Laura Gillespie was worried. She was convinced she was having a heart attack. Thirty seconds earlier she had been delighted. The fact that her butcher had some cow tongue that nobody wanted, and that she could take with her for free, was great news.
Now the smell of sulphur was wafting through her nostrils. And the shop was growing dark. A black figure floated in through the screen door and stood next to her at the counter. Bone and sinew melted and reformed as the figure throbbed with shallow breaths. Every intake seemed to suck light from the room. Every exhalation oozed with the smell of rotten egg. An arm reached towards her. At the end of the arm was a bony hand. At the end of the bony hand was a bony finger.
It’s colour was the opposite of light. Laura waited for her soul to be claimed. Just as she thought her race was run the finger turned and pointed behind the counter. Poor old Gary, he had returned with the tongue to face death.
‘You’, hissed the figure, ‘I’ll have a curry chipss and a batter burger.’
‘This is a butchers.’
‘Sssorry mate, my missstake.’