Tarot
of Death
In the months since her encounter with Master Crow and her adventure
to the centre of the Earth Lynne had immersed herself in work in Heywood.
In this time she had been especially careful to avoid slipping on any
greasy vertical blind drapes, as she didn’t want to end up in the
clutches of the evil and sometimes maniacal clutches of Niles from Ash
Residential. Her brain had become somewhat fried due to her adventures
and also the fact that she went on the piss every night in the soiled
bars of Heywood, which meant that her knowledge of word puzzles was a
little diminished, so she didn’t know if she could escape a second
time from Nile’s pincer-like puzzle talons. She had recently bought
a cat-o-nine tails with which to whip her workers though she would be
the first to admit that it had no effect what so ever on the rate at which
the slaves worked but she did enjoy putting them through ever increasing
barriers of pain. On this fateful day Lynne was busy squeezing the grease
out of the drapes when it suddenly dawned on her that she’d worked
35 consecutive days.
“I need a holiday”, she exclaimed, and with that she rolled
out of the door and off home to pack her executive travel case that she’d
won on Bullseye in the 80’s.
She arrived in Blackpool several hours later full of excitement and enthusiasm
despite the fact that she had witnessed the deaths of several people on
the jammed to the rafters train.
“My goodness what a dastardly journey, if it hadn’t been for
my trusty supply of shortbread I don’t think I would have made it.
I will have to be sure to stock up again for the return journey.”
She walked the promenade for several hours eating candyfloss and rock
taking in the glorious sights of the glum drab rundown sleazy scumpool
jewel of the northwest coast often pointing out, “That looks nice!”
Before retiring to the hotel bar for several pints of whisky, for medicinal
purposes of course!
The next morning she awoke with her beer-head firmly on, so she went
back to sleep for several hours before getting up again and ambling out
of the B&B door. “That’s funny”, she thought, “I
went to sleep in a hotel and woke up in a B&B. Quite the conundrum.”
This wasn’t the only curious thing though, as she soon realised
that the place was completely deserted; in fifteen minutes of post-drunken
stumbling she hadn’t seen a single a soul except Mr Cockshoot, but
he barely qualified as a person because he had a stupid name. All of a
sudden a voice boomed, “Douglas, Douglas, Lynne Douglas!”
“Yes”, she shouted back.
“Douglas I’m going to get you! Ha ha ha!”
“Oh crikey I’d best scarper and double quick that could be
Master Crow out for revenge and I left my mirror on the bedside table.”
She paced the pavement desperately trying not to break into a jog, as
she didn’t want to raise a sweat, until she turned a corner that
heralded the entrance to the world famous Blackpool Pleasure Beach.
“I think I’ll hide in here”, she reasoned, “Where
could be safer to hide from an unseen menace than in a deserted fairground?”
And with that she toddled off into the Pleasure Beach. She desperately
tried to find somebody to assist her in escaping the as yet un-revealed
villain of the piece but by this time she had gone against procedure and
broken into full pace jogging. She rounded a corner and it in turn rounded
her until she rounded it again, zipped through the hall of mirrors and
stumbled onto the floor after tripping over an ill placed discarded toaster.
She looked up to see a policeman staring at her.
“Help me please! I seem to be being chased by somebody, possibly
a giant crow that wants to exact revenge on me and grow by a tiny percentage
in doing so or it could be the ghost of a certain Mr Giblin who I may
or may not have killed and eaten.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” Came the terrifying barrage of laughter
from the policeman as he rocked back and forth.
This chilled Lynne to the core as she now knew that this was no ordinary
policeman it was one of those freaky animatronic laughing policemen in
a glass case that happen to frequent fairgrounds across the country. It
had only been last week that Lynne had read an article in Readers Digest
about the ten scariest sights of Britain. The Laughing Policeman of Blackpool
had been placed at number two in the list, second only to ominous Gainsborough
Central Train Station in Lincolnshire.
Lynne took to her feet and ran as fast as her pins could take her. Turning
around to see that the encased robotic policeman was following her she
then dived into a small tent not reading the sign outside – ‘Gypsy
Lee Fortune Teller Enter at Own Peril!’
“Ah hello my dear, cross my hands with silver”, said the gypsy
who sat at the table.
“Here is a pound”, said Lynne, “If you give me change
then I can give you a silver coin”
“Never mind the pedantries I will take the coin and read your tarot”,
said the thrifty fortune-teller pocketing the whole pound.
She began to place the cards in a formation on the table. She turned the
first card and Lynne turned pale, though she was already quite pasty due
to her Scottish genes.
“What does the death card mean?” Enquired Lynne nervously.
“Well it means that you will die, much like Ronseal, it does what
it says on the tin! But don’t fear, we will see what the next card
reveals”, she said turning the next card.
“Aaarrggghhh, the death card again!” Cried Lynne frantically
shuffling on her seat.
“Again my child, do not worry we will see what the next card is”,
reassured the gypsy and again she turned a card. “This one is the
Joker Card”, announced the teller, “This one means that I
will have to kill you myself!” She picked up the crystal ball and
was about to bash the defenceless Douglas over the crust when Lynne pulled
a skilful manoeuvre.
“Hold on a minute! I received a complimentary book on tarot when
I renewed my subscription to Readers Digest two years ago and there was
no mention of a Joker Card. This card is from a normal set of playing
cards so I think that trading standards would be very interested in this.
“We are very interested in this”, came a voice from behind
Lynne, she turned to see whom it was and was presented with a tall man
in a suit holding a clipboard.
“I am Mr Mashitter from trading standards. We’ve been watching
this fraudster for sometime but we never had the relevant knowledge of
tarot to catch her. Thanks to you we can put her away for 7 to 10 years
under the Services Description Act of 1752.”
He handcuffed the bullshitter and led her away.
“But just one thing Mr Mashitter, where is everybody?”
“Well Lynne you have visited Blackpool out of season, it’s
February, nobody comes to the Shithole of the North in February!”
With this explanation firmly in her mind Lynne packed her bags stocked
up on tinned souvenir shortbread and headed off back to her workhouse
in Heywood.
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