Thespian Curse

Madam Petulengro leaned forward, examining the ancient skeleton with interest. Bones here was found in an isolated cabin rotting away in the Barataria Preserve in Louisiana.

“I ain’t got all day, boy.”

Bones’ skull turned in the gypsy’s direction.

“That’s more like it,” she said. “What’s yer story then?”

“Cursed, of course. Jean Lafitte’s crew, a smuggler. One of your ancestors took a dislike to me, because my bones have been in the bog for more than a hundred years.”

“Well, you probably deserved it.”

“Madam, does any soul deserve to linger forever without rest? I never wanted to be pirate crew anyway, all I ever wanted to be—”

“If you say ‘Lumberjack’, you’re going right back in the bog,” Madam Petulengro scowled.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. All I ever wanted was to act. On the stage.”

The gypsy rubbed her chin and said, “Done!”

After a few mystic passes and some magic dust, Bones regrew his flesh. He stood before her and bowed, restored. And broke into song:

“For I am a Pirate King!
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be a Pirate King!”

“Oh, no no.” Madam Petulengro covered her face and sobbed. “Not Penzance.”

Apologies to Rodgers & Hammerstein

Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

Posed skeleton in a shed

 

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Hoist the Black Flag

“Come on Nigel, now’s our chance to make a break for it.”

Rog and Nigel slipped from the vault room, being cautious to evade detection.

“Those old geezers, we should have sacked the lot.”

“Right, Rog. Let’s get out of here first, you know those old pensioners have lost their minds.”

“Well it’s all about the efficiency, isn’t it? This bloody antediluvian firm and their antiquated methods and their outdated equipment. Bloody shame, letting their profit margins slip away.”

“Shh… I think I hear them. Singing,,, Sea chanty?” Nigel whispered.

“Oh sod, they’re coming back. Run for it.”

The corporate managers broke for the stairs. But when they approached the top they met the angry, cutlass-wielding mob of accountants coming up.

“There they are boys, grab them,” cried the pirate captain.

The scurvy crew eagerly swarmed over the efficiency experts. Rog and NIgel were carried to the roof and forced to walk the plank at umbrella-point.

Oppressive corporate overlords forget only at their peril:

“Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”
—H. L. Mencken

Inspired by this Sunday’s Photo Fiction prompt:

A pre-Victorian building that is now one of the major banks in the UK.

And yes (hell yes) by the Crimson Permanent Assurance skit. The very first thing that photo/style of building reminded me of.

For those of you who don’t know your Monty Python it can be found here: