My Horrible Artwork

I have no ability to draw whatsoever.

Tall Tale

I perched myself over in the local club, Club Indulgence - the fourth niftiest club in town, behind Inertia, Envy, and Pride - as I nursed my caramel-brown whiskey and I looked at the bar that was laid in front of myself. I arrayed myself like a Flapper and I kept my legs crossed in easement.

The Electric Swing band sassily roared loudly behind myself and I vaguely remember a few swingers doing the Charleston Chew in blissful merry. They were all having a wonderful time. As for myself I simply stayed within my own personal bubble of comfort. I did not consider myself to be a good dancer, in fact I dreaded the notion of myself doing such a dance like the Charleston Chew in front of judging, unfamiliar eyes that would gawk and laugh at me. Nevertheless, that did not discourage me from enjoying the image of other people dancing and of course that sweet, sweet electric swing.

I think the song that they were performing was dubbed Posin’ - a very happy, and light song that bounced with the electronic sound of a synthesized sax. It was clearly the bee’s knees. I occasionally tapped my foot to that lively rhythm but quickly stopped for I did not the judgement of people to be pressed on me.

The swing and my giggle water helped me take an edge off of the stresses of my life, and I was indeed fortunate to have the time and cash to alleviate myself from my work.

Now, this evening was different: a very strange event occurred with me that began there.

I was minding myself and my lonesomeness at the Club - which I was more than ducky about - and when suddenly some Bimbo of a guy strode up to me and lounged in the seat next to me. He looked at me rather hungrily; I was sure that the guy was Baloney and only looking for somewhere to hang his pants as if I was some pushover. His skin was pale as snow and hair was a short shock of black.

“Hey, Kitkat,” he growled, “wanna go out for a bite?”

I was not sure if the Bimbo was flirting or just trying to poorly attempt it in a drunken state. I was about to give him the icy mitt when I looked over at him with annoyance, when suddenly I glanced at his eyes. They were stranger than a swanky viper. They were a burnt orange in colour and they seemed more feline-like than human. It was odd indeed.

I took a moment or so as I was gobsmacked by his eyes and I stammered my words. A rush of a timid fear seemed to have flooded my throat and my words coagulated in my mouth.

“Come on,” he winked, “I know a place better than here and for half the dough.”

I simply shook my head trying to ease the words from my mouth.

“No,” I bluntly said, “get a wiggle on. I’m not a dame that you can fool around with and I know your time. You’re a terrible flirt, and even if you were a good one I still wouldn’t say yes.”

He directly stayed put in his seat and he still looked at me in a hungry state.

“Come on,” said he, unimpressed. “Don’t be a dumb dora, you know you want me, especially under this silver moonlight.”

I shifted down the bar away from him with my drink still in hand, and I did my best to try to ignore him. To get the message across to his thick school. Nevertheless, he was persistent and he I dare say he was the biggest sap I have ever seen with my eyes. His hungry stare melded into starving and desperate.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Don’t be a Pill! You know I’m a keen guy. I’ll even pay you if you come!”

My annoyance turned to disgust: he came up to me, called me a Dumb Dora, then offered me money as if I was a skanky prostitute. I had reached the end of my cool and I was going to succumb to physical violence. I definitely had beef with that Bimbo.

“Listen here, shortarse!” I thundered, standing from my chair. I bristled my pointer at him like a steel dagger of a murderer threatening a helpless victim; except the Bimbo just blankly stare at me with his starving look, he was not threatened at all. The club quickly simmered down and I felt judgement loom on me from at least a pair of a dozen and seven eyes on me. Regardless, I was enraged by the Bimbo and his skeevy persona.

“I am not some Dumb Dora, and I am not some prostitute that you can offer money to for cheap, meaningless sex! I’d rather be a Pill than five minutes with you! You are a repulsive rat and the only thing you’ll get from me is an icy mitt!”

The club was in bedazzled by my anger for they have figured I was a shy and quiet gal. It was so suspensefully quiet that you could hear a mouse fart from the neighbour’s house.

Though, the Bimbo did not seem the least bit of gobsmacked and he still stared at me with a starving glare.

“You don’t understand!” he cried. “I need you!” He seemed like he was about to burst in a fit of tears like a brat not getting his toy. He hunched over in his seat and he held his chest as if he was going to upchuck.

I only stood there with my slender hands on my hips unamusingly, and an intent to throw him out written on my face. I was indeed furious at the selfishness of the Bimbo.

“No,” I rumbled. “You don’t understand! Are you too thick to even know when a gal is giving you the icy mitt?”

The Bimbo did not respond to my question, he only stayed hunched, and I figured he was going to throw up. Guys never do that when they are rejected. They normally just go to the next gal and start thrusting moves on her. Nevertheless, I still stood flourished with anger and half a mind to slap the sense into him.

Then, the unexpected occured: his skin started to bulge at his back causing the seams of his shirt to rip and tear and it turned to an infernal blood colour that seemed from the fiery pits of the underworld itself. Point horns started to protrude from his forehead, just above the eyebrows and his hair began to loosen from his head. Dark wings began to emerge from his shoulder blades; they looked like the ones of a bat and from tip to tip they reached the width of an overindulged elephant. He began to increase in height to fifteen-feet. His body was rippled in overexerted muscles and black veins pulsed at every corner of his body, even an immense one throbbing from his massive, horned forehead. His shirt torn and his leg-wrappings were clutching holding on - we were thankful that there was nothing shown. His hands had sprouted great black claws like spears and his teeth grew into long fangs like swords and they were as black as the dreaded death that we all fear in our waking hours. His nose turned to an pig-like variant. His legs had shifted to two long, beefed cheetah-looking shanks with hooves instead of feet; and his eyes. Oh, those eyes. They were a crimson red that was shrouded in an inky black. The red was rushed with anger and rage like a bull that had seen that very colour.

We all looked in a dreaded fear, and many fled the scene with great haste like an ill wind passing through a lonesome village. I only stood there in petrification of dismay, raising my arm up as a hope as a shield from anything too alarming that he might have attempted at that very moment.

He glared at me with such burning rage, and I feared for my very life. I clamped my eyes shut in hopes that I would not view my own death.

Yet, the beast did not attack me. I only hear the screech of shattering glass and the flaps of huge wings. I opened my opticals to see a ruined gap in the wall where the monster had escaped. It left a chilling breeze and a view of the skyline and the blank, inky darkness of the night. I was also bummed out for my whiskey had shattered to oblivion from him; but I was more than grateful that my life had been spared and I was able to live another day. That was the last time I went to Indulgence.