Dark Fiction - Fiasco
By Casey Douglass
(Contains gross-out humour).
Fiasco was both his
nickname, and a very accurate description of his life to date.
Sometimes, it was shortened to Fi. Most of the time, it was shortened
to Ass. Which was a bit unkind, to say the least. Some people are
coddled by fate, others are held down, ball-gagged and jolly rogered
by it. No prizes for guessing which side Fiasco fell on.
Fi always gave the
impression of a court jester out of uniform. It was partly why the
palace guards ignored him and gave him the full run of the grounds.
He used this power to his utmost, enriching his life, using the
expansive royal library and, no, he didn’t. He used it to perv at
the queen. It should be said that Fiasco lived in a realm in which
royalty lived around every corner. Hell, even his postman used to be
a king of somewhere apparently. It was just one quirk of the peculiar
land of Knell. Another will be catching up with him any moment now.
He sat in the flower
bed, a conifer hiding his presence from the roaming officials and
guards. There were limits to their amiability. It was his secret
place, and, more importantly, a place he could catch strands of the
queen’s hair when she brushed it at her window. He didn’t do
anything kinky with it, he just liked to hold it and know it was
hers. He sometimes sat elsewhere, on those days when she was at a low
enough window to see clearly. At other times, she retreated higher up
the minaret, and on these days, he settled for the flower bed.
‘Achoooo!’
He was pulled from a
deepening revelry by the sneeze. It was her, bless her beautiful
nose, her rosy lips and her dimpling cheeks. If he’d been more with
it, he’d have known to roll to the side and pray it missed him. As
it happened, it landed squarely on his head, pushing itself over his
face and body, like a condom slowly being rolled down a cucumber. His
shout of disgust popped with a gloop as the goo parted around his
mouth.
This is another quirk
of Knell. Things that fall from on high grow and gain mass the
further they fall. Things on the ground that are propelled into the
sky become lighter and less substantial. It’s hell when it rains
but very handy for space exploration, if and when they get around to
inventing flying machines. I’d say it’s a classic case of swings
and roundabouts, but swings really could put undue stress on the body
in Knell. Maybe I’ll just say it’s a case of roundabouts, and
seem a little strange.
In Fiasco’s case, the
queen’s sneeze fell far enough and for long enough to become quite
a ball of fluid. Fiasco sat stock still as he realised that he could
feel it seeping down his collar. He shuddered. It was still warm. He
stood and peered through the conifer. Amazingly enough, no one was
around so he ran like he’d never run before.
Sadly, he hadn’t run
before, and his epic escape lasted five seconds before he tripped
over his own foot and landed face down on the cobbles. Shrill
laughter rang from a window to his left, voices calling and
jittering. He pushed himself to his feet one more time, and trudged
through the palace gate, the guards snotting into their
mouth-covering hands with laughter.
It was a long trek. The
midday sun seemed to baked the stuff onto him, drying it into crisp
platelets that moulded to his form. People pointed and laughed, as
he’d expected, but he was lost in thought, which took much of the
sting out of their jibes. It was a weighty matter that consumed his
mind, one that both troubled and teased him. It was the kind that
demanded an answer or would forever tweak his nipples. Basically,
Fiasco was assessing if he still fancied the queen. Could he fancy
someone who’d covered him in mucus? Or more troubling still, did he
desire her even more? And if he did, what did that say about him?
It was because of these
thoughts that he didn’t detect the smoke. Or the screams. Or the
general scorched look that the brickwork had around him. He snapped
out of his mental masturbation well and truly when he saw the
body-parts littering the street.
‘Run you bloody
fool!’ an old man shouted as he pushed past.
‘What’s happened?’
Fiasco shouted after him.
‘Dillexers! Exploding
cask!’ the man yelled over his shoulder.
A whoosh of flame blew
the door from its hinges on the next house along the road, hysterical
screaming following its flight. Fiasco stood for a moment, things
falling into place in his mind and coming up with a course of action
that his body felt was feasible. He dashed into the building, the
flames that were licking out from the windows hissing as they hit his
gooey armour. Then the second explosion hit, and it all went dark for
Fiasco at the point.
***
He came to in a comfy
bed, crisp white linen dazzling him when he cracked his eyelids open.
‘He’s awake!’ a
woman yelled, setting Fiasco’s heart into a frenzy.
‘Where am I?’ he
groaned.
‘It’s okay!’ she
said, kneeling beside the bed and taking his hand. ‘You’re safe.
You’re a hero to boot!’
‘A hero?’
‘You saved that poor
woman?’
‘I did? I don’t
remember much.’
‘Yes, you saved her!
You ran into that burning house and came flying out of the door with
her in your arms.’
Fiasco squinted as a
memory surfaced. It was the terrified face of an elderly woman. She
was being propelled towards him by an explosion behind her. Her
forehead had smashed into his face...
‘Ahh, I see.’
‘She was ever so
grateful.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘You don’t sound
very happy?’
‘It’s just that I
didn’t really save her. I was just lucky.’
‘That doesn’t
matter! From what I hear, you put yourself in the right position for
luck to find you! You were very brave running into that
conflagration. I couldn’t have done that!’
‘That was only
because I was unlucky earlier in the day.’
‘How so?’
‘It doesn’t matter.
I’m just no hero, that’s all.’
‘You were caked in
soot and ash. We had to peel it off you. Strange that the old dear
wasn’t as dirty.’
‘Hmm. When can I go?’
‘Anytime you fancy.
You seem to be fine, but you might want to stick around awhile.’
‘Why?’
‘The old dear was a
relation of queen Silvia. The queen wants to personally thank you for
saving her great aunt!’
‘Silvia? As in the
queen with a beautiful nose, rosy lips and dimpling cheeks?’
‘Yes, that Silvia! An
actual wealthy queen who lives in a castle! Not some washed up
has-queen who is washing the stains out of undergarments down the
lane!’
Fiasco shifted his gaze
to the ceiling as his mind entered overdrive. He had a decision to
make, the one that had consumed his mind before he’d been
distracted by flying old women and fumes. He hated it when his
thoughts became locked onto a topic, it made him feel ill. His
nipples began to feel as though they were being squeezed in a
lobster’s claws. What should he do? What should he do?
THE END
