that out." She got up from the seat she was pretending to sit on and wafted towards the window, not looking at her new friends. “On second thoughts, you’re right, sod being rehumanised, we should just go out and have fun instead.”
“But these wings...”
“Are sexy as all hell,” Figgis got to his feet. “Fuck this, who wants a pint? It’s my round.” he held out his hand and Theresa slipped hers into it.
“Let’s go then,” Theresa smiled.
And then they walked out of the hospital into the hazy spring sunshine.
“Wait a minute, you’ve left me behind,” Bel complained. “Are you just going to leave me propped up in the bloody waiting room?”
Figgis sighed. This was not the happy ending he’d hoped for...
At The Hospital
Apparently the three of them were not the only victims of the Transformation Studio. It looked like Dr Moreau’s waiting room up at the local Accident & Emergency unit. A mermaid with human legs but flippers for arms, several human sized bats and a woman covered head to toe in fur were only some of the other people waiting. Figgis tried to engage this last person in conversation, making a joke about at least she didn’t have paws to go with the fur so she could at least shave if it off and look halfway normal.
This got them seen pretty quickly; the punch the woman delivered required stitches. Figgis had never before heard of hypertrichosis. He wasn’t likely to forget it either.
“I can’t believe she hit me!” He moaned.
“Basically you called her a dog,” Bel pointed out, “I think I would have smacked you too.”
Figgis, his newly sutured eyebrow still oozing blood, sighed. “Yeah, as chat up lines go, it wasn’t a terribly good one.”
“Cheer up, fur-face,” Bel gave him a rueful grin, “at least you’re back to normal. Me and Theresa are still shafted.”
They were back in the waiting room after their brief stint in the suture room, it appeared very few of the failed Transformation victims were getting any medical treatment, but there was already posters on the wall offering LO-COST BODY STORAGE and HAD A FAILED TRANSFORMATION? YOU HAVE A CLAIM! NO WIN NO FEE!
“You know what we ought to do?” Theresa said, “we ought to go find wherever the bastards have moved to and demand they make us human again.”
Bel snorted, “yeah, I bet they've left a forwarding address.”
“I bet you could find them on the internet,” Figgis said at last, “that’s how I found them in the first place.”
“Really?” Theresa looked interested, “I just saw the shop walking past.”
“You just saw it and went in?” Bel asked, incredulous, “and you just happened to have a spare million credits to spend? That’s one hell of a impulse buy.”
Theresa shrugged, “I’d been saving up.”
“A million credits? That’s like, two years wages!”
“It was for a house deposit,” Theresa said, and looked perilously close to tears, “I was going to buy a house with my boyfriend.”
“What happened?” Figgis asked, expecting her to confirm her single status, hoping it wasn’t something too tragic. A cheating ex being less tragic than a dead one. Better still, Theresa kicking the ex out. It wasn’t like he was hoping to step into the guys shoe... no wait. That’s pretty much exactly what he fancied doing.
“We split,” Theresa said. “He said he wasn’t ready for commitment.”
Figgis mentally hoorayed. Commitment he could do. Hell, he could go all the way through commitment into low-level stalking if that’s what she needed. Not major stalking though, that tended to get people looking at you strange and police officers having Quiet Words.
"How about you two?” Theresa asked, “how did you afford it?”
“I won it,” Figgis admitted. “Stuck hundred creds on the lottery, won ten million.”
Bel whistled. “Not bad, drinks on you then."
“What about you?” Theresa asked Bel.
“The opposite to you, I sold my house so I could lease it instead.” Bel sighed, “I decided to live out the rest of my days in reckless days and wild debauchery.”
And now Figgis got an inkling of real tragedy. He didn’t ask what she meant by ‘the rest of my days’, he didn’t have to.
“You’re dying?” Theresa clapped both hands over her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t...”
“Well, not now, obviously.” Bel grinned and shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, I asked for immortality and I’ve gotten it.”
Only one thing puzzled Figgis, “so why ask to be rehumanised? If you’re just going to die if you do?”
“I was sort of hoping they’d sort all that out." She got up from the seat she was pretending to sit on and wafted towards the window, not looking at her new friends. “On second thoughts, you’re right, sod being rehumanised, we should just go out and have fun instead.”
“But these wings...”
“Are sexy as all hell,” Figgis got to his feet. “Fuck this, who wants a pint? It’s my round.” he held out his hand and Theresa slipped hers into it.
“Let’s go then,” Theresa smiled.
And then they walked out of the hospital into the hazy spring sunshine.
“Wait a minute, you’ve left me behind,” Bel complained. “Are you just going to leave me propped up in the bloody waiting room?”
Figgis sighed. This was not the happy ending he’d hoped for...
Monday, 17 December 2012
Figgis 7: Blue Moon
I know I ought to be writing more of the apocalyse fic, but this is SO much damn fun to write....
Blue Moon
Man and woman stared at each other. Both blushing.
“I ought to let you get dressed,” Theresa said. She didn’t move.
“It may be an idea,” Figgis said, very conscious of his naked state, and even more conscious of his state of arousal.
Theresa climbed down off the bed, tripped, became entangled in the quilt and fell to the floor, taking the quilt and the rest of Figgis’s dignity with her. He covered himself with his hands.
“Sorry!” She held out the quilt.
He couldn’t take it. Not without exposing himself.
“Blimey,” said Bel from the doorway, “so that’s what a full moon werewolf looks like!”
Figgis blushed even redder, if that was possible. “Ladies, if you’d just excuse me for a moment?”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Bel grinned, “I’m just admiring the view.”
“Could I have a little privacy?” Figgis begged.
“Oh, hark at him, when it’s covered in fur, he’s waving it everywhere and licking his balls in public, but the moment the fur falls off, it’s a different story. Your bed is full of dog hair by the way, you may want to take it outside and shake it.”
He glanced over at his bed. It did indeed look like a hairdresser’s bin. “Why don’t you go down and make us both a cup of coffee?”
This suggestion finally broke Theresa’s gaze and the two women left him. Figgis took stock of himself. All the dog hair had fallen off. So had the hair on his head. Not to mention his eyelashes, beard and pubes. From one extreme to the other. He pulled boxer shorts and jeans on, acutely aware of how soft his skin felt. He only hoped it wasn’t going to itch as it was growing back. Once, in his late teens, he’d shaved his balls for a bet. He’d mistakenly assumed that surviving the razor scraping his most vulnerable places meant the worst was over but no, it was the incredibly acute itching for the following couple of weeks. He learnt very quickly that whilst a quick ball scratch may be tolerated in public, full on, double handed scratting just made people assume you had crabs. It wasn’t an experience he planned on having again.
Once dressed he sauntered downstairs, casually greeting Theresa as if she’d never seen him naked. She was still blushing as she gave him a fresh steaming hot brew.
“So you’ve reverted,” Bel said, “I wonder if that means we will too?”
“Who knows,” Figgis mused. As he drank his coffee, he looked over to the sofa where Bel’s body was still propped. It disturbed him because it was dressed in a hospital gown staring sightlessly ahead and looked like he had kidnapped a catatonic from the local psychiatric unit. It lent the room a certain atmosphere of crazy. As in ‘chains in the cellar and locked freezer in the garage’ crazy.
“We ought to go to the police,” Theresa said.
“And tell them what?” Bel asked, "’excuse me officer, I seem to be detached from my body, could you recommend a suitable and free transformation studio to fix this fuck-up?’ Not to mention, it’s not a criminal matter. It would come under the civil courts.”
