My Little Pony

She ducked, quicker this time and avoided being concussed by a sign for a pub called The New King. It had been defaced with black paint which covered the pasty white features of the King’s image.

‘Bad pub,’ she asked and ducked again. Another vandalised sign whooshed past mere millimeters from her skull.

‘Bad King,’ he said, ‘We’ll take a shortcut. Do us a favour and see if you can grab some bottles on the way through.’

Marcus altered direction suddenly, kicking up sparks on the cobblestones. He charged down a street which terminated at another pub.

* * *

The King’s Ransom was a pub with a history, mostly of inebriation, bad karaoke the occasional intervention of the police force and, of course, sticky floors.

The owner had a single-minded ambition which was for the pub to remain what the other pubs – or bars as they were now called – were not. It had a musty smell of beer and cigarettes. It had well worn carpets with that special amount of stickiness only obtainable through expensive glues or the repeated application of spilt beer; in fact it had everything that the patrons of the other establishments would have turned their noses up at.

And that suited the regulars down to the ground. They didn’t go for ear-bleedingly loud music, stupid mixer-drinks, nor uncomfortable seating or fake fireplaces. If they asked for food, they expected it to be presented along with a plate that had chips, both on the surface and those made of potatoes.

And on the occasion that patrons of the other establishments – those of the genus Stuckius-Uppicus -Wankerius – made the mistake of trying to set foot in the bar, they would be prevented from going any further by the bouncer.

When Jimmy was hired, he was felt to be perfect for this position. He stood outside the pub and dealt with anyone that required the violent application of muscle.

He had muscle on his arms, muscle on his legs and muscle, unfortunately, between his ears.

‘’Ere,’ he said, peering intently at a bright, rapidly approaching object. ‘Wot’s that?’

‘I’m a pair of enchanted doors,’ said the doors, just to make the point. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know?’

‘Looks like a…’ Jimmy considered. ‘Wot’s that thing that’s white with four legs and a tail?’

‘Jack Russell,’ asked the doors.

‘Nah. Bigger.’

‘Samoyed? They’re white as the driven snow,’ said the doors. ‘Or so says my Missus. She says she’d like a dog, but I reckon they’d only piss us off.’

Meanwhile, inside the bar, the rabble roused, which translated directly to a darts competition played by cross-eyed participants, an arm wrestling match being won by a pair of severed limbs and a crew of curry eaters who – for very good reason – occupied the corner closest the window.

George the duck was on his lunch break, nibbling at the edges of the sandwich and sipping the beer that formed the midday meal covered by the statement ‘The usual, Shazza.’