Flash Fiction: A Cup of Tea at Quilliam Brothers

Emily Watton's latest fiery piece of fiction, very strong and cutting with explicit language used

Emily Watton
30th November 2015
Emily Watton's latest fiery piece of fiction, very strong and cutting with explicit language used

Oh, fucking fantastic! My home has been opened by a wanton wretch again. No, not ‘opened’, invaded is more like it.   The light from my front door floods in.  I hate light.  Day light, electric light, candle light, they can all go to Hell. The mask before me is now visible, features painted on with at least an inch of makeup. God she must be ugly if that’s an improvement. My brothers sit in rows around me, like a conscripted fucking army, and I’m the mug on the front line.  A large paw gropes my side with owls stamped on each talon and I am lifted into the air.  He puts me upon a pretty attractive looking piece – upside down I might add.

  Hello, Darling… Look, we match. I would be more nonchalant but the sudden motion and being upside down has given me vertigo, which has understandably thrown me off my game.  The bastard could at least be careful.

A teapot is set beside us.  The heavy thud rattles me.  Poor bloke has been a veteran of these events.  The chip on his spout is nothing compared to the chip on his shoulder. He can leave off looking at my girl, though.  Wanker.  As a group we are lifted and judder with each of the lummox’s footfalls.  I try to brace myself for landing, but there’s not much you can do when you’re standing on your fucking head.  The same meaty paw lifts up my new girlfriend with me on top of her, along with my cousin, and once again sets us down.  This time in front of some tosser with glasses too big for his face. At least, they’re not non-prescription lenses, I can tell because he’s needing them to cop a view down the girl’s jumper one table away. A man after my own heart after all, perhaps. A face of an innocent and a taste for the pleasurable.

At least our new captor has the common decency to right me up on my feet.  My heavy cousin’s head is pulled off, his contents examined and inhaled.  Disgusting perverted sadist. I bet he’s doing it only for the waiter. I bet you on a date with that slut on the next table, he would only know something was wrong with his pot of oolong if there was a dog shit inside instead. Our bully has now graciously replaced the poor sod’s head back on and is tipping him, spilling his burning contents in my direction.  I shudder.  He probably doesn’t even notice, or thinks it is just someone kicking his table.  Blind fucker. The tidal wave of scalding bitter nastiness is poured into me.  Oooh, you son of a bitch, I hate this part.  If I had teeth I’d grit them.  My discomfort distracts me as I am brought towards his stupid puffed up lips. Ew, he has a pubescent beard.  I hate hipsters.  They can go fuck themselves and enjoy their weirdness elsewhere.

‘Ow!’ The fucker bellows at me.

His shout echoes through my chest.  I’m deafened.  Isn’t that just the last straw for discourteous behaviour? Yelling at somebody who is just inches from your mouth. Honestly.

He has released me.

Well, this is a new experience. Maybe, I’m finally free of these knit-coat wearing wankers forever.

Hang on, shit! Too close to the floor! Pull up, pull up!

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