“But they can’t leave us like this?” Theresa’s voice rose with indignation, “what am i supposed to do? Cart these things around with me forever?” She flapped, knocked the clock off the wall. Apologised as she picked it back up and placed it on the kitchen table.
“Stick some feathers on it and tell everyone you’re an angel?” Bel suggested.
“In that case, why don’t you hire yourself out as a private investigator?” Theresa countered. “Or maybe a circus act. Hide behind Figgis and bill yourself as a talking dog?”
“I’m not a dog any more,” Figgis pointed out. He’d been thinking about their predicament. Or rather, thinking about his own. It had occurred to him that life as a dog wasn’t going to be terrible, but he couldn’t go into work like that. There was no way his boss was going to accept a canine chef. There wouldn’t be a hair net in the place big enough to fit him for starters. So then he’d run through a list of new possible careers. Guide dog for the blind maybe, or guard dog, but he didn’t think he looked scary enough for that. It was the fringe on the tail. It was too feminine. Finally he’d wondered about becoming a busker. People would pay to see a dog attempting to play the guitar wouldn’t they? Not that it mattered now he’d regained his human form.
“What about the hospital?” Theresa asked.
“They might keep your body alive until we can sort it out,” Figgis agreed, and didn’t add he’d be glad when it wasn’t cluttering up his living room.
“Fine,” Bel sniffed, "let’s go dump me at A&E.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Figgis drained his cup. “I’ll drive this time.”
Blue Moon
Man and woman stared at each other. Both blushing.
“I ought to let you get dressed,” Theresa said. She didn’t move.
“It may be an idea,” Figgis said, very conscious of his naked state, and even more conscious of his state of arousal.
Theresa climbed down off the bed, tripped, became entangled in the quilt and fell to the floor, taking the quilt and the rest of Figgis’s dignity with her. He covered himself with his hands.
“Sorry!” She held out the quilt.
He couldn’t take it. Not without exposing himself.
“Blimey,” said Bel from the doorway, “so that’s what a full moon werewolf looks like!”
Figgis blushed even redder, if that was possible. “Ladies, if you’d just excuse me for a moment?”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Bel grinned, “I’m just admiring the view.”
“Could I have a little privacy?” Figgis begged.
“Oh, hark at him, when it’s covered in fur, he’s waving it everywhere and licking his balls in public, but the moment the fur falls off, it’s a different story. Your bed is full of dog hair by the way, you may want to take it outside and shake it.”
He glanced over at his bed. It did indeed look like a hairdresser’s bin. “Why don’t you go down and make us both a cup of coffee?”
This suggestion finally broke Theresa’s gaze and the two women left him. Figgis took stock of himself. All the dog hair had fallen off. So had the hair on his head. Not to mention his eyelashes, beard and pubes. From one extreme to the other. He pulled boxer shorts and jeans on, acutely aware of how soft his skin felt. He only hoped it wasn’t going to itch as it was growing back. Once, in his late teens, he’d shaved his balls for a bet. He’d mistakenly assumed that surviving the razor scraping his most vulnerable places meant the worst was over but no, it was the incredibly acute itching for the following couple of weeks. He learnt very quickly that whilst a quick ball scratch may be tolerated in public, full on, double handed scratting just made people assume you had crabs. It wasn’t an experience he planned on having again.
Once dressed he sauntered downstairs, casually greeting Theresa as if she’d never seen him naked. She was still blushing as she gave him a fresh steaming hot brew.
“So you’ve reverted,” Bel said, “I wonder if that means we will too?”
“Who knows,” Figgis mused. As he drank his coffee, he looked over to the sofa where Bel’s body was still propped. It disturbed him because it was dressed in a hospital gown staring sightlessly ahead and looked like he had kidnapped a catatonic from the local psychiatric unit. It lent the room a certain atmosphere of crazy. As in ‘chains in the cellar and locked freezer in the garage’ crazy.
“We ought to go to the police,” Theresa said.
“And tell them what?” Bel asked, "’excuse me officer, I seem to be detached from my body, could you recommend a suitable and free transformation studio to fix this fuck-up?’ Not to mention, it’s not a criminal matter. It would come under the civil courts.”
“But they can’t leave us like this?” Theresa’s voice rose with indignation, “what am i supposed to do? Cart these things around with me forever?” She flapped, knocked the clock off the wall. Apologised as she picked it back up and placed it on the kitchen table.
“Stick some feathers on it and tell everyone you’re an angel?” Bel suggested.
“In that case, why don’t you hire yourself out as a private investigator?” Theresa countered. “Or maybe a circus act. Hide behind Figgis and bill yourself as a talking dog?”
“I’m not a dog any more,” Figgis pointed out. He’d been thinking about their predicament. Or rather, thinking about his own. It had occurred to him that life as a dog wasn’t going to be terrible, but he couldn’t go into work like that. There was no way his boss was going to accept a canine chef. There wouldn’t be a hair net in the place big enough to fit him for starters. So then he’d run through a list of new possible careers. Guide dog for the blind maybe, or guard dog, but he didn’t think he looked scary enough for that. It was the fringe on the tail. It was too feminine. Finally he’d wondered about becoming a busker. People would pay to see a dog attempting to play the guitar wouldn’t they? Not that it mattered now he’d regained his human form.
“What about the hospital?” Theresa asked.
“They might keep your body alive until we can sort it out,” Figgis agreed, and didn’t add he’d be glad when it wasn’t cluttering up his living room.
“Fine,” Bel sniffed, "let’s go dump me at A&E.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Figgis drained his cup. “I’ll drive this time.”
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Figgis 6: I just Don't Know What to Do With Myself
More Figgis and co.. In fact A lot more of Figgis...
I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself
Figgis wasn’t overly keen on the idea of using his house to store a body (even if that body wasn’t technically dead) but since he still hadn’t managed to make his speech intelligible, he didn’t get much of a say. Apparently a discouraging woof can also be heard as enthusiastic encouragement. So they all went back to his place. Theresa manhandled Bel’s body into the living room and dumped it on the sofa, much to Bel’s very much voiced annoyance.
“Don’t stick me there!”
“On the sofa? Where else should I put you?”
“I look like I’m drunk!”
“And if I laid you down, you’d look dead.”
Figgis was beginning to think that was preferable.
“So what next?” Theresa asked. “If the studio has done a midnight flit, then none of us are going to get anywhere with that."
“There’s other studios,”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have enough credits for another transformation.”
Bel shrugged, “me neither, I don’t have anything now.”
Theresa slumped into the armchair and Figgis curled up at her feet. She had rather nice feet, he could smell her moisturiser. He wondered just how far he could push the doggy behaviour, if he licked the delicious looking stretch of skin between her sock and the hem of her dress, would she slap him? He figured at the very least it was a little disturbing, and probably not something he’d do as a man. Not in front of company anyway.
“It’s almost dawn,” Bel said, “will you turn into ash the moment the sun touches you?”
“I don’t think so, I was supposed to be able to turn into a bat whenever I wanted, and just glitter in the sunlight. Blood drinking optional, they suggested red wine just for the look of it.” She paused. “I bloody hate red wine.”
Even if Theresa wasn’t technically nocturnal, and Bel didn’t technically need to sleep, both decided a few hours down-time may be the best idea. Hopefully after a couple of hours sleep, they’d be able to think of a plan (or, more likely, Figgis mused, they would each come up with a plan and they could spend two hours arguing over it).
