(Story) The Final House Of Fraser
Alaric McDermott
THE FINAL HOUSE OF FRASER
by Alaric P. McDermott
Ten years had passed since Alaric McDermott's last contribution to AFO, and
on a slow day, Robert McClelland had noticed. "What happened to that bloke
who used to gossip about me and Elton John?" he messaged with a languid BTW,
adjusting his horned gold filigree spectacles. "You know. Used to argue a
lot." There was a flurry of responses. Well, two, and one of those was
grammatical corrections from Jane. But in the end corresponding parties were
agreed. Alaric McDermott appeared to have vanished from the face of Usenet.
One cold November evening, two huddled figures stood outside an unpainted
door in front of an unsafe terraced structure in Greater Manchester. They
were wrapped tightly against the wind and driving rain, but the protection
was all but ineffective.
"It's cold," said David Lively.
"Yes," said Robert Westermeyer. "The coldsinks heavyweighed on the
shoulderlines, by Jesus."
"It is cold", said David. "That's draft 2. Thought I needed an "is" in
there."
The door opened. Anne McDermott, a small bedraggled woman in shawl and a
motheaten housecoat, asked the visitors there business. Robert explained.
That got matters little further.
"It is very cold," said David. "The very adds to the stressing of the cold,
don't you think?"
"You're a pair of nutters," Anne advised them cordially.
Nonetheless, she invited them in. Coin was scarce in Anne's world, and
company too.
In the absence of chairs, the visitors sat against the damp wall opposite
the unlit fire. Two bald cats observed them predatorially, although there
was an aura of sadness about the creatures. David commented as such. "It is
somewhat cold," he said, "and the cats appear sad."
"Thet cried when he left, you know," Anne explained. "Yes, some will say
that cats cannot cry in the absence of tear ducts. But tear ducts are
irrelevant when such a man as their master has gone. Pain overcomes
biology."
"He's gravejammed, then," Robert supposed. "Stillacoffin in the earthbed.
Dustgone. Angeldancin'."
"No," Anne replied. "He's dead."
There was a moment of silence. Then one of the bald cats farted, stared
jealously at its fur, which Anne was using for earmuffs, and stalked out of
the room."
"And when he died," David said, "how was the weather? Today, it is quite
cold."
Anne explained, tears rolling down her mudcaked cheeks as she did so.
There had been a message on the newsgroup which Alaric trawled in those
early morning sleepless hours, simultaneously keeping a loving weather eye
on his beloved wife and children (who had since left home to found
alt.fiction.original.moderated, which kept the riffraff out just as their
father would have wished of them.) The message had come from South Africa.
"It broke him," Anne explained. "Having worked all his life for such a
pittance, struggling to keep his family together in spite of the odds,
fighting to put bread into our mouths, to have to face this.."
She held out a print of the message. David took it, read it, lowered his
eyes in shame. And he remembered. No-one had risen to Alaric's defence that
day. No-one. No-one had fought the good fight. No-one had slain the demon.
It had just been too much trouble. "To learn this," he mourned, "and today
of all days. Today, when cold is in the bones. Now that sounds all right."
"You'll stay for dinner," Anne presumed.
Neither man wanted to do so. The odour from the kitchen was far from
appetising. But a debt was owed, and they agreed.
Anne continued her story. Alaric, hunched and defeated by life, hurt to the
core, cut to the quick, stabbed to the..
Robert asked the narrator to shut up.
The narrator didn't shut up, but he did change tack and said this:-
Alaric had gone to the spare bedroom, turned on his portable, placed his
head on the keyboard and had symbolically pulled the lid down, decapipa.
depacit. decati. cutting his head off.
? Two heads in that sentence - Bart Hopson.
The family had tumbled towards poverty and starvation.
"But you've come on a good day," Anne said, in an odd but more cheery tone.
"Today we have food. And you shall share in the bounty."
"Don't like Bounty," Robert said. "The coconut gets in my teeth. Sorry, in
my goblatchers."
Anne brought in the food, and three old cracked plates. Rice was ladelled
onto each of them, followed by a meat rich curry.
Both visitors stirred the offering nervously.
"So you're from AFO as well, then?" Anne supposed. "A lot of interest, so
long after the fact."
Robert raised an eyebrow, using a mechanical device powered by a one legged
cycling mouse to do it. "As well?" he pursued.
"There was another man," Anne said. "Earlier on in the week. Recognised his
accent right away. Knew who he was."
"Ah," Robert replied. He continued to toy with his food. "The meat is..?"
"Chicken," Anne said. "It's chicken."
"That's the white meat," Robert said. "What about the dark?"
"Ah, now that," Anne told him, "is something else entirely. You know, my
husband once told me that revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I disagreed
with him then, and I disagree with him now."
"We can talk about responsibility later," Robert suggested. "Personally, I
always thought he was one spoon short of a tea set. Let's stick with this
curry. Which I'm not touching until you at least give me a clue. What do you
call it?"
Anne smiled. She still had her own teeth, and the teeth were sharp.
"I call it," she said, "Chicken Jalfraser."
(Races from room, pelted with eggs. All that just for one pun...?
Well, yes.
Sorry.)
No offence taken, Fraser. Well, not now anyway.
David Lively
- D
"Alaric McDermott" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:9p50dn$p0h$1...@plutonium.btinternet.com...
