Three moans and a bit of silence (implied)

‘Order! Order!!’ Barked a wigged vampire. He was the chairman, Mister Reaper. ‘The UK parliament is in session now. All rise for the national anthem.’
‘Do we rise too?’ Whispered a little zombie boy in the spectator galleries.
‘No.’ Muttered his father. ‘We don’t matter.’
They just stared as the members of parliament sang, howled, shrieked, and growled the anthem of The United Kingdom of Zombies and Vampires.

‘I can’t tolerate your sadness’, they bellowed. ‘Cause it’s me you are drowning. I won’t allow any happiness.’ They screeched “allow” with overzealous gusto. ‘I’ve become the lie, beautiful and free in my righteous own mind.’ They carried on, not really carrying the tune though. Then the crescendo ‘Sell me the infection, it is only for the weak, no need for sympathy.’ That’s too bad, as the performance was appalling. In their defense, they were politicians.
A middle-aged vampire stepped up to the dispatch box. Impeccable clothes, slim physique, ethereal presence. His official portrait is akin to the shroud of Turin. Except for the stylish haircut. Elvis style, hey baby. He was the Prime Menaceter. Leader of the ruling Conserve party.

‘Mister Reaper, if I may. This morning I had meetings with menaceterial monsters and others. In addition to my duties in this House, I shall have further such meat eating’s, erm, meetings later today.’ Loud sniggering from behind.