Bel climbed onto the sofa and laid across her own lap, which looked a little like a double negative photograph. Theresa said she was going to find a bed, and since there was only one in the house Figgis realised she was going to sleep in his. Now he wished he’d changed the bedding. Still, it was the first time in months he could honestly say he’d had a woman in there. He debated pushing his luck and sleeping at the bottom of it (if only so he could truthfully claim to have slept with a woman recently) but settled for curling up in the armchair. It was still warm from Theresa’s body heat.
Sometime during the night he heard a soft weeping. Theresa. So he mosied upstairs, hoping to give a little comfort. Theresa was glad to see him. She pulled him into her embrace and wept salty tears into his fur.
“I’m really sorry, ought to keep a tighter rein on myself,”
Figgis licked her face.
“I ought to sleep,” she said, and curled up in the bed. Figgis snuggled up beside her and lay awake until her breathing evened out and grew slow. Then he allowed himself to sleep.
He woke to a shriek. Several things dawned on him all at once. Firstly, he was freezing cold. Secondly, he was human again. And thirdly (probably explaining the first thing) he was stark bollock naked.
“Ah,” he said, pulling the duvet over his rather obvious erection and blushing furiously. “Morning.”
I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself
Figgis wasn’t overly keen on the idea of using his house to store a body (even if that body wasn’t technically dead) but since he still hadn’t managed to make his speech intelligible, he didn’t get much of a say. Apparently a discouraging woof can also be heard as enthusiastic encouragement. So they all went back to his place. Theresa manhandled Bel’s body into the living room and dumped it on the sofa, much to Bel’s very much voiced annoyance.
“Don’t stick me there!”
“On the sofa? Where else should I put you?”
“I look like I’m drunk!”
“And if I laid you down, you’d look dead.”
Figgis was beginning to think that was preferable.
“So what next?” Theresa asked. “If the studio has done a midnight flit, then none of us are going to get anywhere with that."
“There’s other studios,”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have enough credits for another transformation.”
Bel shrugged, “me neither, I don’t have anything now.”
Theresa slumped into the armchair and Figgis curled up at her feet. She had rather nice feet, he could smell her moisturiser. He wondered just how far he could push the doggy behaviour, if he licked the delicious looking stretch of skin between her sock and the hem of her dress, would she slap him? He figured at the very least it was a little disturbing, and probably not something he’d do as a man. Not in front of company anyway.
“It’s almost dawn,” Bel said, “will you turn into ash the moment the sun touches you?”
“I don’t think so, I was supposed to be able to turn into a bat whenever I wanted, and just glitter in the sunlight. Blood drinking optional, they suggested red wine just for the look of it.” She paused. “I bloody hate red wine.”
Even if Theresa wasn’t technically nocturnal, and Bel didn’t technically need to sleep, both decided a few hours down-time may be the best idea. Hopefully after a couple of hours sleep, they’d be able to think of a plan (or, more likely, Figgis mused, they would each come up with a plan and they could spend two hours arguing over it).
Bel climbed onto the sofa and laid across her own lap, which looked a little like a double negative photograph. Theresa said she was going to find a bed, and since there was only one in the house Figgis realised she was going to sleep in his. Now he wished he’d changed the bedding. Still, it was the first time in months he could honestly say he’d had a woman in there. He debated pushing his luck and sleeping at the bottom of it (if only so he could truthfully claim to have slept with a woman recently) but settled for curling up in the armchair. It was still warm from Theresa’s body heat.
Sometime during the night he heard a soft weeping. Theresa. So he mosied upstairs, hoping to give a little comfort. Theresa was glad to see him. She pulled him into her embrace and wept salty tears into his fur.
“I’m really sorry, ought to keep a tighter rein on myself,”
Figgis licked her face.
“I ought to sleep,” she said, and curled up in the bed. Figgis snuggled up beside her and lay awake until her breathing evened out and grew slow. Then he allowed himself to sleep.
He woke to a shriek. Several things dawned on him all at once. Firstly, he was freezing cold. Secondly, he was human again. And thirdly (probably explaining the first thing) he was stark bollock naked.
“Ah,” he said, pulling the duvet over his rather obvious erection and blushing furiously. “Morning.”
Saturday, 15 December 2012
Figgis 5: Body Snatching
Body Snatching
“So how do you know your body is in there?” Theresa asked.
“I seem to recall something in the contract saying they kept discarded effects for up to thirty days,”
“Effects?”
“I presume that meant bodies too, I’d check the paperwork but, y’know,” Bel spread her hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, “can’t carry anything.”
Theresa stepped up to the studio’s large shop front window. It had been tastefully done out in that ubiquitous ‘fly by night’ dressing style. IE covered in giant posters promising to CHANGE YOUR LIFE! BECOME WHO YOU WERE MEANT TO BE! and, bizarrely, BUY TWO TRANSFORMATIONS... GET THIRD FREE. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the narrow gaps between posters.
“I can’t see anything.”
Bel sighed. She stepped up beside Theresa and also peered through the window through cupped hands. “Me neither. Oh wait...duh... ghost abilities, right?” She slipped through the glass and disappeared into the gloom of the shop.
Theresa turned to Figgis, “I guess I deserved that.”
Figgis agreed. Why keep an incorporeal being and peer through windows yourself?
Bel returned with a grin. “They’ve got them in the back, all the bodies. Now all we have to do is go in there and get me out.”
Easier said than done. Bel told them there was another door around the back. She’d had a quick scout and didn’t think it would be too hard to break into. All they had to do was get over the wall and then find some way of opening the back door. As far as she could tell, the window at the back was large enough to climb through if the could break it quietly enough.
Figgis rather hoped he wasn’t going to have to drag a corpse through a broken window. There were better things he’d rather spend his time doing. Like developing his new found skill of self-fellatio.
The row of shops backed onto a cobbled lane. Along the other side of it loomed a huge derelict mill. If you were planning on doing a spot of breaking and entering, you couldn’t wish for a better set of circumstances. Except for the wall.
“That’s a huge wall,” Theresa said.
They looked up at it. It was easily eight feet tall, with barbed wire along the top. The gate was solid wood and flush to the wall. Theresa could barely slide a finger in the gap between wood and concrete brick. “We can’t get through that. Well, you can, but we can’t.”
“It’s not locked. There’s only a catch on the other side,” Bel informed them.
“Yes, very easy to open, if you’re on that side of it.”
“I thought you could fly?”
Theresa opened her wings out to their full span. She flapped them experimentally. Then flapped them harder. then harder still. Finally she raised herself a couple of inches off the ground. Red-face with exertion, she dropped back down to the ground. “I’m not sure flying’s going to be an option.”
“What about gliding?”
“Gliding?”
“Yup,” Bel pointed to an industrial sized bin a few feet away. “Drag that here, jump up and glide down.”
Theresa looked doubtful, but in the absence of any better ideas, that’s what she did. It took five minutes to drag the bin into position, and another five for her to clamber up until she stood, unsteadily, on the huge pile of refuse. “Geronimo?” She leapt into the air and flapped furiously, looking more like a moth in a cobweb than a sleek predator of the night. She disappeared into the garden and then was a muffled “Oof.”
There was a click and the gate swung open. Theresa stood there, patches of dirt on her knees and both palms grazed. “You didn’t tell me the garden was full of stuff.”
