Ghoul's Well That Ends Well

GHOUL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL Clara walked into the Hag &; Heart and
took a seat at the bar; she needed a drink. The sign propped up against
the jar of pickled newts said, Cocktail Hour. Clara caught the barman's
eye and ordered a Long Island Spliced Bat. As the sour green slime
slithered down her throat, she was able to reflect on the day's events.
She couldn't quite believe she'd pulled it off. She had stood in front
of the Ghoul Management Council and successfully argued the case
against the cloning. It had been tough, really tough. The expansion
lobbyists were out in force claiming that the present population
couldn't keep up with the demands of Halloween and that the increasing
reliance on 'seasonals' to fill in on the night was seriously damaging
their overall reputation. And then there was Albert von Bute. At seven
foot tall he was by far the most impressive looking wizard on the
Council, with his lustrous grey hair scraped back to reveal elegantly
arched ears, two piercingly blue eyes and one rather wistful green one,
he demanded respect. Von Bute headed a small but powerful Think Tank
that was pushing for a Gold Standard for Apparitions' Appearances. He'd
already convinced many that a fail-safe, horrific look was fundamental
to every ghoul's cause, and that without it they'd just be reduced to a
series of bumps in the night. But Clara wasn't intimidated. She stood
up, as straight as her hump would allow, and began her attack. She
shredded the statistics and poked holes in the theories. Finally, she
made an impassioned assertion that only a reliance on individuality
could bring about the freakish offspring necessary to create spectres
worthy of the twenty-first century. The Council members sat looking
thoughtful, talking amongst themselves. Even von Bute looked a little
fazed. More than once she caught his green eye looking quizzically in
her direction during the deliberations. At last they agreed. The
cloning project would be halted, temporarily, whilst they considered
the issues. Colleagues rushed up to Clara to pat her on the hump and
congratulate her on her performance. Clara smiled to herself as she
enjoyed the memory. The barman looked up and slithered over, "Hey,
bumpy baby, you smiling at me?" Clara gave a nervous cackle, "No I was
just thinking of ? actually I'm just waiting for someone and ?" "Okay,
okay," he said, "No need to panic, just thought you might need some
company," he shrugged his feelers and slithered off. If she'd had
enough blood she would've blushed. "Slugs," she thought, downing the
last of her cocktail "Why do I let creatures like that get to me?" She
ordered another cocktail and mused on the fleeting nature of her good
mood. Clara knew what the trouble was. Despite her career success she
felt unfulfilled. She knew it was a clich?, but she wanted a wizard and
she wanted one now. Thing was, she had one small wart under her left
eye and it had always made her self-conscious with the opposite sex.
Other hags had warts all over, but not Clara. She'd tried the stick on
ones but they hadn't worked. She'd snog some wizard, the damned things
would fall off and he'd be left with a beard full of glue and a
disappointed look in his eye. Implants weren't an option either. She
couldn't afford them and she couldn't face the risks. Only last month a
dozen implantees had come a cropper during Fresher's Week. Showing off
to the trainees, they'd flown way too high and their fake warts had
exploded en masse like a meteor shower. Anyhow, Clara knew that she was
ugly on the inside and that's what counted. But then why was she here,
two spliced bats to the good, and no bones to jump on. "That's it, I'm
going home." She swivelled round on her barstool - then she saw him.
Albert von Bute, author of 'How to Clone a Crone' sitting alone reading
a copy of Which Witch whilst absent-mindedly crushing a frog with a
pestle and mortar. It must have been the 90% proof bat or something,
but she walked straight up to him, "Hi," He looked up. But instead of
looking indignant or annoyed, he blushed. "Oh," he said, "Hello, I was
just?." He jammed the pestle down too quickly and particles of squashed
frog flew all over the table. "Please sit down. Miss?" "Clara, call me
Clara." "Oh, thanks." Clara allowed herself a small surprised smile.
"How's the research coming?" She said, pointing a long black nail
towards his magazine. "Oh, this? It's nothing really. The latest
innovations you know." "Innovations? Sure, just as long as they have
warts an' all, huh?" She couldn't disguise the hurt in her voice. There
was an awkward silence. Clara picked up her cocktail stick and began
toying with the eyeball at the bottom of her glass. Then he spoke,
softly, "Clara, look at me." Clara slowly raised her gaze to meet his,
her long hair gently veiling her left eye, which was considerably
further down her face than her right eye. "Clara," he said, "those
witches out there aren't half the hag you are. You know that don't
you?" She looked away. "Look, I'm telling them not to go ahead with the
project. You're right, looks aren't everything; it's the vileness of
the personality that counts. Damn it, Clara, you may have skin like a
peach, but to my eye, you are truly gross. She looked up, saw the
sincerity in each of his eyes and felt the hairs on her knees stand up.
"It's been a long day," he said, "Why don't you come back to my place
and I'll make you something to eat." "You can cook?" "Well, not really,
I just throw a few things in a big pot." As he held out his
frog-speckled hand to hers, she gave him a brown-toothed smile, "You
know, Albert, this could be the start of a really disgusting
relationship." The End