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Flemmington's Wooden Leg
This is the story of an old man who looked as ordinary as you'd expect an old man to look. His eyes were drooping, his head balding, and his grouchiness had reached extreme levels. But Flemmington, as he was called, was as unusual as a peaceful trip to Flortuga. For hidden underneath his robes was a very special wooden leg.
“I brought you your lunch, Mr. Flemmington,” said Flad Floy, a very sad boy whose life we shall explore some other time, coming into the rum bar.
“Was it free?” the grouchy old man rushed to ask, looking out the window to staring people and pulling the curtains shut a moment later.
“I stole it from the old lady that likes to watch animals die...So it's probably cat today!”
“Well done, lad! Well done!” Flemmington congratulated the child by tapping his shoulder with a crutch. Then, after retrieving a knife from behind the bar counter, he stared again at the window, looking oddly concerned.
“What's the matter, Mr. Flemmington?”
“The town people are growing suspicious”, he answered, turning his attention to the cat below and stabbing it a second later. “We might have to move again”.
“Again? But I'm finally getting used to it here!”
“I understand...but I'm afraid these things aren't for children-” he removed a patch of gray fur in a very clean cut and threw it in the garbage “-to decide. Some of them have even died! Throwing themselves off their own houses...Lunatics”.
“But surely you can't blame yourself! It's their own fault! They're all jealous! The whole lot of them, sir!”
The counter was fiercely stabbed this time.
“Now do not be ridiculous, child! Jealous!? That is now the most preposterous thing you have ever said! It's even worse than that talk about the flying elephant and the wardrobe!”
“But I did see-”
“That's enough! Now run along and do your part of the job! We will perform one more time. And only in order to have enough gold to set sail again”.
“Alright...” he grudgingly opened the door. “but save me some cat. You ate the rat all up last time”.
“The rat was tiny but this cat is slightly bigger... So cross your fingers and you might get a bite”.
Now Flemmington wasn't normally cruel, but he tended to act this way whenever he became a target. And now, more than ever, he certainly had become one. Just last week, five men had broken into his bar and turned everything upside down, searching for a book of spells or anything that looked magical. Oddly, the only thing stolen had been an old toothbrush. The next day, one of the raiders had been featured on The Daily Crap, dead and abandoned, a toothbrush in his left pocket. A witness had seen him jump off the tallest building in town. And that hadn't been the first case.
It's all my fault, the old flirate silently thought to himself, wiping off a teardrop with his bloody right hand. Son of a pirate!
“Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention pleeeeeaaassseeee!” Flad Floy began to sing outside.
Flemmington thought he must have been daydreaming, because the minute the boy's song reached his ears, he threw the cat into the fire and hurriedly wiped off his hands with a cloth. Outside, the crowd gathered around the singing child, laughing at the occasionally funny lines. Children sat on their father's shoulders and blew bubbles into the instruments as the band played. But some men in the crowd weren't all that excited. They were dressed in black and looked frightening or slightly dead.
“Are they zombies, papa?” one of the children whispered to his father.
“No, no. They're the people that are jealous of Mr. Flemmington and now want to kill him or something...Be silent and let us watch the bloodbath. Did you bring snacks?”
“Mmhmm”
“Good boy”.
“'twas Flemmington's magical dancing, similar to prancing but better still!” the boy continued to sing as Flemmington had finally dressed in his finest marine blue robes. He walked over to the window and peeked through the curtains once again. Idiots, Flemmington mumbled, smiling as he patted his wooden leg. The door was opened from the outside as the crowd wildly cheered.
Flemmington began to tap his only foot on the stage. As he did, the drums resonated in sync.
“Watch his foot, men! It’s a little weird, Flen. But you’ll wanna see it anyway!” Flad Floy finished his song as the man called Flen pushed up his glasses, squinting as he did to better see through the crowd. It happened just as suspected. Flemmington’s entire self rose up a few feet into the air, twirling around to the rhythm of the playing band below. He continued to rise up high, just above houses and perplexed birds as the audience broke into applause.
Down below, the zombie Englishmen in black took binoculars from their pockets.
“Have you located the flight generator, Charles?” the first one said, turning to the man staring deeply into the zooming lenses as he focused on Flemmington.
“What do you mean, Benjamin?” Charles replied, lowering the binoculars looking slightly puzzled. “Didn’t you tell me to look for ice cream?”
“Oh, you idiot! I cannot ketchuppy believe it! Have we really been standing here this whole time for no reason at all? That was yesterday! I told you to look for ice cream yesterday! Why on Earth would a dancing old man have ice cream with him?”
“Well that’s offensive!” the third man said. He happened to be both old and notable for ballroom dancing with his wife while sharing an ice cream cone. He also enjoyed the company of cats.
“My apologies, Jacob. Most old men cannot hold their sugar”.
“Most old men are ketchuppy weak”.
“Not Flemmington, sir”. Charles spoke without thinking. He then gulped as Jacob sighed.
“Let’s see how strong this one will look after we are done with him, shall we?”
The three men smiled dangerously.
***
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