“He who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see.”
Arthur and Lance examined the raggedly dressed fellow who reeked of stale booze and infrequent showers.
“What?”
“It’s required, you know?”
“Required by whom?”
“Er… Would you believe the State Highway Authority?”
“So this is a toll bridge then. It seems rather breezy, pestering folk at the end of a bridge. Shouldn’t you at least have a hut?”
“You noticed? They took it away.”
“So that’s five questions.”
Lance nudged Arthur and murmured quietly, “Three, sir.”
“Right, off you go.”
100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt (and by Monty Python, naturally). Better late than never:
ParkInkSpot 