“What will my noble Prince Vlad be doing tonight then, eh?”
“Off to the pub to see your pals, as always?”
Concepta sat frumpy like in the worn out hollow of her rose-petal patterned
armchair, surrounded by the slack air of domesticity. Little ‘holy’ laced
curtains framed lime-green windows. Pink and ruby-red roses stared out of
the wallpaper except at a spot where the neighbour’s mongrel dog had
gotten into their living room and relieved itself up against a corner.
The ensuing stain was covered over by a too-tall Grandfather clock
which would moan and creak every so often in between chimes.
China geese tried to fly across to Vlad, over the mantelpiece, but got
nailed to the wall instead. Vlad for his part, wheeled out his feet from his long
shiny ebony cape; his bony porcelain features down in the opposite
armchair, like a Boland’s loaf of bread ready to be toasted in the big,
hungry oven-like fire blazing from their cream and bronze coloured tiles
that fashioned the grate.
“If I didn’t know any better,” Concepta continued...
“I’d say you were off tramping with some young brazen Lesson Street hussy, every night.”
“What do ya have to say about that then?”
Purl, separate, cross, loop.
Vlad uttered not a word in reply to accompany the thunder of needles.
But his mind writ heavily....12 hours ‘til sunset.
“Humph!!”, muttered Concepta, increasing the pace of her knitting,
shuffling uneasily in her chair. The last job Vlad had, at the blood bank,
he got fired from, when blood bags went missing. My Vlad, never!
thought Concepta. Now he claimed he was driving an ambulance, but
always came home mucked to the heels. She was suspicious, couldn’t
quite nail down what it was but was now in the throws of baiting him
with the ‘other woman’ angle.
A ‘geansai nua’ for one of her ‘octopus-like’ relatives was coming along
just fine. Every day she fastidiously attempted to do it, all the while,
regaling her hubby about finding a day job. Vlad sometimes remarked
that they (the farmers) needed to breed more sheep in the Wicklow Hills
or import more just to keep up with his frumpy wife’s crocheting and
knitting. But for now, his mind drifted....drifted....far from the cacophony
of Concepta.
He was in a tight situation....an even tighter spot. The Overlords of Sidon
had amassed a huge lumbering fleet of star ships blocking his only escape
route out of the galaxy. Onboard his ship were the Jupiterian diplomatic
female delegates, voluptuous within their slinky, slender, ‘off the shoulder’
uniforms. Hour-glass figures that would drive men to give up pints for.
These delegates were once prisoners of the evil Overlords and it was
his job, as Commander Vlad, to guarantee they wouldn’t be recaptured.
Agartha, spokesman for the Overlords, was projected on a giant screen
inside the Commander’s bridge. His magnified face stared back sternly
at the delegation members. Something alive slouched off his dark chin
and tried to scamper away at his feet. A lieutenant behind him drew his
laser weapon and fired at the entity. There was a zapping noise followed
by a small wisp of blue smoke which curled around the spokeman's features.
Oversized boils seemed to percolate, like coffee, underneath his dark,
leathery skin, as if at any minute one of them might erupt explosively
and splatter the screen with a multitude of rainbow coloured organisms.
Some among Commander Vlad’s crew bent sideways to wretch away
from their consoles, others gave the monster features a screwed up
look as if they were sucking on lemons. Presently it spoke...
“I, Agartha ,Omnipotent Overlord of the Sidons, Ruler of the Nifty
Colonies, Administrator of the Sid nether regions, Banker of large sums
of money....order you, Commander Vlad, to.......”
All at once his mighty voice and hideous face crackled and fizzled out.
It was Concepta’s voice.....”and also Vlad, my noble Prince of
Night, that black cape of yours will have to go; it’s downright
manky.....manky I say....when was the last time you had it washed?..
.....hmmm.... you can’t be visiting ma dressed in that yoke of a thing.”
Knit, separate, loop, purl.
Suddenly Agartha came back on screen again, looking more than a
little perturbed.
“Sorry, but we.....er...have to leave now, good luck.”
