Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction
Widdowmaker and Son - We're Here To Help. By paul richards
‘This is not unusual,” smiled Mr Widowmaker in his black tie and matching three-piece suit. His was not a jolly smile. He did not do happy, even when collecting a cheque for five thousand. ‘You now have piece of mind,’ he added, turning his white-gloved hand towards the door to usher the elderly gentleman out.
William jerked out the chair and shook the undertakers hand, before finally revealing his inner demons: ‘People stare so I only go out at night’
The white gloves continued to arch towards the exit.
‘It’s my ears. They’ve grown big with age.’
The gloves lowered and tried to stop the man shaking.
‘The only person who loves Big Ears is Noddy,’ joked William to the undertaker with the Botox face.
‘Take the stairs,’ he whispered, ‘Son Daniel could help.’
The steps led to a small flat, furnished with a surgeon’s chair, beside a man in a green gown.
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘No. I’m much cheaper; I’m a Care Assistant, trained to do the mundane tasks,’ he explained, flashing his N.H.S. id-card.
‘I can slice off your ears and rub pixie dust into the scars. It’s what the American army make from pigs bladder. I bought it on the Dark Web.’
Once the whiskey was drunk and chair reclined, the ears were off, the powder applied and the bandage wrapped tightly around his head.
William was shell shocked, unable to hear and shaking out the building.
The nights drew longer as William’s ear miraculously grew to their youthful size, without moles, saggy earlobes and black hairs sprouting all over; but when he finally looked in the mirror he realized his nose had also grown big and red.
‘For a hundred pounds I can chop it off, but noses don’t always grow.’ Daniel warned.
‘I’ll take the risk,’ the old man insisted, lying back in the surgeon’s chair.
A butcher could not have sliced any better; the bulbous nose dropped into his hand.
After the trauma William locked himself away until the hole in his face started to heal and week-by-week his new rounded nose appeared.
He not only could hear like a teenager he could smell like one! A bath was needed and as he soaked he thought, ‘It might be possible, of course, that far from being one, we may poses two selves: you just need to cut and paste! I need a young head on old shoulders.’
‘No,’ laughed Daniel, the following night. ‘If I chop off your head – you’ll be dead! But I have an idea that might stop your shaking. I could drill your skull and pour pixie dust into your brain.’
‘Will that cure my Parkinson’s,’ William stuttered with glee.
‘Perhaps. Doctors use embryos, which is very similar,’ he explained, handing William another bottle of Whiskey to numb the pain of the Screw Fix drill.
Spring loomed and Mr Widdowmaker was rung.
‘A body to collect. Hit and Run. Man on all fours acting like a pig.
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