THE LAST PARTY


With huge thanks to a regular guest contributor, stepping into the breach as RubiesandDuels succumbs to the winter lurgie – over to you Mr W……

Brian could only just hear the doorbell above Plan B’s Love Goes

Down as it’s decibels threatened the cheap double glazing’s one

year guarantee. The fancy dress party was in full swing; the only

problem was his Hitler moustache kept coming unstuck.

He reached the door after elbowing past Groucho Marx, Marilyn

Monroe and Lady Gaga. Four guys stood before him.

“Hi” he said, “I’m Brian.”

“Pleased to meet you Bri’ I’m Pestilence, and these are my

associates Death, Famine and War. OK if we leave our horses tied

to your gate-post?” Brian could only stare at their magnificent

costumes as he slowly nodded his consent. Famine pushed by him,

“Any nibbles, I’m starving, where’s the kitchen.”

“You’ll have to excuse our friend, you’ll always find him in the

kitchen at parties,” said Pestilence with a wink.

“I don’t recognise you, are you friends of Ritchie and Ben? Is

your friend… Death OK, he looks a bit peaky?”

“He’ll be right as ninepence after a Bailey’s and blackcurrant. Can

you point me in the direction of the little boys room?” asked

Pestilence.

Meanwhile War was dancing with Cleopatra, his shield and sword

were proving a bit of a hindrance.

“Have I seen you before?” enquired Cleopatra, “You’re on the

checkout at Sainsbury’s aren’t you, you look different in your fancy
dress; is that a real beard.” She said giving it a playful tug.

Famine, meanwhile, was working himself through a selection of

M&S dips in the kitchen, much to the annoyance of Hercules Poirot,

who insisted on talking in a twisted Belgian accent to anyone who’d

listen. Einstein and James Bond studiously ignored him.

Death on the other hand was getting bored; he thought it about

time the world ended and wasn’t best pleased Famine had finished

off all the Pringles. It was then that the doorbell sounded again and

Brian opened the door to two large police officers.

“Do those four horses belong to you sir, they are fouling the

pavement and obstructing the right of way?”

“No, they belong to The four Horseman of the Apocalypse officer.”

“Really, well, do you mind if we have a word with them?” and

the two policemen brushed past him into the living room.

Pestilence, Famine, Death and War sat in a row on the large Ikea

couch playing charades with Cleopatra.

‘Excuse me love”, the larger of the two officers said to Cleopatra,

and stood in front of the Four Horsemen.

“They your animals tied up out there?”

“Yes” said Pestilence.

“Can I take a few details sir, what’s your name and address?

“My name is Pestilence, and these are my associates, Famine,

Death and War and we are from the land of Judah.”

“Can I ask what you lot do you do for a living?”
“We are The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Course you are, The Four Horsemen, right, end of days and all

that cobblers. Go on then, end mine, I dare you.”

Brian could see his party turning into a disaster and said

“Jammy Dodger anyone?”

“Button it Adolph,” said the large officer.

“Pestilence here is going end my days, aren’t you son.”

“No, don’t feel like it” said Pestilence.

“I insist,” said the officer. Pestilence, turned to his associates,

they all stood and raised their arms, and there was a violent

flashing of lights a sound so loud it seemed to split time itself and

then nothing but total silence, there was no more house, no more

police officers, no more party. The Four Horseman stood and

watched as Brian’s Hitler moustache slowly drifted to earth, minus

Brian of course.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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