Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 7}

by phill

Bear Skin & Harpsichord
Creative Commons License photo credit: splorp

As the argument

between stool and fat man heated up, the stool became heavier and heavier. Under its weight, Frederick could picture himself back in his living room, surrounded by his crack buddies, lying peacefully against a salvaged couch.

‘I’m not suggesting you inform them of my role in apprehending the thief, just say you knocked him on the head with a vase or some such thing. You’re good at inventing excuses, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.’

Within his imagine living room, Frederick looked over at the doped-up girl he had fucked the night before. She was beautiful, even with the blood-tinged string of snot escaping from the corner of her nose.

‘So now you think my tendency to embellish is a desirable trait? For a stool that takes pride in its morality, you’re quick to change your mind when it suits you.’

Frederick was going to ask her to go out on a proper date with him at some point. Maybe even try and do it clean. And with that innocent thought in mind, he relaxed his muscles under the crushing weight of the stool and quietly asphyxiated.

‘I’m merely trying to make the best of a potentially compromising situation. I just…oh dear.’

Dave looked up from where he was pouring himself a good double shot of whiskey. ‘What do you mean, “oh dear”?’

‘Well to be perfectly honest with you, David, I believe the young gentleman beneath me may have just passed away.’

The room obtained the atmosphere of a morgue. Dave had frozen in the act of bringing the shot up to his mouth. An internal struggle was raging as his brain was trying desperately to find some way of assimilating this new development. Just like there are certain loads that the trusses of a building can’t possibly handle, so too are there situations that the human brain cannot begin to imagine itself needing to comprehend. Presently, Dave’s mind was being pushed to snapping by the idea that a sentient, morally upright bar stool had crushed a tweaking burglar to death with its magical ability to make itself heavier. Realising it was in danger of losing its tentative grip on reality, Dave’s brain did the one thing it knew had worked in the past: it told Dave to start drinking. Fast. Up went the end of the bottle. Dave’s neck bulged and flattened to the waves of single malt flowing down his throat. When the entire bottle was gone, Dave continued to stand still for a minute or so, until the alcohol began to diffuse and his brain could relinquish its emergency hold. When it did, he burped, swayed east to west, north to south, and slumped on the kitchen table.

To be continued, next Friday!

Related posts:

  1. Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 6}
  2. Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 10}
  3. Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 12}
  4. Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 13}
  5. Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 9}