Day 312 – The Men Who Sell Tickets

I mean to say, err, I have no idea. We met some ticket sellers.

Word count: 657

They sell tickets, those men on streets. Do not trust them, they sell strange secrets.

Edinburgh hoards many foul men, wicked women and lurking children who try to sell things that you do not want. In August, it is the worst month, for those that you would never trust; of those who would sell their own grandmothers and who have no morals; who know no meaning of the verb to tell the truth and who cannot understand principles.

Those who fall for Edinburgh’s tempting beast nearly always cannot resist. They line the streets and throw out leaflets whilst bleeting passers-bys take them and take heed of time and price. They may not realise, but they have been suckered; the mental mind-warp has begun and their brain power is no longer theirs. These men who hand out leaflets know what they do – create firewood, stuff to recycle too. But in addition, they might get one – two at most – audience members to come to their shows.

Danny and Thelma strutted by, vodka fuelled and up for fun. Thelma grabbed a leaflet from them – read the first line and barely absorbed the information that was written on the leaflet. Danny was too drunk to realise they had even stopped and appeared to stare around the towering blocks of the Old Town as if he had never grown up in the town at all.

“Where am I?” he exclaimed.
“Niddry Street,” Thelma answered, unsure herself, for the building she was aiming for was distinctly off the visual floor. Not a single brick stood in place where she thought the Hive would be safe.

“Are you sure?”
“I think so – I’ve lived here all my life, I can’t be wrong?”
“I think you are you know. The leaflet man said it was free – free comedy and men who can make us laugh for the price of a drink minus half…”
“Why are you speaking in rhyme?” Thelma questioned.
“I don’t know, perhaps it’s all the lime I’ve had?”
“Lime, you’ve had too much vodka, surely?”
“And what about your whiskey?”

“Come with me,” a voice did say, and obediently they did sway.
“This place is awfully dark,” Thelma did declare, “Do you think they know of nuclear warfare?
“I fear not, Lenin is taking prominent place – oh look and drinks are half price.”

Thelma and Danny were in fact lost. They had roamed the streets many times before, but had never come across this place. The bar was lonely, the Rum whined for company and the vodka screamed for a member of the opposite sex. It was as if no one had been there in years – the leafleters had lied, this was not a popular place?

The drink was going cheaper, however, and Thelma ordered seconds. A stand-up show was on soon and then she suddenly remembered…. The vodka had gone too far to her head – her memory resurrected before it was too late. She was not here for fun and laughter – she was one of the performers. Her stand-up comedy show would start soon – at the same pub she had be led too. Danny, who was too drunk to judge, had evidentially forgotten all.
“Oh my god, I’m playing here?” she squealed, looking round the empty room.
A man appeared in the darkness, “Come here, my lady, your dressing room awaits.”
“Oo a dressing room!”
“Come now, you do not need the man.”
Thelma danced towards her dressing room – but it was only once she reached the door did she realise her foolish mistake. The room was but a cupboard; the bar was but a hoax; the man was just an actor, with a difficult task. He was a murderer; the hardest job of all, for he was hired to kill… all of the worst actors. She was strangled tightly by his tie and her boyfriend later too, but neither struggled either… for they were both too full of Smirnoff Blue.

~ by S.G. Mark on August 14, 2012.

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