For reasons that escape me, I found myself in a shack on the seafront of a popular holiday resort, in the company of one Gypsy Rose Lee Harvey Oswald.He lifts his rather fetching veil, fixes me with a furtive look and utters words as ancient as time, as powerful as the spirits of the long departed.
"What the fuck you want?"
"Aren't you supposed to be a woman?"
He is unfazed.
"You crossin' my palm with silver or what? And by 'silver', I actually mean 'gold'."
Against my better judgment, money changes hands, and I ask for my palm to be read.
"Hold yer hand up," he asks.
I obey.
"If yer hand is bigger than your face, you are ...err... rewarded with the wisdom and fortune of the ancients. Yeah."
My hand is, indeed, bigger than my face.
And I know this because Gypsy Rose Lee Harvey Oswald took the opportunity to punch me one and nick my wallet. Blood. Everywhere.
"I bet you didn't see that coming, eh?" he guffaws, helping himself to my entire worldly fortune, to whit: five quid and a Nectar Card.
"PLAW!" I reply, covered in blood and snot.
"And - HAH! - you said you wanted your palm 'RED'," he continued, showing me the door. Then he showed me the curtains, and then the pavement, with extreme force.
Funnily enough, I'm a psychic too. And I can tell you that Gypsy Rose Lee Harvey Oswald's immediate future holds a steaming, fresh turd through the letterbox, it being the only language these curs understand.
5 comments:
C.O.D., no doubt: Crap On Delivery
Sneak over one night and cut a hole in the pier just the same size as the darkened interior of their cubby hole. Why just one turd when you can have a whole steaming English Channel of them?
So how much did you pay to get punched in the face?
TRT: There is no pier in Weymouth. Embarrassingly, it fell into the sea several years ago, leaving a pathetic stub that is now a Chinese restaurant
Ah. You said 'popular holiday resort'. Poetic license.
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