‘We now come to the leader of the obstruction, Mister D’Evil.’ Announced the Reaper.
The aging zombie hadn’t even commenced talking but the PM was already shaking his head. His retinue did the same. Vampires and zombies from the Conserve party all took part. Whole lotta shaking going on.
While the ruling party was shaking, the obstruction was bobbing. Heavily. Eventually, D’Evil found his notes and started talking.
‘Goblins arriving in dinghies, pixies gliding in on the dawn wind, mummies creeping in inconspicuously, werewolves howling over the fence, and what does he do?’ He asked, rhetorically, but pointing at the lady with a missing ear. ‘He appoints her as Home Strictary, placing her in charge of UK’s security. She broke the menaceterial code, lost control of the refugees, and put our security at risk. She did get one thing right though, she finally admitted that the Conserve party broke the asylum system. Criminal gangs are running amok, thousands crossing the slimy river, hardly any of them processed at the mince plant. According to the bookies, she has more chances of becoming the next Conserve party leader than processing a migrant! If we had lettuces in our exclusively carnivorous country I would like to see what would last longer: a plant or her political career? Why doesn’t the Prime Menaceter get a proper Home Strictary, crank down on monster smugglers, speed up migrant mincing, get a grip and finally start governing!’ The obstruction representatives loudly banged their hands on the benches. The PM stepped up to the dispatch box, and the two opposing sides changed their demeanor, those who were shaking started bobbing, and those who were bobbing took up shaking now.
‘Mister Reaper. Mister Reaper! The right honourable gentlezombie rightly raised the topic of monster security, because it is crucial. But wasn’t it him, who only a couple of years ago told the MBC, and I quote: “I do think that Frankenstein would make a great Prime Menaceter”. Let’s remember, Mister Reaper, Mister Reaper, let’s remember Frankenstein, the human lover, the preceding leader of the obstruction. His national security agenda consisted of abolishing our fanged forces, scraping the garlic bomb deterrent, withdrawing from MATO (Monsters and Terrifiers Organisation) voting against every single anti-human law we passed. Mister D’Evil might want to forget about it, but we on this side of the house will remind him every week that it’s only the Conserve government that will keep the country safe.’ Loud cheers from the government party. Some jumped up. Some from the obstruction hopped up as well. When D’Evil stood up to reply they all sat back.
‘They sought to waive the tax on high blood pressure, only to do a screeching U-turn due to public appeal.’ He read. ‘What else will they reconsider next week? The citizens of this country demand to know!’ ‘Aye!’ ‘Aye!’ Yelled the members of the obstruction, from the front benches to the back, bleating aimlessly, like sheep stuck in a ravine. Some jumped up again, from both sides of the house. Then they sat back without saying anything. Looked like an uncovered whack-a-mole.
‘Mister Reaper.’ Started the PM. ‘I am humbled, and I learned a lesson. My right honourable friend is right, the UK population wants stability. Reliability. We have provided them blood stamps, we have given them brain stamps to make sure that no one is left hungry in this splendid country of ours.’
‘Hear!’ ‘Hear!’ The backbenchers screeched.
The little zombie boy in the gallery struggled to take it all in. After all, he had no brain. Except for the fried one he had for breakfast. But he didn’t let that get to his head.
The Reaper banged vehemently on his desk. ‘Order. Order in the house! Mister D’Evil.’ He gestured at the zombie.
‘Thank you, Mister Reaper. Since their mini-budget announcement, the mort gauge rates are unaffordable for most budding monsters. The inflation is at 10%, recession has hit the whole land hard, all on their watch. Will the Prime Menaceter do the right thing and resign?’ Loud shouts from the obstruction.
‘Let me say this, Mister Speaker,’ Replied the PM. ‘As the right honourable zombie probably realizes, Mister Speaker, let me be absolutely clear: essentially it’s indispensably perspicuous that ambivalent expoundings should be refrained from by those who appreciate unambiguous averments. We are here to serve the people. And we are. We are serving them. With blood stamps, with brain stamps, with our guarantee that everybody can have their fill.’
‘Hear!’ ‘Hear!’ Chanted the members of the Conserve party, like drunk football yobs at a seventh-tier game. Some had another go at the monster whack-a-mole.
‘It is baffling that the Prime Menaceter had to be dragged kicking and screaming to attend the EFDiC (Evil Fog Dwindling Convention). The dissipating cloud clover will adversely affect the whole monster population, not only the deprived but the rich too. And not only he didn’t want to go, but he also signed treaties that will keep our reliance on foreign, expensive smog instead of using our natural resources and adequately distilling evil fog from our own marshes and mince plants.’ Aye! Aye! The obstruction snarled.
‘Mister Reaper, my right honourable colleague makes some excellent points.’ Replied the Prime Menaceter. ‘The obstruction thinks that they are the greatest thing since brain came spiced. But their plan is a blank page. You can’t criticize our plan if you don’t even have a plan.’ More hear hear-s and other repetitive shouts, hollers, and whoops, like drug addict bankers at a poker party. Some stood up again.
‘Daddy, why are they jumping up?’ Murmured the little zombie.
‘Dunno.’ His father shrugged. ‘Maggots?’
‘Maggots?’ Grimaced the boy.
‘Aye. In their butt.’
‘Order! Ordeeeeer!’ Shouted Mister Reaper. ‘The leader of the obstruction.’
‘We actually have a plan.’ Grinned the old zombie. ‘But even if we didn’t, that wouldn’t make their plan better. Mister Reaper, just because there isn’t an alternative it doesn’t mean that the only existing plan is any good.’ Rabble, rabble, rabble from the obstruction.
‘Order! ORDER!!! I would like to warn the leader of the obstruction that he almost seems to make sense. May I kindly remind him,’ the Reaper said, to loud supporting guffaws from the ruling benches, ‘may I firmly remind him, that is strictly proscribed in these halls? We’re not in the slums, for Dracula’s sake.’
‘Pardon me, Mister Reaper, I won’t let it happen anew. The price of disease is going up. Some of us are forced to get by on last year’s flu. An affordable decent disease is nowhere to be found. Some are even forced to resort to Covid 19.’ Discernible groans. ‘Is the PM finally going to allow gene-modified maladies to thrive?’
‘Mister Reaper, the right honourable zombie makes an excellent point and it’s absolutely deadly to make one thing clear: if you think about it, nowhere is just a different spelling for “now, here”.’ The Conserve party burst in copious laughter.
‘Order. Order!’ The Reaper banged his gavel. ‘I will have order in this house. We will listen to the leader of the obstruction. Mister D’Evil.’
‘Thank you, Mister Reaper. Mister Reaper, the Prime Menaceter has the nerve to hazard himself to grammatical considerations, when we all know, if you remove the v from vampire all we have left is: empire.’ The reception to this response was considerably muted. The PM got up the dispatch box.
‘Erm…, not?’
‘Order. Order!’ Barked the Reaper. ‘The Prime Menaceter should consider his remarks carefully, this almost sounded like a direct reply?’ The PM expressed his remorse with an apologetic bow of his head. ‘What a rough-hewn attitude. The youth of today. Tradition breakers.’ Lamented Mister Reaper. Now he was shaking his head as well ‘The leader of the obstruction.’ He sighed as he slumped in his chair.
‘The 5% increase in blood tax hangs like a guillotine over the masses while the honourable members of the Conserve party eat blood cake.’ Claimed the leader of the obstruction.
‘I don’t know who’s gobbling up more cakes.’ Sniggered the Prime Menaceter, to boisterous laughter.
‘Order! Order!!! I will not have this! Order! I can see who is hollering. A lot of bodies are seeking to catch my eye. And I will not acknowledge them when they wish to ask a question. Order! The Prime Menaceter has the floor.’
‘My right honourable friend is a hindsight zombie!’
‘Hear! Hear!’ Members of the ruling party shouted and banged their desks in approval.
‘The leader of the obstruction.’ Said the creeper.
‘You great vampire’s blouse. I disrespectfully disregard your dissing.’ D’Evil uttered. Now it was the obstructions’ turn to guffaw and howl and make every animalistic noise imaginable. And a few unimaginable too.
‘Order! Order!’ Shrieked Mister Reaper. ‘The Prime Menaceter.’
‘You great pointless zombie bollard. Your mother was a mindless zombie.’ The PM said to a roar of laughter from behind. ‘Also, we gave blood stamps and brain stamps to the masses.’
‘Mister Reaper, at least she wasn’t a blood-sucking witch.’ D’Evil countered to great acclaim.
They antagonized each other for a while, clever quip after clever quip, burn after burn. It was all marvelous fun, they learned it in their private schools – which they called public to spite the public. While poor pupils constantly cultivated the art of showing others, these spoiled brats were taught that you can only shove so many vampires or zombies at a time. But you can outsmart millions with one great idea. Or, in lack of ideas, just a string of clever lies.
‘Daddy, daddy, I don’t get it.’ Yanked his father’s hand the little boy in the gallery. Then he gave it back.
‘It seems the obstruction lost the banter game again.’ His father replied, re-attaching his arm. ‘Hard times are ahead.’ The boy was still puzzled, peered at his father with lifeless eyes. The father sighed.
‘We might have to eat your mother.’

