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From The Vaults
BillieTheBot
Posts: 8,721 Bot
I was digging through my files and rediscovered this potentially offensive short story that I wrote a while ago 
I apologise in advance.
Thank You For Smoking
“Well, conventional weapons won't work.”
“Conventional weapons?”
“You know” said Steve “conventional weapons. Guns, swords, halberds...that kind of thing”.
“So what do you recommend then?” I said.
“No idea” he said, flicking the lighter to spark up his cigarette. And that's when we knew.
I'm haunted by Roy Castle. Not by the memory of his tragic death or the touching anti smoking campaigns launched in his name. No, the ghost of Roy Castle lives in my attic.
Like all the worst experiences in my life, it started with tap dancing. Very light tap dancing. A gentle tip tapping, as if pirate mice with peg legs were running around. But then it got louder and louder, until thunderous stomping shock the dust from the ceiling. Soon anti smoking pamphlets started to appear on my coffee table and on the kitchen counters. Then the trumpeting kicked in.
“Are we sure it's actually Roy Castle?”
“Who else could it possibly be?
“Oh I don't know, any number of possible dead trumpeters?
“It's Roy Castle, Steve. The bugger plays the Record Breakers theme tune on his bloody trumpet every morning at four. ”
To be honest it wasn't actually every morning. And a far more convincing piece of evidence was the signed glossy picture of Mr Castle that had slid under my bedroom door one night. But still, I knew it was him.
“Ok, ok. Assuming it is Roy Castle how we be sure this will work?”
“The smoke machine was YOUR idea!”
“No, I just happened to mention that I knew someone in a KISS tribute band. You were the one who asked about borrowing their smoke machine.”
“Whatever. Just hold the ladder.”
There's nothing inherently scary about attics. It's the boxes, clattering pipes, long forgotten trinkets and the knowledge that the spirit of a deceased light entertainer is lurking somewhere in the darkness that makes them a bit creepy.
“There's a trumpet floating in the middle of your loft.”
“I see it. Turn on the smoke machine.”
You would expect a KISS tribute band's smoke machine to blast out a huge billowing fog. What you would not expect is for a single puff to belch out before the machine sparked itself out.
“Well...that's not good.”
If I had to compile a list of the top ten most unnerving moments in my life, watching a hovering, disembodied trumpet swivel around to point directly at me would be quite near the top.
“Was Roy Castle a...umm...violent man?”
“I don't think so. But we have just tried to use a smoke machine on the ghost of a man who died of lung cancer. I think he might be a touch pissed off.”
And he was. I don't remember buying fifteen copies of the Guinness Book of Records nor putting them in the attic. I will, however, have the image of the book levitating then flying at my head with great speed. Fifteen times.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” I shouted as we dived behind a stack of boxes.
“Yeah.”
“Then light one and throw it at the trumpet.”
He missed.
“Christ. Ok, light another one and give it to me. I'll stab the bastard with it.”
“You're going to stub out a cigarette on the ghost of Roy Castle?”
“Yes!”
“Jesus.”
The problem is that once the ghost of Roy Castle knows you're trying to exorcise him, he doesn't just forget. Every time we stuck our heads above the cardboard parapet, the trumpet turned to face us and let out a menacing parp.
“Ok, you need to distract him.”
“How exactly?”
“Challenge him to a tap dancing competition.”
“What?”
“Smoke. Taunt him with a cigarette”
“If he's pissed off now, what's he going to do if I start puffing in front of him.”
“Probably throw books at you.”
“Great.”
The next time a ghost takes up residence in my loft, I'm going to throw out all the crap before I try to exorcise them. Sneaking up behind a disembodied trumpet involved hurdling an ottoman, a broken CRT TV, an exercise bike, and another bird cage. I'd love to say that I managed to sneak up on the trumpet, threw out a witty line about the dangers of smoking and stubbed out the cigarette in the most courageous way possible.
But that's not what happened.
I tripped. Over a copy of the Guinness Book of Records. Which was a nice piece of irony and I'm sure it was something that Roy Castle's ghost would have appreciated if my flailing hands hadn't pushed the cigarette into the bell of the trumpet as he spun to face me. You expect an released spirit to make a grand exit with a lot of flashing lights and a bit of wailing. Instead the trumpet dropped with a metallic clatter and disappeared.
