Monday, 30 July 2018

Dark Fiction - Fiasco


Dark Fiction - Fiasco

By Casey Douglass


Fiasco


(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

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