“You didn’t ask,” Bel answered.
With the first obstacle defeated, they regarded the second.
“Door or window?” Theresa asked. “I’ve got to tell you, I don’t really want to break the window.”
Bel and Theresa discussed various methods of burglary. Both had theories on what was the best method (lock picking with a hair grip, sliding a credit card down the poor and popping the lock, brute force with something heavy...) but neither had any experience and Theresa’s knees were rather painful, she wasn’t sure she could kick a door in with her tiny size five feet. Bel pointed out that size five was hardly tiny, hers - when she had real real feet - were that size and she didn’t think they were particularly small. Theresa replied that when you’re barely five feet tall, she guessed anything over a size three shoe must feel like wearing clown shoes. Bel’s reciprocal comment managed to insult Theresa’s own lanky height, suggested that her IQ was reflected by her hair colour, and further insinuated that she had canine parentage.
And whilst the two women were bitching at each other like siblings at bedtime, Figgis noticed the door wasn’t even shut properly.
So they were in.
It didn’t take long to find the bodies. They were stacked, neatly labelled, in a back room. Each body was contained within a plastic coffin, hooked up to a couple of drips and catheterised. Bel’s body was fortunately the uppermost in a stack of three. Inside the plastic coffin she was dressed in a hospital gown.
“I thought we were retrieving a corpse.”
“Seven day return policy,” Bel said, “have you never read your consumer rights?”
Figgis wasn’t sure body storage had ever formed part of any consumer agreement he’d ever accidentally read. Maybe it had been in the contract he’d flipped through, he certainly hadn’t read it. Wasn’t one of the biggest lies of the modern age ‘yes, I have read the terms and conditions’?
“Are we taking the cylinder? Or do I um unhook you?” Theresa asked.
“Whichever is easiest.”
They pondered the problem. Even Figgis could see they were not going to get the cylinder in his car. Nothing less than a hearse would have contained that thing. It was nearly seven feet long. Not that Bel took up all of it. She was, as Theresa had pointed out, very short.
Theresa popped the catches on the cylinder and dragged Bel’s body out. The catheter bag ripped and spilled urine all over her shoes. “Oh god, yuck.”
“It’s only pee,” Bel snapped. “Bloody hell, I don’t half look a sight!”
Theresa grabbed Bel’s body, holding her under the arms. She dragged her backwards across the floor.
“Mind my feet!” Bel shrieked.
“What am I supposed to do? Ask Figgis to help carry you?”
Obligingly, Figgis ducked under the body’s legs and stood, so the body’s legs were resting on his back. They went back out the way they’d come in a shuffling, sweary huddle. Every few moments the legs would slip off Figgis, or Theresa changed her grip. With much sweating and more than a little instruction from Bel, they finally got her body out into the cobbled alley.
“I’ll bring the car round,” Theresa said.
They put Bel’s body on the back seat, where she sat, like the world’s most lifelike ventriloquists dummy, her owner on the seat next to her. One solid and silent, the other transparent and ranting incessantly. Figgis wasn’t sure which he preferred.
“So how do you know your body is in there?” Theresa asked.
“I seem to recall something in the contract saying they kept discarded effects for up to thirty days,”
“Effects?”
“I presume that meant bodies too, I’d check the paperwork but, y’know,” Bel spread her hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, “can’t carry anything.”
Theresa stepped up to the studio’s large shop front window. It had been tastefully done out in that ubiquitous ‘fly by night’ dressing style. IE covered in giant posters promising to CHANGE YOUR LIFE! BECOME WHO YOU WERE MEANT TO BE! and, bizarrely, BUY TWO TRANSFORMATIONS... GET THIRD FREE. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the narrow gaps between posters.
“I can’t see anything.”
Bel sighed. She stepped up beside Theresa and also peered through the window through cupped hands. “Me neither. Oh wait...duh... ghost abilities, right?” She slipped through the glass and disappeared into the gloom of the shop.
Theresa turned to Figgis, “I guess I deserved that.”
Figgis agreed. Why keep an incorporeal being and peer through windows yourself?
Bel returned with a grin. “They’ve got them in the back, all the bodies. Now all we have to do is go in there and get me out.”
Easier said than done. Bel told them there was another door around the back. She’d had a quick scout and didn’t think it would be too hard to break into. All they had to do was get over the wall and then find some way of opening the back door. As far as she could tell, the window at the back was large enough to climb through if the could break it quietly enough.
Figgis rather hoped he wasn’t going to have to drag a corpse through a broken window. There were better things he’d rather spend his time doing. Like developing his new found skill of self-fellatio.
The row of shops backed onto a cobbled lane. Along the other side of it loomed a huge derelict mill. If you were planning on doing a spot of breaking and entering, you couldn’t wish for a better set of circumstances. Except for the wall.
“That’s a huge wall,” Theresa said.
They looked up at it. It was easily eight feet tall, with barbed wire along the top. The gate was solid wood and flush to the wall. Theresa could barely slide a finger in the gap between wood and concrete brick. “We can’t get through that. Well, you can, but we can’t.”
“It’s not locked. There’s only a catch on the other side,” Bel informed them.
“Yes, very easy to open, if you’re on that side of it.”
“I thought you could fly?”
Theresa opened her wings out to their full span. She flapped them experimentally. Then flapped them harder. then harder still. Finally she raised herself a couple of inches off the ground. Red-face with exertion, she dropped back down to the ground. “I’m not sure flying’s going to be an option.”
“What about gliding?”
“Gliding?”
“Yup,” Bel pointed to an industrial sized bin a few feet away. “Drag that here, jump up and glide down.”
Theresa looked doubtful, but in the absence of any better ideas, that’s what she did. It took five minutes to drag the bin into position, and another five for her to clamber up until she stood, unsteadily, on the huge pile of refuse. “Geronimo?” She leapt into the air and flapped furiously, looking more like a moth in a cobweb than a sleek predator of the night. She disappeared into the garden and then was a muffled “Oof.”
There was a click and the gate swung open. Theresa stood there, patches of dirt on her knees and both palms grazed. “You didn’t tell me the garden was full of stuff.”
“You didn’t ask,” Bel answered.
With the first obstacle defeated, they regarded the second.
“Door or window?” Theresa asked. “I’ve got to tell you, I don’t really want to break the window.”
Bel and Theresa discussed various methods of burglary. Both had theories on what was the best method (lock picking with a hair grip, sliding a credit card down the poor and popping the lock, brute force with something heavy...) but neither had any experience and Theresa’s knees were rather painful, she wasn’t sure she could kick a door in with her tiny size five feet. Bel pointed out that size five was hardly tiny, hers - when she had real real feet - were that size and she didn’t think they were particularly small. Theresa replied that when you’re barely five feet tall, she guessed anything over a size three shoe must feel like wearing clown shoes. Bel’s reciprocal comment managed to insult Theresa’s own lanky height, suggested that her IQ was reflected by her hair colour, and further insinuated that she had canine parentage.
And whilst the two women were bitching at each other like siblings at bedtime, Figgis noticed the door wasn’t even shut properly.
So they were in.
It didn’t take long to find the bodies. They were stacked, neatly labelled, in a back room. Each body was contained within a plastic coffin, hooked up to a couple of drips and catheterised. Bel’s body was fortunately the uppermost in a stack of three. Inside the plastic coffin she was dressed in a hospital gown.
“I thought we were retrieving a corpse.”
