Beard Cobwebs

Albrecht lifts (with legs!) the bucket and adds the dirt to perimeter around the excavation. The coffin opens surprisingly easily and Albrecht kneels by the withered corpse:

‘Hey, Mr Western. I get it. That ecosystem diorama I made really was only a B-plus. And Anthony worked hard. He deserved that 16/15.’

Nothing happens’

‘Huh.’

Albrecht prods the corpse with heel. It rattles and insects scuttle through facial hair in the moonlight. Mr Western was always distinguished by a girthy beard that reached to heart’s length. It  has continued to grow in death but has retained its shape. It has become a catacomb enmeshed in and tunnelled with cobwebs.

But here comes voices on the wind. Drunken murmurings. Potentially: rivals.

Albrecht noms a a cheese, avocado* and onion sandwich (with Spring Gully Sweet Mustard Pickle) and washed it down with a beer. He rakes fingers through Mr Western’s beard and fills sandwich bag with cobwebs. Booze and food in tummy, Albrecht feels like a smoke. The flint scratch and prick of light alerts the loiterers:

‘Potentially rivals!’

Albrecht vaults from open grave and sprints for the exit. He knows he will not get far but be damned if he wastes the smoke. Arms pumping, he takes a drag and his coughing does not help his escape.

He is down the street, cigarette done, by the time he collapses with hands on knees. Echoes of running footsteps, distant but multiple. A hand is offered next to Albrecht’s ear. Judea leans diagonally off Doris the camel’s saddle:

 

Albrecht takes seat behind Judea. Doris stands and Albrecht falls off backwards. He scrambles back on and Doris jogs into escape.

Albrecht grips the saddle's passenger horn with both hands. Judea holds loose reins in left hand, right flagon-dancing a bottle (Botticella 'Gilea Rosso' 2017 Nero D'Avola) above his head. He kicks right leg, then left, in sync with fiddle.

Judea swigs before offering bottle: 'So what breens sue out here?'

Albrecht declines: 'It's not grave robbing, it's grave repo.'

'Getch anything good?'

'Only some beard cobwebs.'

'Not ma' thing, but I might know someone.' Sipping curiously. 'Say - I bought a thing. Not a good buy, but I got some vagina detente willies. That's - I didn't buy vagina detente willies. I bought a jar of dirt.'

'Uh.'

Turning moonlit smile: 'But it's not a jar of dirt. It's a Dirt Mimic. Might help with'er holes. How bouts it? Dirt Mimic for Beard Cobwebs?'

Clinging on: 'It would be impolite of me to decline.'

 

*Avocado is 'sailor's butter'.