|The Butcher (standard:humor, 2693 words)|
|Author: Gibbon||Added: Feb 23 2005||Views/Reads: 1981/1301||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|May not be to everyone's taste. A tale of cruelty and revenge.|
Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a depressing town up north called Tripton-on-Sea, there lived an unremarkable young man called Donny. He was twenty years old, as skinny and knobbly as a Twiglet, and had the dress sense of a fifty-year-old maths teacher. He was also desperate for money to buy himself a social life, so he obtained a part-time job in the local butchers. He hated it; considering he was a vegetarian, it wasn't really his scene. It was the neighbours that interested him. Directly opposite the meat shop was a ladies fashion store called L'elegance de Chantelle. It was one of those women's clothes shops that are about 20 years out of date but somehow managed to keep afloat. This was mainly down to a good range of enormous underwear and support tights and a healthy turn-over of those pinafore dresses that the majority of old ladies seem to wear, in various shades of brown. Of course it wasn't the big knickers that attracted Donny, it was a certain member of staff. The proprietor, Chantelle (real name – Tricia), spent very little time in the shop these days; she had a sideline in prostitution, which she enjoyed as both a hobby and a nice little earner, so she'd put her nineteen-year-old daughter, Diane, in charge. Diane was a sumptuous, virginal looking girl with lovely marshmallow breasts and a big round bottom that was crying out for a good squeeze – and Donny was more than willing to do the honours. She had a head of fiery red hair that fell in a cascade of curls around her beautiful lily-white neck and a cavernous cleavage to welcome him home on a cold winter's night. Oh yes, she was the woman of Donny's dreams and he would do anything to make her his ‘special lady'. Day after day, he would stand behind the counter, absent-mindedly playing with a bit of offal or throwing a liver up in the air and catching it like a hackey-sack. Every dreary afternoon, he would gaze longingly out of the window, across the road to L'elegance de Chantelle, dreaming of kissing those succulent lips. As the weeks went by, he sent her flowers, teddy bears, love-heart shaped helium balloons, and heart-felt poetry, but he never seemed to be able to find the courage to walk over and introduce himself. Instead, he would watch her delighted reaction whenever she received a gift from her mystery admirer, self-consciously looking up and down the street, playing with her hair, and giggling to herself. Mr Gypsum, Donny's boss, was a man's man and he had always considered Donny to be a bit of a floppy sausage. Decades of record-breaking pie consumption had provided him with a bilious, undulating physique, and all the fat on his brain had simply made him greedier and more unsavoury with every passing year. Yep, he was steak and chips and 15 cans man, and Donny was a lentil bake and ginger beer pansy. Consequently, Gypsum had treated Donny with utter contempt right from the start. So Donny was quite surprised when the lardy old bigot offered him a helping hand with his love life. Gypsum, apparently had been watching Donny, and had taken note of his helpless infatuation with the young baggage over the road. Of course, he couldn't blame him, had he been a few years younger, he'd definitely have tried to give her one, instead he had settled for her loose and juicy mother - a bit of a baggy sock, but good for some cheap relief. Anyway, he said he felt it was his duty to help his loyal staff member to win over the girl of his dreams. He would pull a few strings, he said, help him set up the date of a lifetime, one she would remember forever. All Donny had to do was get her to agree to meet him on Saturday night. So Donny sent a note to L'elegance de Chantelle, along with a pair of tacky clown earrings from the market. The note read: “If you would like to meet your mystery admirer, come to the Spotlight ballroom at the end of the pier for 7.30pm”. Hardly poetic, but these were the instructions Gypsum had given him, having pulled up a favour from Ernie ‘fox trot' Henshaw, the owner of the deteriorating dance hall. In his day, Ernie had been the king of swingers, the Fred Estair of Tripton-on-Sea. Now he was a chubby, flat-footed shuffler with a comb-over and corns. But he obliged the favour all the same, and even chucked in a bottle of Cava left over from last year's WI convention. Donny, dressed to the hilt in his best iridescent, tight-fitted suit and leather slip-ons, turned up at the Spotlight a few minutes early to be on the safe side, and was quite overwhelmed by what he found. Gypsum had really gone to town, the whole hog - the date of all dates. The ballroom was romantically lit with one large glitter ball in the centre of the ceiling, underneath which sat an intimate table for two, champagne on ice, a dozen red roses, and a beautifully wrapped gift Click here to read the rest of this story (161 more lines)
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