“Seven day return policy,” Bel said, “have you never read your consumer rights?”
Figgis wasn’t sure body storage had ever formed part of any consumer agreement he’d ever accidentally read. Maybe it had been in the contract he’d flipped through, he certainly hadn’t read it. Wasn’t one of the biggest lies of the modern age ‘yes, I have read the terms and conditions’?
“Are we taking the cylinder? Or do I um unhook you?” Theresa asked.
“Whichever is easiest.”
They pondered the problem. Even Figgis could see they were not going to get the cylinder in his car. Nothing less than a hearse would have contained that thing. It was nearly seven feet long. Not that Bel took up all of it. She was, as Theresa had pointed out, very short.
Theresa popped the catches on the cylinder and dragged Bel’s body out. The catheter bag ripped and spilled urine all over her shoes. “Oh god, yuck.”
“It’s only pee,” Bel snapped. “Bloody hell, I don’t half look a sight!”
Theresa grabbed Bel’s body, holding her under the arms. She dragged her backwards across the floor.
“Mind my feet!” Bel shrieked.
“What am I supposed to do? Ask Figgis to help carry you?”
Obligingly, Figgis ducked under the body’s legs and stood, so the body’s legs were resting on his back. They went back out the way they’d come in a shuffling, sweary huddle. Every few moments the legs would slip off Figgis, or Theresa changed her grip. With much sweating and more than a little instruction from Bel, they finally got her body out into the cobbled alley.
“I’ll bring the car round,” Theresa said.
They put Bel’s body on the back seat, where she sat, like the world’s most lifelike ventriloquists dummy, her owner on the seat next to her. One solid and silent, the other transparent and ranting incessantly. Figgis wasn’t sure which he preferred.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Figgis 4: Bertha, oh lovely Bertha
More Figgis and co! Hurrah! I bloody love writing this!
Bertha, Oh lovely Bertha
Figgis learnt several important things in the following couple of hours. Firstly that his house, after Theresa set to work, could actually look tidier than he ever thought possible (if you overlooked the broken picture, two more cups and a particularly ugly vase, all dashed to the floor by her ungainly wings) and with enough elbow grease, the crud on the cooker top did eventually come off.
He also discovered the utter humiliation of drinking coffee from a de-handled pan on the floor. This had swiftly followed the realisation that he could neither pick up a mug, nor fit his muzzle into it. So the pan it was. At least he was not going to get shouted at for not using a knife and fork any more. Nor for having his elbows on the table. Small mercies, but Figgis would take any he could find. He also discovered Theresa made the best pancakes he’d ever tasted, and that a dog’s sense of smell only increased the pleasure of them.
A couple of hours later, as Theresa drank coffee, and Figgis was still licking the bottom of the other de-handled pan (he suspected he’d got every trace of syrup off the bottom, but he could still smell its delicious aroma dammit) Bel asked if either of them had any idea what they were going to do about their current situation.
“I want my body back,” Bel said.
“They’re shut,” Theresa said. “What do you want to do? Break in and see if it’s still there?”
Bel grinned. It appeared she did.
The three of them left Figgis’s place. They stood on the kerb and regarded his car.
“What the fuck is that?” Bel asked.
Figgis had always loved his car. He felt the Volkswagon Beetle was a classic car, and if you were going to have a car of that calibre, you may as well have one that stood out from the crowd, that truly reflected its owner. This was why his Beetle was painted purple. With white bits. And a blue rear wing, because reversing into a bollard really knackers your bodywork and Beetle parts are really hard to come by.
“Please tell me that’s not your car!” Bel cackled, “what did you do? Look for the ugliest car on the forecourt and say ‘I’ll have that one please’?”
Figgis sighed. It sounded more like the exhalation of a grumpy and extremely bronchial pensioner.
Theresa unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She struggled to get her seatbelt over her wings but finally clipped it into place. Then she seemed to realise that Figgis was still standing on the pavement.
“Sorry!” She called. Unfastened the belt, leant over and opened the passenger door for him. He jumped in and she attempted to shut the door, which she couldn’t reach. Figgus watched in amusement as she climbed back out of the car, walked around, shut the passenger door, climbed back into the driver’s seat and went through a second bout with the seatbelt. Then she revved the engine, which promptly stalled.
“Would we be quicker walking?” Bel enquired.
“Sorry,” Theresa revved the engine again and the car finally co-operated. If Figgis could talk, he would have told her that she often played up, his beloved Beetle was a temperamental old thing and had to be cosseted. She was his pride and joy, and he called her ‘Bertha’. “Bastard thing,” Theresa muttered. Figgis grinned, he called her that too.
Bertha stuttered and coughed all the way down the street. Theresa kept up a litany of profanity, some of the words Figgis had never heard in those combinations before. She flapped her wings in irritation, almost blinding Figgis and prompting another remark from Bel along the lines of strapping those damn things up and perhaps some sort of adapted bag over them may help.
Theresa drew up outside the Transformation Studio with a face as dark as the cloud of black exhaust smoke they’d arrived in. After another short fight with the seatbelt, and yet another trip back to the car to release Figgis, the three of them stood before the studio. It was still shut.
“So now what?” Theresa asked.
“And here’s where is gets a wee bit illegal.” Bel replied.
Bertha, Oh lovely Bertha
Figgis learnt several important things in the following couple of hours. Firstly that his house, after Theresa set to work, could actually look tidier than he ever thought possible (if you overlooked the broken picture, two more cups and a particularly ugly vase, all dashed to the floor by her ungainly wings) and with enough elbow grease, the crud on the cooker top did eventually come off.
He also discovered the utter humiliation of drinking coffee from a de-handled pan on the floor. This had swiftly followed the realisation that he could neither pick up a mug, nor fit his muzzle into it. So the pan it was. At least he was not going to get shouted at for not using a knife and fork any more. Nor for having his elbows on the table. Small mercies, but Figgis would take any he could find. He also discovered Theresa made the best pancakes he’d ever tasted, and that a dog’s sense of smell only increased the pleasure of them.
A couple of hours later, as Theresa drank coffee, and Figgis was still licking the bottom of the other de-handled pan (he suspected he’d got every trace of syrup off the bottom, but he could still smell its delicious aroma dammit) Bel asked if either of them had any idea what they were going to do about their current situation.
“I want my body back,” Bel said.
“They’re shut,” Theresa said. “What do you want to do? Break in and see if it’s still there?”
Bel grinned. It appeared she did.
The three of them left Figgis’s place. They stood on the kerb and regarded his car.
“What the fuck is that?” Bel asked.
Figgis had always loved his car. He felt the Volkswagon Beetle was a classic car, and if you were going to have a car of that calibre, you may as well have one that stood out from the crowd, that truly reflected its owner. This was why his Beetle was painted purple. With white bits. And a blue rear wing, because reversing into a bollard really knackers your bodywork and Beetle parts are really hard to come by.
“Please tell me that’s not your car!” Bel cackled, “what did you do? Look for the ugliest car on the forecourt and say ‘I’ll have that one please’?”
Figgis sighed. It sounded more like the exhalation of a grumpy and extremely bronchial pensioner.
Theresa unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She struggled to get her seatbelt over her wings but finally clipped it into place. Then she seemed to realise that Figgis was still standing on the pavement.
