The Hairy Porter and the Bed Chamber of Secrets

Scene 6 - The Froglander

Angus' s mp3 player beeped its last dying breath as its battery life hit zero. Luckily for Angus, it happened around the same time he had reached the end of the natural "tunnel" of trees which previously impeded his view. Immediately, he noticed a row of tall buildings, resembling a smaller scale town square. All the buildings looked like they had been painted with a shade of Dulux vomit. As he followed the path to the town ahead, he squinted at the sun. It looked real enough him, which reassured him slightly. At least it didn't have that screaming baby on the front of it, unlike a certain children's TV programme he could mention.

When he reached the outskirts of town, all the buildings seem closed. Oddly enough the square looked like it had been almost abandoned, aside from a small cafe-come-bar. Its dull purple sign flashed indiscriminately the words "Ajar" rather than 'Open'.

In the middle of the square sat a small fountain with a statue of a man standing at its centre. The figure was touching his forehead while holding a book to the sky for some inescapably odd reason.

Fed up with all this weirdness, Angus thought he had earned himself a pint. Deciding to try the cafe ahead in the faint hope they served some form of alcohol, he walked towards its entrance. An 'A' Board lay at the Cafe's entrance stating 'SIQ: Seven Inch Quails' were playing tonight.

"A NIN cover band perhaps? Can't go wrong dere," he thought. It was exactly the kind of shit he needed, to unwind.

Just as the sign said, the door was left slightly ajar. He pushed door open and entered, to be met by a long row of steps leading towards a basement. The child in him, pushed the entrance closed in order to undermine the sign. He gave a brief snicker which was suddenly cut short when the door sprang back into its 'ajar' position, slapping his forehead with its hard wooden frame. He was certain he heard a slight "ha ha" sound from the door's direction before the force of the blow flung him downstairs. The sharp ridge of each step, getting its kicks in as he fell. Angus was left developing a deep hatred for gravity and doors, as he lay with his back to the hardwood floor. While he struggled to pull himself up, in the corner of his left eye, he could vaguely see people looking in his direction but none of them offered him any kind of assistance. Gradually he picked himself up from the ground.

Too busy exerting his superiority over gravity to notice before, but the room was filled with a sea of berets atop a crowd full of twats. Angus wanted to slap himself from not noticing the pungent aroma of pretentiousness sooner which hung before him . The air was thick with the smell of menthol cigarettes. The stench made him gag as it reminded him of time when Ell knocked his toothbrush into an ashtray and failed to inform him about it, or clean it, for that matter.

The inhabitants dressed all the same, wearing their tight black leotards, like a ballet class full of 'Riddler' clones. Each wearing a different strain of misery on their listless pallid faces than the last. Angus performed a quick count. Apparently there was at least fifty shades of misery. If it weren't for radical time difference with the Sun, he would've sworn he was in France right now. Only the dim lighting overhead partially brightened the room, just enough, for him to locate the bar.

He walked up to the centre of the counter to order his pint or, failing that, alcohol equivalent. Angus wasn't expecting the fastest service in word but he was surprised the when the man actually ignored him and continued to mouth lines from his book. Angus almost had to rethink whether he was in France, a jazz bar, or worse, both?

Agitation began to crawl under Angus's skin, so he decided to give the barman about two minutes. Once the time elapsed, Angus walked to the corner of the bar, where the man stood, and flicked him harshly on the nose. Like an dog who had just been punished, he looked up and immediately began to behave.