The diner was expansive if
a touch shabby, reasonably populated, bright enough, blare coming from several
newscreens on the wall (something about the war), and the hiss of a percolating
coffee machine travelling in the air throughout. Prints of Dali and Bosch and Picasso
hung symmetrically on the peeling walls. These were easily recognisable by the
melting clocks and angular faces.
A barmaid with a badge reading MARIS attended us promptly. “Table
for two?” she asked. Short and plump, sandals, laddered tights, hairnet.
“Maybe three,” I interjected.
“Possibly four,” the Banshee added. She was fully expecting
the Mothman.
Hearing her engage with a member of the public made her
feel much more human to me. Especially now that she had stopped drooling. In the
blinking overhead halogens, she could have came across as a princess down on
her luck, one who had been turned into a frog once too many times. Or was it
the prince who usually got made into a frog? Who by? Just wondering.
We slumped at a stained durable quartz table top,
chaperoned step for step by Maris, who wore the kind of fake yet harmless smile
that seemed permanently sealed on. We accepted her offer of coffee and gratefully
accepted two worn dog-eared menus, which I wondered if the Banshee could read
or not. Maris skipped away, back behind the bar. On her way, a fat leery lorry
driver reached out and gripped her rump; then he whistled rudely and ordered another
stack of pancakes.
“There he is!” the Banshee moaned at me, pointing at the
nearest window.
I caught a fleeting shadow of a large snickering face,
fading into the oxygen behind the glass. Its passing left a smudgy imprint of a
similar countenance on the curtains, like a parlour trick, like a gimmick from
a time-served cameraman with a host of special effects at his disposal.
“Mothman,” I muttered dourly. “What brings him to the party?
Is he a ghost or an airbourne phantasmagoric reel of exposure tape?”
The Banshee joined her fingers and did something funny with
her eyeballs. “Hurry up, Grandfather,” she pleaded with the grapevine,
extracting a gobstopper and a walnut from her pocket. “This is my last meal,
she stated. “Along with these.” Fizzy Nerds, jelly eels, a grab bag of that
beachside savoury snack named fish n chips, a candy bracelet, and a Swizzels
lollipop…“You feel free to order whatever you like.”
My eyes betraying me, lingering over the windows, I purveyed
the menu. Nothing stood out that wasn’t belly-busting apart from a Sri Lankan chicken
curry. Because of the mutant conditions of modern poultry farms, I called
chicken Franken chicken. Bit of a joke after a picture of one online. It was half
worn-out feathery coat, blisters and tumours everywhere, humanoid like a man, sitting
in its own gunk in a claustrophobic cage. And this is what we were eating. Tragic.
I waited for Maris to return.
When my food arrived, it was a bleeding ball of Franken-whatever leaking dark red pus. Maris’s nose was bleeding the same goo. I quickly checked to see if the Banshee was drooling similarly, but nah, she weren’t. Maris collapsed backward after settling it on the counter, her legs looking broken beneath her fair-sized heinie. All the other customers in the establishment slid off their chairs to the floor, slumped like switched-off robots, the halogens blinking more rapidly now and a majority of them blanking off altogether, leaving us in semi darkness.
“That’s das Mothman,” the Banshee gasped.
The newscreens volume inflated to maximum. Something about
Donald Trump accusing the democrats of stealing one thing or another. It was
white noise to me. Something exploded out of sight, a dull thumpy thud, then
the entrance doors swung open, aluminium screeching across the floor tiles,
letting in a gust of wind which ruffled the pleats of Maris’s skirt.
“What does he want?” I asked. Apart from tasting her blood, that is.
Apparently Banshee blood had psychoactive properties. But he must have wanted
more from her other than just getting off his chops…
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