The queue stretched outside the imposing market and swirled into the surrounding roads. It wasn’t moving at the moment, as the merchant was not ready yet. His stock was heaped on the ground. Well, not actually in the dirt, it would have been a shame to soil it. It was on old newspapers. With his ware piled up neatly, the seller, who squatted on the ground, was shaping the mound, caressing it affectionately. It was of a brownish colour, though there were a few green patches too, along with some hints of black and red here and there. Light brown shades at the bottom. It was rather soft, squashy enough to be moulded by hand, but not mushy enough to disintegrate.
The queue was substantial, but the primary marketing tool of the trader outstretched the queue. The smell was unmistakably noticeable for half a mile or more.
He was peddling crap.
And he was ready now.
‘Five, please.’ Said the first individual in the queue, plainly proud of his prime position. The seller held up his left palm, seized the money from the buyer, then served him with his right hand. He neatly portioned five handfuls of poo in the buyer’s bag.
‘I’ll take seven.’ Announced the second in the queue. He promptly received seven portions of crap.
‘Just two please.’ A woman mumbled and awkwardly held up her folded smock. She was poor, you see.
‘I’ll take twenty!’ Exclaimed the next, with an air of superiority. The seller took their money, then shoved the requested amount in their bags or trolleys or aprons. When the mound was almost finished an assistant brought out a wheelbarrow laden with human crap, and delicately dumped it in front of the seller. And this went on all day.
Two strangers stumbled upon this scene. They stared for a while in silence, then one of them said ‘He’s an idiot!’
‘Who?’ Rebutted the other.
‘What? Well, surely…, oh…, I see what you mean.’