“Sorry!” She called. Unfastened the belt, leant over and opened the passenger door for him. He jumped in and she attempted to shut the door, which she couldn’t reach. Figgus watched in amusement as she climbed back out of the car, walked around, shut the passenger door, climbed back into the driver’s seat and went through a second bout with the seatbelt. Then she revved the engine, which promptly stalled.
“Would we be quicker walking?” Bel enquired.
“Sorry,” Theresa revved the engine again and the car finally co-operated. If Figgis could talk, he would have told her that she often played up, his beloved Beetle was a temperamental old thing and had to be cosseted. She was his pride and joy, and he called her ‘Bertha’. “Bastard thing,” Theresa muttered. Figgis grinned, he called her that too.
Bertha stuttered and coughed all the way down the street. Theresa kept up a litany of profanity, some of the words Figgis had never heard in those combinations before. She flapped her wings in irritation, almost blinding Figgis and prompting another remark from Bel along the lines of strapping those damn things up and perhaps some sort of adapted bag over them may help.
Theresa drew up outside the Transformation Studio with a face as dark as the cloud of black exhaust smoke they’d arrived in. After another short fight with the seatbelt, and yet another trip back to the car to release Figgis, the three of them stood before the studio. It was still shut.
“So now what?” Theresa asked.
“And here’s where is gets a wee bit illegal.” Bel replied.
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Figgis 3: What's your name again?
Posting it a bit late tonight, but here it is. By the way, I'm tagging these as FTB, just for ease of finding them.
What's Your Name Again?
“So this is your pad?” The ghost asked. “Looks like you’ve been burgled, mate.”
They stood in the back garden, the kitchen window wide open and a rather new set of boot-prints on the lawn. Figgis sniffed at them. They had an odd scent, a heady mix of special brew and cannabis with a dash of something else. Something familiar.
The ghost walked through the back door. A few moments later her head appeared, the rest of her body invisible. “Hey look,” she said. “I’m a door knocker!” She stepped back into the garden “By the way, have you got a really nice TV and a games console?”
Figgis nodded his head. Not an easy feat for a dog. It looked more like he had water in his ears.
“Not any more, mate.”
Figgis hung his head. He didn’t suppose losing the games console mattered. Controller pads were not designed for paws. He was gutted about the TV though. He supposed he could attempt to claim on his house insurance, but the odds of them believing his shaggy dog story were slim to none.
“Are we going inside?” Theresa asked.
Figgis scratched at the door, Theresa tried the knob.
“It’s locked,” she said.
“Presumably that’s why the window is open,” the ghost said. “Isn’t that right, Lassie? Did you come out through the window? Is that how the nasty burglars got in?”
Was there a canine equivalent of flipping the bird? Figgis wondered. He favoured the irritating phantasm with a low growl. This amused her and she laughed. To hell with it, he cocked a leg and peed on her. Or rather through her, the stream soaking the grass. She stepped aside and muttered something he didn’t catch.
“So how are we going to get in?”
“Same way he got out,”
“I can’t fit through,” Theresa said, “not with the wings.”
“Get the dog to fetch the keys,” the ghost suggested. “Want to play fetch, Lassie?”
Figgis growled again.
“Have you got a better idea?” Theresa asked him. “No? Come on, let me lift you up, can you get the keys?”
He wasn’t really keen on that idea. Not until she actually scooped him up and he found himself nose to nipple with her cleavage. At that point it seemed the best idea of the day. He was rather sorry when she shoved him back through the window. Although realising he was now high enough to stare down her top without her assistance was an unexpected bonus.
“Go get the keys Lassie! Fetch!”
He jumped down from the kitchen counter, wondering if it was possible to find a priest and get the ghost exorcised. He wouldn’t even mind, but Lassie was a girl. Or rather, a bitch. Much like the ghost in fact.
Fortunately (and unusually) he knew exactly where his keys were. They were still in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. He trotted through the kitchen and raced up the stairs. The burglars had been opportunists, apart from the electricals in the front room, they’d barely touched the rest of the house. They certainly hadn’t been handling his clothes, they were exactly as he’d left them. He nosed through them until his keys tumbled out, snatched them up with his teeth and returned to the kitchen. One good leap later and Theresa’s soft hands were scratching his ears and rubbing his chest..
Figgis felt an overwhelming urge to throw himself to the floor and expose his belly for her.
Theresa unlocked the door and let herself in. She turned to take in the filthy grothole stereotypical of the bachelor male and knocked a cup off the draining board with the tip of her wing. It bounced but did not break. Figgis groaned inwardly when he saw the motif of the bunny girl on the side. “Sorry!”
She picked the cup up and placed it carefully on the work-top. Took another long, lingering look around the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit when I’ve had a cup of tea,” she offered. Figgis wagged his tail. She wandered over to the kitchen notice-board, a repository for all the shit Figgis received through the post and planned to deal with at some point. She pulled a letter off, a dental reminder he suspected he didn’t need any more.
“Oh, your name is Figgis!” Theresa exclaimed. “Not Iggish. That makes more sense.”
Figgis cringed, there was a reason he used his surname. Namely he hated his forename, which, he suspected, she was going to reveal any second...
“Is that really your first name?”
The ghost looked suddenly interested. “Can’t be as bad as mine.”
Theresa raised an eyebrow. “What’s yours?”
“Bellamy Jones. Bel to my friends.”
“And are we your friends?”
Bel laughed, “I guess you are.”
What's Your Name Again?
“So this is your pad?” The ghost asked. “Looks like you’ve been burgled, mate.”
They stood in the back garden, the kitchen window wide open and a rather new set of boot-prints on the lawn. Figgis sniffed at them. They had an odd scent, a heady mix of special brew and cannabis with a dash of something else. Something familiar.
The ghost walked through the back door. A few moments later her head appeared, the rest of her body invisible. “Hey look,” she said. “I’m a door knocker!” She stepped back into the garden “By the way, have you got a really nice TV and a games console?”
Figgis nodded his head. Not an easy feat for a dog. It looked more like he had water in his ears.
“Not any more, mate.”
Figgis hung his head. He didn’t suppose losing the games console mattered. Controller pads were not designed for paws. He was gutted about the TV though. He supposed he could attempt to claim on his house insurance, but the odds of them believing his shaggy dog story were slim to none.
“Are we going inside?” Theresa asked.
Figgis scratched at the door, Theresa tried the knob.
“It’s locked,” she said.
“Presumably that’s why the window is open,” the ghost said. “Isn’t that right, Lassie? Did you come out through the window? Is that how the nasty burglars got in?”
Was there a canine equivalent of flipping the bird? Figgis wondered. He favoured the irritating phantasm with a low growl. This amused her and she laughed. To hell with it, he cocked a leg and peed on her. Or rather through her, the stream soaking the grass. She stepped aside and muttered something he didn’t catch.
“So how are we going to get in?”
“Same way he got out,”
“I can’t fit through,” Theresa said, “not with the wings.”
“Get the dog to fetch the keys,” the ghost suggested. “Want to play fetch, Lassie?”
Figgis growled again.
“Have you got a better idea?” Theresa asked him. “No? Come on, let me lift you up, can you get the keys?”
He wasn’t really keen on that idea. Not until she actually scooped him up and he found himself nose to nipple with her cleavage. At that point it seemed the best idea of the day. He was rather sorry when she shoved him back through the window. Although realising he was now high enough to stare down her top without her assistance was an unexpected bonus.
“Go get the keys Lassie! Fetch!”
