The Bazaar: Chapter 13

Bride of Frankenstein

Emily had a recurring nightmare.

‏In it she walked barefoot through an overgrown cemetery,‭ ‬wearing a silk nightgown of a style that was already out of fashion a hundred years ago.‭ ‬Some real‭ ‬Bride of Frankenstein‭ ‬shit.‭ ‬It was a moonless night. Chinese lanterns were strung all through the trees.‭ ‬They cast a soft,‭ ‬reddish glow over the graves.

‏A cabana bar stood amid the headstones.‭

The bartender grinned broadly. He offered her a martini glass full of blood.‭ ‬Instead of an olive it had a human eyeball skewered on a toothpick.

‏Emily backed away from the glass and the grinning bartender,‭ ‬further and further till she fell into an open grave,‭ ‬into the arms of‭ ‬her mother’s mummified corpse.‭ ‬The more she struggled in her dead mother’s grasp the tighter the corpse squeezed,‭ ‬all the while staring her down with empty eye sockets,‭ ‬its jaw twisted into a silent,‭ ‬never-ending scream.‭

Dead again‭ ‬Number Eleven‭! ‬the sarge intoned. The sorriest,‭ ‬most pathetic excuse for a death I’ve seen in twenty-nine years of service to Our Great Nation.‭ ‬Except maybe that bag of bones you’re too busy cuddling to keep your fucking head in the game.

‏Now,‭ ‬back in reality,‭ ‬that voice seemed to follow her through the slum streets,‭ ‬reverberating off concrete block and corrugated metal.‭

Do you plan to die a snivelling worm or a human being,‭ ‬Number Eleven‭? ‬Like a soldier or a street-walking junkie‭? ‬Have some dignity,‭ ‬Number Eleven.‭ ‬Self-re-fucking-spect.‭ ‬Or did you prefer sucking dick full-time‭?

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