David Lively
who, alas, would return no more.
And, it was cold.
j/k...
- Dave
David Lively
"David Lively" <no....@4.me> wrote in message
news:6xpt7.5613$mB4.165...@newssvr12.news.prodigy.com...
Alaric McDermott
"David Lively" <no....@4.me> wrote in message
news:u9qt7.6303$v_3.2134219818@newssvr30.news.prodigy.com...
Fraser
Just returned (on Tuesday) from a largely incoherent weekend in a
house that spookily reminded me of the one I described in 'One for
All". I'll admit it now - the first part of your reply horrified me. I
sat down, stabbed drunkenly at the keyboard and sent off some
pathetic, self-justifying excuse which, thank Gawd, never showed up,
before scrolling down to the meat of it. My next attempt was an
appreciative line-by-line that also failed to appear in full. This is
it, in full.
Thanks for the laughs,
Fraser
Actually, fuggit. I've just read through it again, and it stands as a
monument to controlled and humorous revenge, inviolate and untouchable
in any real way.
I loved it.
Fraser
"Alaric McDermott" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message news:<9p50dn$p0h$1...@plutonium.btinternet.com>...
Alaric McDermott
"Fraser" <fra...@new.co.za> wrote in message
news:a36c4f46.01100...@posting.google.com...
> Alaric,
>
> Just returned (on Tuesday) from a largely incoherent weekend in a
> house that spookily reminded me of the one I described in 'One for
> All". I'll admit it now - the first part of your reply horrified me. I
> sat down, stabbed drunkenly at the keyboard and sent off some
> pathetic, self-justifying excuse which, thank Gawd, never showed up,
> before scrolling down to the meat of it. My next attempt was an
> appreciative line-by-line that also failed to appear in full. This is
> it, in full.
>
> Thanks for the laughs,
> Fraser
Fraser, hope you know I thought your thing was wonderful. And that the first
para was just a joke. I had nightmares when I thought you might take me
seriously and not scroll down.
R. Westermeyer
<alar...@btinternet.com> wrote:
>In fair exchange, without robbery:-
>
>THE FINAL HOUSE OF FRASER
>by Alaric P. McDermott
>
>One cold November evening, two huddled figures stood outside an unpainted
>door in front of an unsafe terraced structure in Greater Manchester. They
>were wrapped tightly against the wind and driving rain, but the protection
>was all but ineffective.
>
>"It's cold," said David Lively.
>"Yes," said Robert Westermeyer. "The coldsinks heavyweighed on the
>shoulderlines, by Jesus."
>
>"It is cold", said David. "That's draft 2. Thought I needed an "is" in
>there."
>The door opened. Anne McDermott, a small bedraggled woman in shawl and a
>motheaten housecoat, asked the visitors there business. Robert explained.
>That got matters little further.
Oh my. I've been away for a while, and I return to this. Maybe I need
to back up...no, this is too interesting. I've never been an actual
character before.
>"It is very cold," said David. "The very adds to the stressing of the cold,
>don't you think?"
>
>"You're a pair of nutters," Anne advised them cordially.
>
>Nonetheless, she invited them in. Coin was scarce in Anne's world, and
>company too.
>
>In the absence of chairs, the visitors sat against the damp wall opposite
>the unlit fire. Two bald cats observed them predatorially, although there
>was an aura of sadness about the creatures. David commented as such. "It is
>somewhat cold," he said, "and the cats appear sad."
>
>"Thet cried when he left, you know," Anne explained. "Yes, some will say
>that cats cannot cry in the absence of tear ducts. But tear ducts are
>irrelevant when such a man as their master has gone. Pain overcomes
> biology."
>
>"He's gravejammed, then," Robert supposed. "Stillacoffin in the earthbed.
>Dustgone. Angeldancin'."
I wouldn't say that! I'd say.... "He's sunk to clay, rotting 'gainst a
hack of plywood, rotting as before, but holey now, like butterflies
and quiet stuff, and fists just memorize incite."
Same difference...I suppose.
>
>"No," Anne replied. "He's dead."
><snip.
>call it?"
>
>Anne smiled. She still had her own teeth, and the teeth were sharp.
>
>"I call it," she said, "Chicken Jalfraser."
>
>(Races from room, pelted with eggs. All that just for one pun...?
>
I'm bummed. this finale needs more. Where's the chair-toppling vomit
column?
Very humorous, though I'm thinking this story might be a more
sophisticated way of saying "fuck you" to someone. Impressive
restraint, Alaric. I'll have to read back, and take lessons for sure.
--Robert
Alaric McDermott
""He's gravejammed, then," Robert supposed. "Stillacoffin in the
earthbed. Dustgone. Angeldancin'.""
"I wouldn't say that! I'd say.... "He's sunk to clay, rotting gainst a
hack of plywood, rotting as before, but holey now, like butterflies
and quiet stuff, and fists just memorize incite." Same difference...I
suppose."
But of course it isn't. For me to even think that I could catch those
rhythms was foolishness in the extreme.
david...@gmail.com
Everything hurts (from laughing). I miss you guys.
If any of the old guard find this, look me up. first name dot last name at gmail.
Cheers,
Dave
say...@gmail.com
Carl Edgar, of that ilk