He jumped down from the kitchen counter, wondering if it was possible to find a priest and get the ghost exorcised. He wouldn’t even mind, but Lassie was a girl. Or rather, a bitch. Much like the ghost in fact.
Fortunately (and unusually) he knew exactly where his keys were. They were still in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. He trotted through the kitchen and raced up the stairs. The burglars had been opportunists, apart from the electricals in the front room, they’d barely touched the rest of the house. They certainly hadn’t been handling his clothes, they were exactly as he’d left them. He nosed through them until his keys tumbled out, snatched them up with his teeth and returned to the kitchen. One good leap later and Theresa’s soft hands were scratching his ears and rubbing his chest..
Figgis felt an overwhelming urge to throw himself to the floor and expose his belly for her.
Theresa unlocked the door and let herself in. She turned to take in the filthy grothole stereotypical of the bachelor male and knocked a cup off the draining board with the tip of her wing. It bounced but did not break. Figgis groaned inwardly when he saw the motif of the bunny girl on the side. “Sorry!”
She picked the cup up and placed it carefully on the work-top. Took another long, lingering look around the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit when I’ve had a cup of tea,” she offered. Figgis wagged his tail. She wandered over to the kitchen notice-board, a repository for all the shit Figgis received through the post and planned to deal with at some point. She pulled a letter off, a dental reminder he suspected he didn’t need any more.
“Oh, your name is Figgis!” Theresa exclaimed. “Not Iggish. That makes more sense.”
Figgis cringed, there was a reason he used his surname. Namely he hated his forename, which, he suspected, she was going to reveal any second...
“Is that really your first name?”
The ghost looked suddenly interested. “Can’t be as bad as mine.”
Theresa raised an eyebrow. “What’s yours?”
“Bellamy Jones. Bel to my friends.”
“And are we your friends?”
Bel laughed, “I guess you are.”
Monday, 10 December 2012
Figgis 2: Sister Midnight
Part two of the supernatural satire thing.... (and yes, a song title this time)
Sister Midnight
She looked down at him, this angel of the night. Figgis grinned, showing all of his teeth. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. He hoped he looked cute, but got the feeling he looked dopey. Not the sort of intelligent, man about town currently trapped in a dog’s body impression he hoped to give, but rather the look of a dog who tended to walk into doorways and be startled by its own shadow. He shut his mouth.
“My name is Theresa,” she said to him. “I don’t suppose you can tell me yours?”
“’iggish" Figgis managed. He was definitely getting better at this canine speech lark, even if he sounded like Scooby Doo under the influence of either a heavy cold or too many scooby-snacks. Maybe both.
“Iggish?” Theresa shrugged. She spread her wings wide, the leathery appendages spun four feet either side of her. She flapped them a couple of times them folded them neatly back into her spine. “Look at the state of me! They said I’d be able to transform at will, and I’d be able to fly.” Conspiratorially she added, “it was the flying, I always fancied flying. They never mentioned anything about none of your clothes fitting over them.”
Figgis cocked his head in a sympathetic fashion. Nobody had mentioned anything about being a dog either, but as Theresa bent to scratch him behind the ear, and her ill-fitting clothes sagged forwards, he guessed he could see a few advantages.
Theresa blushed. “Ah, sorry about that.” She adjusted her clothing, much to Figgis’s disappointment, and leant on the side of the building. “I keep hoping it will reopen. I’ve been here all day. I went home last night and my parents were horrified.” She slid down the side of the building, put her head in her hands and began to cry.
Figgis curled up at the side of her, licked the tears from her hands. Theresa pulled him to her chest and hugged him, obviously forgetting that beneath the fur lurked one extremely manly man. And also, now one very aroused man.
“You do realise that’s not a dog, don’t you?”
This new voice startled both Figgis and Theresa, who pushed him away. Figgis slunk away to a more respectable distance and threw himself to the floor. The voice belonged to a very short woman. There was something very different about her. It took Figgis a few minutes to realise he could see straight through her.
“I knew i should have gone somewhere reputable,” the woman said. “Bloody shysters. That’s me, incorporeal for the rest of my natural. Or unnatural. Whatever.” She sniffed. “Cheer up duck, your parents will forgive you eventually, at least you’ve got a house to go back to.”
Theresa looked up. “What did you ask for?”
“Immortality. So they made me a ghost. Ha ha, joke of the century, couldn’t see that coming,” she sniffed again. “Much like me, I suppose.”
“And now you can’t go home?”
“Been booted out. Apparently I don’t count as a tenant any more, seeing as I don’t have a body.”
The strange ghost launched into a tuneless rendition of ‘ain’t got nobody’.
Figgis looked from one woman to the other, both of them homeless. One of them weeping and the other seemingly deranged. he made a decision. He may be a dog, but he could still be a gentleman.
“Woof,” he said, and jerked his head in the international sign for ‘come this way’. It seemed easier than trying to communicate Scooby-style.
“Does Lassie want us to follow him? Is Timmy stuck in a well?” The ghost asked, and giggled.
Figgis chose to ignore that particular jibe. He trotted a few paces down the street, then looked back. Theresa had gotten to her feet and was following him. It did cross his mind that it may be a little unwise to take two strange women home with him, but at least one of them would be able to feed him. He drew the line at dog food though. Just as long as they understood that.
Sister Midnight
She looked down at him, this angel of the night. Figgis grinned, showing all of his teeth. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. He hoped he looked cute, but got the feeling he looked dopey. Not the sort of intelligent, man about town currently trapped in a dog’s body impression he hoped to give, but rather the look of a dog who tended to walk into doorways and be startled by its own shadow. He shut his mouth.
“My name is Theresa,” she said to him. “I don’t suppose you can tell me yours?”
“’iggish" Figgis managed. He was definitely getting better at this canine speech lark, even if he sounded like Scooby Doo under the influence of either a heavy cold or too many scooby-snacks. Maybe both.
“Iggish?” Theresa shrugged. She spread her wings wide, the leathery appendages spun four feet either side of her. She flapped them a couple of times them folded them neatly back into her spine. “Look at the state of me! They said I’d be able to transform at will, and I’d be able to fly.” Conspiratorially she added, “it was the flying, I always fancied flying. They never mentioned anything about none of your clothes fitting over them.”
Figgis cocked his head in a sympathetic fashion. Nobody had mentioned anything about being a dog either, but as Theresa bent to scratch him behind the ear, and her ill-fitting clothes sagged forwards, he guessed he could see a few advantages.
Theresa blushed. “Ah, sorry about that.” She adjusted her clothing, much to Figgis’s disappointment, and leant on the side of the building. “I keep hoping it will reopen. I’ve been here all day. I went home last night and my parents were horrified.” She slid down the side of the building, put her head in her hands and began to cry.
Figgis curled up at the side of her, licked the tears from her hands. Theresa pulled him to her chest and hugged him, obviously forgetting that beneath the fur lurked one extremely manly man. And also, now one very aroused man.
“You do realise that’s not a dog, don’t you?”
This new voice startled both Figgis and Theresa, who pushed him away. Figgis slunk away to a more respectable distance and threw himself to the floor. The voice belonged to a very short woman. There was something very different about her. It took Figgis a few minutes to realise he could see straight through her.
“I knew i should have gone somewhere reputable,” the woman said. “Bloody shysters. That’s me, incorporeal for the rest of my natural. Or unnatural. Whatever.” She sniffed. “Cheer up duck, your parents will forgive you eventually, at least you’ve got a house to go back to.”