“Well done. You exorcised Roy Castle by treating him like a cheap prostitute”.
I apologise in advance.
Thank You For Smoking
“Well, conventional weapons won't work.”
“Conventional weapons?”
“You know” said Steve “conventional weapons. Guns, swords, halberds...that kind of thing”.
“So what do you recommend then?” I said.
“No idea” he said, flicking the lighter to spark up his cigarette. And that's when we knew.
I'm haunted by Roy Castle. Not by the memory of his tragic death or the touching anti smoking campaigns launched in his name. No, the ghost of Roy Castle lives in my attic.
Like all the worst experiences in my life, it started with tap dancing. Very light tap dancing. A gentle tip tapping, as if pirate mice with peg legs were running around. But then it got louder and louder, until thunderous stomping shock the dust from the ceiling. Soon anti smoking pamphlets started to appear on my coffee table and on the kitchen counters. Then the trumpeting kicked in.
“Are we sure it's actually Roy Castle?”
“Who else could it possibly be?
“Oh I don't know, any number of possible dead trumpeters?
“It's Roy Castle, Steve. The bugger plays the Record Breakers theme tune on his bloody trumpet every morning at four. ”
To be honest it wasn't actually every morning. And a far more convincing piece of evidence was the signed glossy picture of Mr Castle that had slid under my bedroom door one night. But still, I knew it was him.
“Ok, ok. Assuming it is Roy Castle how we be sure this will work?”
“The smoke machine was YOUR idea!”
“No, I just happened to mention that I knew someone in a KISS tribute band. You were the one who asked about borrowing their smoke machine.”
“Whatever. Just hold the ladder.”
There's nothing inherently scary about attics. It's the boxes, clattering pipes, long forgotten trinkets and the knowledge that the spirit of a deceased light entertainer is lurking somewhere in the darkness that makes them a bit creepy.
“There's a trumpet floating in the middle of your loft.”
“I see it. Turn on the smoke machine.”
You would expect a KISS tribute band's smoke machine to blast out a huge billowing fog. What you would not expect is for a single puff to belch out before the machine sparked itself out.
“Well...that's not good.”
If I had to compile a list of the top ten most unnerving moments in my life, watching a hovering, disembodied trumpet swivel around to point directly at me would be quite near the top.
“Was Roy Castle a...umm...violent man?”
“I don't think so. But we have just tried to use a smoke machine on the ghost of a man who died of lung cancer. I think he might be a touch pissed off.”
And he was. I don't remember buying fifteen copies of the Guinness Book of Records nor putting them in the attic. I will, however, have the image of the book levitating then flying at my head with great speed. Fifteen times.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” I shouted as we dived behind a stack of boxes.
“Yeah.”
“Then light one and throw it at the trumpet.”
He missed.
“Christ. Ok, light another one and give it to me. I'll stab the bastard with it.”
“You're going to stub out a cigarette on the ghost of Roy Castle?”
“Yes!”
“Jesus.”
The problem is that once the ghost of Roy Castle knows you're trying to exorcise him, he doesn't just forget. Every time we stuck our heads above the cardboard parapet, the trumpet turned to face us and let out a menacing parp.
“Ok, you need to distract him.”
“How exactly?”
“Challenge him to a tap dancing competition.”
“What?”
“Smoke. Taunt him with a cigarette”
“If he's pissed off now, what's he going to do if I start puffing in front of him.”
“Probably throw books at you.”
“Great.”
The next time a ghost takes up residence in my loft, I'm going to throw out all the crap before I try to exorcise them. Sneaking up behind a disembodied trumpet involved hurdling an ottoman, a broken CRT TV, an exercise bike, and another bird cage. I'd love to say that I managed to sneak up on the trumpet, threw out a witty line about the dangers of smoking and stubbed out the cigarette in the most courageous way possible.
But that's not what happened.
I tripped. Over a copy of the Guinness Book of Records. Which was a nice piece of irony and I'm sure it was something that Roy Castle's ghost would have appreciated if my flailing hands hadn't pushed the cigarette into the bell of the trumpet as he spun to face me. You expect an released spirit to make a grand exit with a lot of flashing lights and a bit of wailing. Instead the trumpet dropped with a metallic clatter and disappeared.
“Well done. You exorcised Roy Castle by treating him like a cheap prostitute”.
Beep boop. I'm a bot.
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