Pink vs. Prodigy – Get the Omen mash-up…
The regal vision passes the altar with a cursory glance before approaching us, but I do notice the fleeting look of triumph in those emerald eyes, as she notes the leather-bound diary, waiting in pride of place.
I know what she’s thinking.
What did that bastard write about me??
And possibly:
Now we’ll find out if all of those sluts were just ‘acquaintances’…
Maybe, given the current setting, those strange diagrams that the diary seems to be full of will tell her exactly what she wants to know…
I gaze around at the thousands of hieroglyphs, featuring on every wall and pillar. Under the circumstances, it might be too much to hope that the décor of the pyramid-shrine, aboard the megalith of a barge, is all just a bit of interior-designer feng shui.
“Everyone,” Crispin begins, while she glides closer, attended by two of the red-leather-chapped zombies. “This is my – and Homer’s – dear mother. The Lady Glandula de Bartheline.”
“Pray, introduce us, Crispin,” she purrs. Her catlike eyes miss nothing, but equally give nothing away, as she takes in our decidedly morning-after appearance. Only Homer has freshly scrubbed up for the occasion. “Don’t stand on ceremony on the account of strangers.”
Crispin clears his throat, nervously, and gestures along to the far end of the line with a gray-skinned hand.
“Mother, this is Mr. Carvery Slaughter…”
“A powerful one indeed,” she muses. “But I would say, a little tainted.”
“Ambitious in that direction, certainly,” Crispin agrees.
“Understatement,” I mutter, thinking of big holes in the ground, dug at the dead of night.
“And what is this?” Lady Glandula asks, her gaze travelling over my housemate, Whatserface. “A pet monkey?”
“Mr. Slaughter’s amour, Mother,” Crispin corrects, a hint of reproach in his tone.
“But it’s all made of spare parts!” Lady Glandula scoffs. “A Frankenstein’s monkey… And so corrupted in health, one would not know where to put it. Or where to put your what in it. Surely you do not expect me to…”
“NO, Mother,” Crispin interrupts, raising both hands, in a placating fashion. “It had not even crossed my mind.”
Expect her to what? My mind boggles. Not eat Miss Fuckwit’s brains, surely? Besides – Lady Glandula doesn’t look like your typical zombie. She looks in the peak of health.
Compared to the rest of us, particularly.
“And Mr. Ace Bumgang…” Crispin continues.
Lady Glandula stops a moment, taking in the yummy dark brown eyes, and washboard stomach. I can fully sympathise… even hung over, Ace Bumgang looks like any woman’s dream sperm-donor.
“Hmmm,” she says at last. “He needs a wash…”
She speaks sidelong to one of her zombie attendants, not taking her eyes off Ace in the meantime.
“Have my bath made ready,” she orders. “Lots of rose petals.”
Noooo, my jealousy reflex yells. That was MY fantasy… well, one of them, anyway.
Just got to hope she doesn’t have a jar of Nutella and a spoon as well…
“Your son, Homer,” Crispin adds. “Whom I’m sure you recognise.”
“Home,” says Homer, lurching forward, with skinny gray arms outstretched.
“My dear lady, er, boy,” the Lady Glandula greets him, permitting a genteel embrace. “I see my old wardrobe is still in vogue.”
“Mr. Gaylord Lukan, formerly of Nigeria…”
“Indeed?” she says, and offers her hand. Luke’s concerns about introduction protocol seem to evaporate, and relieved, he puts his business card into it.
“Twenty-four hour minicab services, your Ladyship,” he beams. “Since 1971.”
“Goodness,” she says. “A workaholic. I was married to one of those – allegedly. While I was alive.”
“And Miss Bellummm…” Crispin says, at last.
“Sarah,” I amend, and find myself bobbing a curtsey.
“Sarah Bellum…” she ponders, and stops in front of me, her stare calculating, shrivelling any remaining scraps of my self-worth. “You are very scrawny.”
“Nervous energy, Ma’am,” I excuse myself. My kneecaps are twitching again.
“A fidget, in other words,” she surmises. She leans in slightly, and sniffs my neck, exactly as Crispin did last night. “I see… This is the best you could manage, Crispin?”
“I had to order a lot of pizzas, Mother,” Crispin says, again a little reproachfully.
“Your theories regarding the identification of virgins leave something to be desired, my son,” she remarks. “Unlike your father – who was foolish enough to take a girl’s word for it.”
“A foolishness that runs in the family, Mother,” Crispin nods gloomily. “Hence the perpetuation of the curse.”
“I, for one, have no issue there, as I’m sure you can see for yourself,” she replies, rather smugly surveying her surroundings. “I do not know why you Dry men even bother with these little mortal beauty contests. I see nothing I wish to trade here.”
“Supposing I were not offering a trade,” Crispin appeals. “But seeking your approval?”
She turns back sharply to look at him, and her expression is alert and – amused.
“With THAT?” she cries, waving towards me. Laughter bubbles out of her. “And your grandfather’s old out-of-date hoodoo-voodoo, hocus-pocus theories? You would seek to cure yourself alone, rather than fulfil the family honour? My boy, you are as selfish as any man.”
“The family honour will not be abandoned, Mother,” Crispin sighs. “This is – a personal request.”
She shakes her head, still chuckling.
“Your ulterior motives shine out of you like a beacon, Crispin.” She strides away, calling back over her shoulder. “But make yourselves at home. I so rarely have entertainment. I look forward to the crocodile-feeding later.”
She picks up the leather-bound diary as she passes, and disappears somewhere behind the pedestal. As does the zombie in possession of the special clockwork hand, I notice sadly.
We exchange looks, and everyone feels they can safely breathe once more.
“I think that went well,” Crispin concludes, with a sigh of defeat.
“Gooood…” Homer agrees.
“That’s nothing,” Carvery remarks. “You should meet MY mother.”
“At least she didn’t demand fish-and-chips,” Luke remarks. “Or a Woman’s Weekly.”
“What does she mean, needs a wash?” Ace grumbles, looking down at himself. “This is a good day after alcohol, for me…”
“She called me a Frankfurter Minky!” my housemate Fuckwit suddenly explodes, making us all jump.
As for me, I have far too many questions lined up, after that little exchange between Crispin Dry and his mother.
But at the forefront of my mind, is the phrase ‘crocodile-feeding’…
Couldn’t find the exact clip I wanted, but here’s a great one from another ‘Pride and Prejudice’ tribute: “Lost in Austen” – even referencing crocodiles! Spooky… Enjoy 🙂
More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum
Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords
Lisa Scullard 