Just then the whole amassed fleet vanished in an instant leaving behind
the perplexed faces of Vlad’s crew and the shrugged nubile, lily-white
shoulders of the Jupiterian delegation.
“Well,” Commander Vlad intoned, “I suppose they didn’t want to
tussle with me after all.” He brushed his uniform with a stroke of his hand,
pressed a button on his seat console, and immediately a cool, frothy
glass of Guinness materialised before him. Taking a long calculated
swig of the deep, dark brew he caught a foamy lip and winked at one of the
Jupiterian women. She responded by blowing him back a sultry kiss.
The others eyed her suspiciously. Vlad sighed heavily, his muscles
went all mushy as he settled back in his seat. With a wave of his
hand ,Commander Vlad, satisfied that the menace was gone, urged
his engineer, “Full speed ahead, we’ll be home in time for a cuppa.”
Concepta didn’t notice a fleeting smile race across her husband’s
face since her head was bent down focused on her knitting.
“.......And while were on the subject of box gardens,”she continued.
“Would you EVER mind doing something about that large
soiled-filled wooden crate of yours ya have stashed away in the attic.”
“That’s no place to grow mushrooms or shrubs and things.!”
“Just a small, simple wooden box is all I need.....and we’ll have to get
rid of that woeful lookin’ Grandfather clock.”
“ I swear it’s alive with it’s moaning and groaning and such.”
“It gives me the willies just thinkin’ about it.”
Concepta adjusted her position yet again as if she were sitting on a bed of pins
and needles.
Something appeared on Commander Vlad’s space radar.
“Any idea what it is?” he inquired of his navigator.
“Not yet sir, but whatever it is, its approaching fast....
.
.... we can’t evade it!!”
Everybody on the bridge grew tense except the Commander.
“Ooh, I don’t think I told you, my cherub-faced Vlad , the Flanagans
have invited themselves over next Monday for tea, that’s five days away...
so you’ll have to do something about that mess out the back garden
.....holes in the ground everywhere.....I see ya dig every now and then
....but I don’t see much for your troubles.”
“ ... Oh %#@*, I just remembered I haven’t a thing in the house,
well they’ll just have to eat yesterday’s leftover rashers that you
played around with on yer plate and the garlic bread you
refused to touch. I’ll smarten them up a bit in the pan...
...... they won’t be any the wiser.”
“Also best fix the crucifix in the hallway while your at it....”
“That’s the umpteenth time its fallen down!”
Knit, loop, purl, drop.
Vlad’s mind.........2 hours ‘til sunset.
“Commander, its knitting needles, dead ahead, sir!!,” cried the navigator.
At this the Jupiterian females let out loud shrieks of panic, some of his crew
slumped to the bridge deck and scurried under their consoles, holding
their heads, as if a huge explosion was about to occur.
Commander Vlad was not amused.
“.......And then there’s the O’Malleys, down the road,
you know, the family with the asthmatic 6 year old boy, gets his
pills, from that awful lookin’ chemist Talbot, the one with that
stroppy young assistant with the ring in her nose, did ya ever..
well, the O’Malleys are always visiting with one arm as long as
the other....that aul’ bat, Mrs. O’Malley,.........
.....can’t keep her nose out of everyone’s business.....”
“Wait ‘til I tell ya , my gorgeous Vlad, ...just the other day....”
Loop, purl, drop, drop........feck it.
“Commander, the needles will be upon us in 30 seconds...”
“Sir, what should we do?”, the alarmed voice of the engineer sounded.
Just then enormous bats, ugly-lookin’ yokes, with wings as black as night,
materialised out of thin air and started attacking the crew
and Jupiterian delegation.
Someone shouted above the shrieks of bats and women that the
needles were materialising whatever was on the Commander’s mind.
The Jupiterian women started to expand their bodies, inflating themselves
up like Puffer Fish, as a form of defence.
“Would you like some more milk with your cuppa there,
my lovely Vlad, dear?” Concepta was heard to say.
Now a milky-white fluid came through a crack in space and started
to flood rapaciously over the ship’s bridge.
“Do something, Commander!!,” exclaimed one of his crew in desperation.