Theresa looked up. “What did you ask for?”
“Immortality. So they made me a ghost. Ha ha, joke of the century, couldn’t see that coming,” she sniffed again. “Much like me, I suppose.”
“And now you can’t go home?”
“Been booted out. Apparently I don’t count as a tenant any more, seeing as I don’t have a body.”
The strange ghost launched into a tuneless rendition of ‘ain’t got nobody’.
Figgis looked from one woman to the other, both of them homeless. One of them weeping and the other seemingly deranged. he made a decision. He may be a dog, but he could still be a gentleman.
“Woof,” he said, and jerked his head in the international sign for ‘come this way’. It seemed easier than trying to communicate Scooby-style.
“Does Lassie want us to follow him? Is Timmy stuck in a well?” The ghost asked, and giggled.
Figgis chose to ignore that particular jibe. He trotted a few paces down the street, then looked back. Theresa had gotten to her feet and was following him. It did cross his mind that it may be a little unwise to take two strange women home with him, but at least one of them would be able to feed him. He drew the line at dog food though. Just as long as they understood that.
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Figgis 1: The Hairy-handed Gent
Something different today. This too may become serialised. It's not going to be serious, just a bit of fun. And yes, the character name is stolen from another fic of mine (and so is the vampire name, though she hasn't given it yet). And yes the title is stolen from a lyric. Cookie to the first to identify it. Anyways... enjoy.
The Hairy-Handed Gent
Become a werewolf they said, it’ll be fun they said.
It may have been, if the people at Supernaturals R Us had got it right. Except they hadn’t. Somewhere, something had gone wrong. Figgis looked down at his paws. They didn’t look very wolf-like. For a start, his fur was not a steely grey, nor was it any shade of brown. Or black. Or any other sort of colour he associated with wolves. It was white. And slightly fluffy.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Pay a million Credits and become a werewolf. The transformation came with a lifetime’s membership to the exclusive Lycanthropy Club, free access to The Hunting Grounds safari park when the moon was full, and guaranteed good health and enhanced senses even in human form. Figgis had slapped his Credit card down on the desk and declared his intentions. He’d signed the waivers, flipped through the four inch thick user agreement and then happily followed the extremely attractive scientist to the Transformation rooms. Ten hours later he’d stumbled home, the identity bracelet still on his wrist, hoping to sleep off the immense hangover he seemed to have developed.
He’d woken up as a dog. And most disconcertingly, it wasn’t even night.
He jumped down off the bed and trotted over to the full length mirror. he was definitely a dog. Not even a manly dog. Mostly Labrador with a dash of Spaniel. He wagged his tail experimentally. It was an extraordinarily long tail, with a bit of a fringe.
He mooched around the bedroom for a bit, not quite sure what to do next. Whilst he was thinking, he decided to have a bit of a nap. He leapt back onto the bed, turned around several times and curled up on the pillow. before he slept he realised that at least one thing was working as promised, his sense of smell was vastly improved. Now he really did wonder why dogs slept with their noses tucked into their backsides.
He woke again and the room was dark. He was still a dog.
It occurred to him that what he really ought to do was go back down to the Transformation Studio and see if they could reverse the process. And that decided, his first problem was getting out of the bedroom. It took several attempts to unlatch the door. His nails made a clicking nose on the laminate in the hallway as he walked to the door. The front door was locked. Of course it was.
Figgis sat down. Scratched the door a little forlornly. This wasn’t working out at all like he planned.
He gave up on the front door and jumped up onto the kitchen worktop. carefully he stepped over the crockery piled up on the draining board and nuzzled the catch on the window. Eventually it slid up and the widow opened. he jumped down into the garden, peed against the side of the house and set off towards the Studio and hopefully, re-humanising.
The Studio was shut.
“Oh bugger,” he said. Or tried to at least. What actually came out was some sort of throaty gibberish. He barked instead. it sounded suspiciously like a yap. The effeminate yap of a handbag sized dog, not even a decent woof as would befit a dog his size.
“It’s shut down,” said a voice beside him.
Figgis turned. There was a vampire standing next to him. Except she didn’t look exactly like a vampire. She looked like an angel. But with two huge bat wings. They fluttered a little bit in the breeze. “failed werewolf transformation?”
Figgis yapped again. Cleared his throat and tried again. This time it sounded a little bit beefier. perhaps a terrier sized woof.
“’Become a vampire,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.” The vampire sighed and Figgis fell in love.
The Hairy-Handed Gent
Become a werewolf they said, it’ll be fun they said.
It may have been, if the people at Supernaturals R Us had got it right. Except they hadn’t. Somewhere, something had gone wrong. Figgis looked down at his paws. They didn’t look very wolf-like. For a start, his fur was not a steely grey, nor was it any shade of brown. Or black. Or any other sort of colour he associated with wolves. It was white. And slightly fluffy.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Pay a million Credits and become a werewolf. The transformation came with a lifetime’s membership to the exclusive Lycanthropy Club, free access to The Hunting Grounds safari park when the moon was full, and guaranteed good health and enhanced senses even in human form. Figgis had slapped his Credit card down on the desk and declared his intentions. He’d signed the waivers, flipped through the four inch thick user agreement and then happily followed the extremely attractive scientist to the Transformation rooms. Ten hours later he’d stumbled home, the identity bracelet still on his wrist, hoping to sleep off the immense hangover he seemed to have developed.
He’d woken up as a dog. And most disconcertingly, it wasn’t even night.
He jumped down off the bed and trotted over to the full length mirror. he was definitely a dog. Not even a manly dog. Mostly Labrador with a dash of Spaniel. He wagged his tail experimentally. It was an extraordinarily long tail, with a bit of a fringe.
He mooched around the bedroom for a bit, not quite sure what to do next. Whilst he was thinking, he decided to have a bit of a nap. He leapt back onto the bed, turned around several times and curled up on the pillow. before he slept he realised that at least one thing was working as promised, his sense of smell was vastly improved. Now he really did wonder why dogs slept with their noses tucked into their backsides.
He woke again and the room was dark. He was still a dog.
It occurred to him that what he really ought to do was go back down to the Transformation Studio and see if they could reverse the process. And that decided, his first problem was getting out of the bedroom. It took several attempts to unlatch the door. His nails made a clicking nose on the laminate in the hallway as he walked to the door. The front door was locked. Of course it was.
Figgis sat down. Scratched the door a little forlornly. This wasn’t working out at all like he planned.
He gave up on the front door and jumped up onto the kitchen worktop. carefully he stepped over the crockery piled up on the draining board and nuzzled the catch on the window. Eventually it slid up and the widow opened. he jumped down into the garden, peed against the side of the house and set off towards the Studio and hopefully, re-humanising.
The Studio was shut.
“Oh bugger,” he said. Or tried to at least. What actually came out was some sort of throaty gibberish. He barked instead. it sounded suspiciously like a yap. The effeminate yap of a handbag sized dog, not even a decent woof as would befit a dog his size.
“It’s shut down,” said a voice beside him.
Figgis turned. There was a vampire standing next to him. Except she didn’t look exactly like a vampire. She looked like an angel. But with two huge bat wings. They fluttered a little bit in the breeze. “failed werewolf transformation?”
Figgis yapped again. Cleared his throat and tried again. This time it sounded a little bit beefier. perhaps a terrier sized woof.
“’Become a vampire,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.” The vampire sighed and Figgis fell in love.
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