Coat Angel of Death
By Jack Cade
- 1353 reads
COAT ANGEL OF DEATH
Manley went right past my door last night for the umpteenth time and,
spying the jack of hearts pinned above my blurred and naked slanted
woman, spluttered, "But...that's mine!"
I tried in vain to explain to the cad that an actor-poet such as
myself needs to have a jack of hearts pinned to the noticeboard outside
his door because he is expected to show some evidence of his candid
roguishness, to proclaim his feats of open womanisation to all who
might pass his way and stoke envy in the fires of lesser being's
hearts, but by God, he was having none of it. He plucked it right from
its proud position beside Gandalf and Frodo, then stalked away with the
air of an audacious scoundrel to return it to his pack of cards. It is
behaviour such as this that makes me thankful I am such a loyal and
forgiving ally - after all, what use is the jack of hearts in any card
game I know of? Excepting of course that absurd Monotony game which
they like to indulge in on nights where their brains would make better
dog food than musing matter.
Besides, Manley is chief boozer on this corridor. Everyone knows that.
Not a day flies by when I don't catch him cradling an empty bottle of
Vladimir . I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same one, refilled
from some magic spring he's smuggled into his bedroom. Sly, that
one.
That's a lie - Manley's no bigger drinker than I.
But anyway, I still believe in divine retribution, as I like to point
out every now and then. It occurs to me that I've been proved right
enough times. Manley got what was coming to him with the coat angel of
death incident.
I called on him that morning to see if he was going to town with the
Vampire Countess and I.
"Manley!" I yelled. "Wake up, ye tart."
He opened the door, as tradition dictates, and I sauntered into his
room, full of wrath. I noticed upon entering that one of his great
dirty posters lay across his bed like some pooped out prozzie.
"Ah, yes," he said, noticing the direction of my gaze. "I was attacked
last night."
"Attacked?" I snorted. "By whom, might I ask?"
"By my poster."
"Stop babbling, man!" (I was indignant - this gudgeon was well below
me.) "Posters don't just up and come at you with a dagger. I see you've
slain the beast anyhow," (I added,) "so it can't have been too
vexing."
Manley allowed me the slight beginnings of a smile, but never
fulfilled its promise.
"To be honest, it fell on me."
"Good grief! I hope you've phoned the police!"
My startlingly deft witticisms were beginning to irritate, so I backed
down. A drunk Manley is more dangerous than various other dangers I
might care to mention. Not that he was drunk, but I wasn't taking any
unnecessary risks.
"It's quite an amusing story, if you'll just listen," he imparted with
an air of tragedy.
I listened.
"I was having a nightmare about being killed," Manley said. "And I
woke with a start, covered in sweat. I caught a glimpse of my coat..."
(he indicated where his coat hung,) "...and thought it to be the angel
of death. Then the poster came tumbling down atop of me. It was
terrifying!"
I thought it imprudent to mention divine retribution, but there was no
doubt in my mind that this was the cause. Once again my guile had
avoided me a fierce confrontation, and Manley had been dealt his just
deserts. The day was off to a cracking start.
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