Vlad looked bored, but realised that both he and his ship had only a few
seconds to react. He casually surveyed the ensuing carnage before him.
The once sexy hour-glass shaped Jupiterian women were bitten by bats,
inflated to the hilt, and were clawing at the hull of his ship ,making a
scraping, screeching, rasping noise with their varnished fingernails.
Their mascara streaked over tear-stained chubby cheeks; they were a mess.
Half his crew were drowned ,and worst of all, the bridge carpet was due
for a steam clean in a week’s time.
Finally, As Commander Vlad brushed some fluff off his lapel,
he sighed heavily and gave the order..”Oh, I suppose you’d better..
put up the shields then....”
A pair of sharp knitting needles hovered before Vlad. He was seen to
slowly raise the ‘Indo’ paper up before him and that was the last
thing until............
“So,” said Garda Maguire , fingering his pencil above his pad.
“Name?”
“Concepta.....Concepta Doyle, Sir.”
“And what have we here?”
Garda Maguire was pointing to a man reading a newspaper with a
knitting needle , like a stake, driven through his heart.
“My husband....(Sob) Vlad Doyle,” Concepta said tearfully.
“So then...,” continued Maguire, matter of factly.
“Why did you impale your husband ma’am?”
“I didn’t mean to....(sob, sob) ..honestly Garda,” protested Concepta staring
at her sweet prince in a half trance.
“I just...I just wanted to ..you know....to get his attention.......is he dead?”
Concepta inquired, reaching for a hankie.
“That’s for the pathologist to determine, ma’am,” Maguire said motioning for
someone to join them both in the living room.
A small, scruffy looking man with greasy jet black hair waddled into
the scene and looked at Vlad. Derek, the pathologist prodded the victim here and
there with his fingers and walked around Vlad looking menacingly
into his face. He stood straight up, pawed his chin with one hand, stared at
Maguire and Concepta, stared back to Vlad and then spoke.
“In my humble opinion, he’s what we call in the biz’....bleedin’
stone cold dead as a haddock on Moore street, missus.”
“So I killed my hubby ..(sob) is that what your saying?” Concepta looked
aghast and mystified all at the same time. She had found a rose-patterned
hankie she was making good use of. A Ban Garda moved in and
wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulder.
“Ah Jaasus no, missus,” Derek answered.
“He died a long time ago.”
“What!!”
“Here...let me demonstrate.”
With that he plucked out the offending needle with a sharp popping
sound, showing the tip to everyone , like a Shish Kebab skewer.
“See no blood.” He remarked matter of factly.
“Oh, but I saw him clearly raise his ‘Indo’ paper!!” Concepta chimed in.
“Aaaah ! just a reflex action, missus.”
“Some husbands take a drag on their cigarettes, others raise the two
fingers...same thing really.”
“But..But if I didn’t kill him... then what did?” protested Concepta.
“Domesticity, missus.....domesticity,” came the reply.
Derek continued, “Happens all the time lately...in Cork, Galway,
Raheny, Deansgrange, Foxrock.. even Skibbereen, of all places.”
“This is a first for Kimmage, though.”
“Wives...trying to talk to their hubbies, accuse them of not listening,
not paying attention, or of being off in another world altogether..when in fact
...they’re as dead as dodos!.....a virtual bleedin’ epidemic, I’d say.”
Garda Maguire peeled in .
“Well, we’d better clean up this mess then , eh ma’am?”
Concepta stood like a statue unable to move or say anything.
As people milled about the living room, someone tripped over a loose
wire. The telly burst into life. A broad figure, muscular and bulky
lumbered up to the screen and said in his best Austrian accent..
“Ailllle bbeeee baaakkk.”
Everybody felt compelled to glance in Vlad’s direction.
He seemed to be wearing what could only be described as a sly smirk
on his face....a smirk that wasn’t there before......
To be continued.................
Is this curtains for Vlad?
Will he ever again clean up the back garden?
Will Concepta run out of hankies?
Does Derek, the pathologist, really work in a Greek restaurant?
If you have a 'stake' in Vlad continuing, contact the author.
