Talking of Blood

4 Oct


wound photo: Roberts wound wound2.jpgIt crossed Gringol Barnacle’s mind that he might be bleeding to death. It was several days since his friend the mad vicar, the Reverend Pariah had stabbed him in order to silence him and it was all he could do to push a cucumber into the wound, staunch the flow and wait for it to heal.
He was in the Pariah spare bedroom, and there were several cucumbers that belonged to the housekeeper in a magazine rack in the corner. If it hadn’t been for them he might have had to stem the crimson flow with the handle of a hairbrush, and he thought goodness knows where that might have been and what germs might linger on it’s plastic surface!
But try as hard as he might, the blood insisted in seeping out of his flesh. He’d deserved the stabbing, he knew that he had, the way he’d harped on about atheist things while Pariah was trying to get his strength up in bed, but he was beginning to think the punishment had been a bit too severe.
He could hear voices downstairs and dearly wanted to go and ask for forgiveness, but he couldn’t because of the chains. Jodish Pariah had, quite rightly, of course, chained him to the radiator (within uncomfortable reach of the magazine rack, thankfully) and left him to think about his manifold sins without the distraction of being able to wander freely about the house. Now he wanted to reclaim his freedom and pop out for a bite to eat and a pint, but he could barely move.
He jammed the cucumber into a damaged artery and tried to stand up, and he felt a sudden dizziness and fell back down.
“All that effort for nothing,” purred a voice from the doorway, and he looked up to see the buxom and glorious figure of a grass-skirted angel standing in the now-unlocked doorway.
“Who are you?” he squeaked, desperately fighting the erection that was forming in his underwear, and showing visible signs of losing the battle.
“What a big boy,” purred the delectable one. “I’m Ayoni, by the way, and I thought I’d trace the source of the drop of blood that landed on the Bishop’s balding pate, and here I am.”
“The Reverend stabbed me,” explained Gringol. “It was quite right of him, the proper thing to do. I was going on a bit. But I’ve learned my lesson and think it’s about time he loosened my chains.”
“You poor thing,” sighed the rare beauty, hitching her grass skirt up in order to step over a congealing puddle of Gringol’s blood. “Here, let me unbind you. See: the keys are still in the padlock! You could quite easily have unlocked yourself – unless, that is, you actually enjoy being chained to a radiator!”
Gringol slapped his forehead with one blood-stained hand. “I had no idea!” he shouted. “I thought I was intended to stay here for many days, until I saw sense!”
“Then come over here, sit on this bed with me, and I will tend your wounds,” whispered Ayoni. “I will make you as good as new, and then you and I will have to leave this house, for it is a house of sin.”
“It is the Reverend’s house!” protested Gringol, “and although he holds many views I find to be totally fallacious, by virtue of his calling he can never be a sinner or his home a place of sin!”
“Because he believes in a smoke and mirrors god?” grinned the girl, exposing both of her breasts. “Here, if you rest your head on these I will cleanse and repair your dreadful wound.”
“Smoke and mirrors?” asked Gringol.
“Quite. Smoke and mirrors. Would it help if I removed my grass skirt too?” queried the raving beauty.
“That’s sinful!” snapped Gringol. “I would dearly love it if you were to remove your grass skirt, but we are in a holy house! What would happen to our life-after-death eternities if you were to remove your wonderful grass skirt in this place? We would be doomed to everlasting suffering!”
“Yes,” sighed the beautiful Ayoni. “It is quite wrong for you to become fond of my body, lithe and dusky as it is, in this house – and yet perfectly proper for the householder to take a blade and stab you! Yet I promise you, when you are well again I will be your willing slave for as long as you want me, I will let you make wonderful love to me, and we will live our lives out in perfect harmony and happiness until our dotage is claimed by death!”
“You will?” weakened Gringol.
“I am a woman of my word,” she purred, “and anyway, I like the look of you, my sweet man.”
“Stop!” bawled a voice from the doorway. “What sin is this! And in my house too!”
It was the Reverend Pariah, and without looking particularly hard they could tell he was seething.
“My friend…” began Gringol, cowering.
“This is a house of my god!” roared Pariah, “and as such there must be no happiness, no touching of lips, no joy in here! It is a place for prayer and worship!”
“And pleasuring housekeepers,” added a voice as Wanda Slowbottom pushed him aside from behind, having finally managed to fasten her white and lacy brassiere.
© Peter Rogerson 04.10.14


11 Responses to “Talking of Blood”

  1. slpsharon October 4, 2014 at 3:27 pm #

    Gracious, are you going to leave any sins out. Lol. Love the key still there bit.

    • Peter Rogerson October 4, 2014 at 3:50 pm #

      I’m just going to gently dig at hypocrisy using a handful of very silly characters

  2. Elan Mudrow October 4, 2014 at 3:46 pm #

    Nice! I like your writing. More please.
    check out:

    • Peter Rogerson October 4, 2014 at 3:50 pm #

      Thanks, Elan. Will do.

      • Peter Rogerson October 4, 2014 at 3:52 pm #

        I’m back, Elan. Looks impressive. I’ll read more when I have the time.

  3. barbod2014angusbelle October 4, 2014 at 10:38 pm #

    Peter, how do I find parts 1 and 2? I missed them and would like to catch up. Ta!

    • Peter Rogerson October 5, 2014 at 9:20 am #

      They’re here somewhere. I’ll try and find a way of including links in the next part.

  4. pambrittain October 5, 2014 at 5:50 pm #

    Good to know that this time, he didn’t kill him, to death. I’m loving this, Peter.

    • Peter Rogerson October 5, 2014 at 6:28 pm #

      Thanks, Pam. I’m letting it take me wheresoever it will…


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