They didn’t speak about it, as they couldn’t yet talk, but if they could, they would have probably gone overboard at the awesomeness of the region. Pasture, river, forest, all laid out perfectly. If nature would do showrooms, this would be it.
They grunted, nodded and pointed, scratched and burped. Moved into a cave, then pulled up a tent when they learned how. Then another, and another. Then wooden huts, when the technology was discovered. Filled the gaps with muck from the river. Surrounded it with earthworks, again, with mud drawn from the seemingly ever-giving riverbed. But it was only seemingly ever giving, as ultimately they hit rock bottom. Fortunately, this happened at the same time as stone houses were thought of, so they kept excavating the river. A splendid little village emerged, with neat stone shacks. Perched on top of the giant gorge that was the result of centuries worth of riverbed excavations. Post wasn’t conceived yet, but if it was this would have been an ideal postcard. One that you would grapple to turn over to read what they wrote, utterly engrossed by the idyllic picture.
Then one day, as was determined by his forebearers for the last couple of centuries or more, a young strapping lad turned his pick on the rock at the foot of the gorge. He was getting married, the transaction was made, the wife sorted, so he had to build a house. According to customs, he was to bring up the first load of stones, then the whole village would chip in. Literally. But when his pickaxe chipped the rock surface something unexpected happened. A heavy tremor shook the lad, along with the gorge and the village, and a second later a huge boulder fell. Right on the young guy, who was less strapping now and more squished. This single boulder was accompanied by the whole gorge and the finest stone mason would have been unable to separate the rubble of the stones apart from the houses that used to sit atop the gorge.
A prowling party had left the village in the morning. When they returned in the evening the village was no more. Homelessness just got conceived.
‘Well, that’s a bummer.’ Said Mis, the chieftain.
‘So, what now?’ Someone wondered.
‘Dinner?’ A hesitant voice suggested.
‘Wild boar?’ Picked up another villager. They loved wild boar, especially with a paste made of coarsely crushed grain mixed with water. The greatest thing before bread came sliced.
‘We have to rebuild.’ Another voice.
‘We can build bigger houses!’ Someone exclaimed. ‘There are fewer of us now.’
‘We will have to renegotiate the marriage contracts.’ A person quipped.
‘At least we don’t have to haul the rocks so high anymore.’
‘Is it sensible to start carving again? Maybe we hacked too much out of the riverbed.’
The woman proclaiming these words was Which. They didn’t bother much with names then. Nor did they with silly ideas. So, they just laughed at Which. Roared to be precise.
‘Think about it.’ Insisted Which. ‘Fred was expected to get the initial stone batch for his house today. Maybe that caused the collapse?’
The roar got rowdier. Which frowned. Eventually, someone managed to compose himself long enough to squeeze out a few words.
‘That scant geezer brought down the gorge? On his own?’ The laughter started again.
‘If he was so strong, maybe my father should have sold ME to him.’ Shrieked the most beautiful girl in the village. More laughter. There were a few more comments, progressively weaker, so the laughter eventually petered out.
‘Not on his own, of course not.’ Argued Which. ‘Everybody did. Little by little.’
‘Shut up, woman.’ Intervened the chief. ‘This gorge was carved forever. Even before the Gods created us from honey and straw.’
Who carved it before? Pondered Which, but she kept this thought to herself. ‘Exactly. It was chiseled for so long that it finally gave away.’ She responded.
‘It was done forever and never caved in, so Fred couldn’t have set it off, could he?’ Someone replied.
‘Just because it never happened doesn’t mean it can’t happen, does it?’ Retorted Which.
‘All our forefathers lived here, hunting in the forest, working the fields, molding the gorge. Now all of a sudden you think you are smarter than them?’
‘No, not at all. I’m just suggesting maybe they couldn’t envisage this. It was rock solid up until… it was not.’
‘You declare you’re not brighter than them, yet you dare contradict them!’
‘Well, I don’t exactly contradict them…’ Which started, but she was rudely halted.
‘Silence!’ Beamed an old man. ‘Maybe the Gods punished us.’
‘Oooh.’ The group groaned. That sounded like a completely logical explanation.
‘Maybe They punished us.’ Nodded the old man. ‘Maybe They punished us for the sins of one individual.’ The group fell silent now. “I hope it’s not me” was on everybody’s mind. ‘Maybe someone angered them. Someone who assumes she’s wiser than the whole world.’ He concluded, smacking his lips.
‘Who could it be?’ A voice queried.
‘Maybe Which?’ A hesitant woman said.
‘Yes, that could be it.’ Someone else realised.
‘Definitely, definitely.’ Others joined in.
Which didn’t say anything.
She flew.
She devoted her days to running after or from animals, depending on their size, so she fled at a breath-taking pace. Alas, all the other residents had the same training regime, so they pursued at the same pace and promptly cornered her.
‘Well, Which, you cannot escape the Gods!’ Snorted a toothless man who just caught her.
‘But what should we do with her?’ Yelled someone.
‘Shove her off the gorge!’ Hollered a man. This was the traditional punishment in the village. Which smirked and nodded, but the rest of the villagers stared at the fellow until he realised his foolishness. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’
‘We have a fire on.’ The old man smacked his lips again.
‘Right! Burn her!’ The group concurred.
‘Wait! Wait!’ Which appealed. ‘Blame it on me, fair enough. But why kill me? Banish me, forever, I’ll leave, and you can live happily ever after or something. There’s no need to murder me!’
‘No, no, who knows what will you do? Spook us!’
‘Burn her! The crowd chanted. ‘Burn her!’ Even before social media, when the mob stumbled upon a trend, they just went with it. Or, in this case, they ran with Which on their shoulder. She fought as hard as she could.
‘No! Not in the fire!’ She shrieked. ‘Kill me quickly! Use a knife!’ She implored them. A few people regarded this a fair request, after all, the point was to get rid of her. A blade would suffice. But the boisterous crowd persevered.
‘Burn her! She must atone for what she’d done!’ And they thrust her into the fire. She knocked over the remnants of their supper, and as soon as they let her go, she skipped out of the fire. They seized her and forced her back in, but she bounced out on the other side. It was a small fire.
‘Why won’t she sit still?’ Marvelled aloud a geezer. Nobody explained.
‘We need to hold her!’ Somebody shouted. So, they shoved her back and held her.
‘Hot! Hot!’ Some shrieked and let her bolt again.
‘You fools!’ Chief Mis admonished them. ‘Get rope. Tie her hands and legs. You! Bring more wood. Stoke the fire.’ Turns out is not that easy to burn someone. Especially alive. And unwilling. But they managed somehow. And found a great cure against reason too.

Since I can’t compel you to stay as there are laws against it why don’t you do it on your own? Stick around and read more of my short stories. All of them are amazing. Well, most of them are. OK, honestly, some of them are. Why don’t you decide for yourself? Take a look around –> Here’s a map!

Or, if you’re really adventurous, get off the beaten track and read a random story!