Friday, 28 August 2009

The Incubus

"Right. That's it" I muttered. "I can't wait up any longer, I'm too tired. I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"
"Not just yet" SP replied, clearly perfectly happy sprawled on the sofa watching one of those ubiquitous home improvement shows, a bowl of popcorn in his lap.
I sighed. "Well, if he shows up, you'll have to entertain him on your own. And don't make too much noise. 'night" I said, leaning over to kiss him before walking out of the room. "And you've retired, so don't go getting ideas" I scolded, leaning around the doorframe*.
SP just 'hmmphed' before turning his attention to the TV once more.

~ ~ ~

Upstairs, as I lay in bed on the verge of sleep, I became aware of a strangely rhythmic groaning, choking sound. I deduced that, because of its muffled nature, it must've been coming from next door, and promptly fell asleep.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, I left SP in bed - He'd obviously managed to sneak up during the early hours of the morning without waking me and was now dead to the world. After washing and putting my contacts in, I went downstairs to open the paysho doors and let some air in. Turning around to head for the living room windows and open the blinds, I started!
Our tardy guest Marcolt, an Incubus who served in the same legion of Hell as SP, was gingerly sitting - almost hovering, really - on a pile of cushions on the sofa.
"Gods!" I snapped ignoring what I took to be a massive yawn. "You gave me a fright. Wherever did you get to last night?"
Marcolt pointed up and through the wall towards next door's son's bedroom (which happened to be adjacent to ours), all the while trying to forceably close his mouth with his well manicured hands. His flawless, lightly tanned skin was stretched taut over his handsome, late-20s looking face as he struggled. I was confused until, from the corner of my eye, I saw next door's 18 year old son - well, his head from over the fence - looking tired but VERY pleased with himself as he staggered into his garden for, what I now realised was a post-coital cigarette!
"I 'ouldn't 'esist" Marcolt confessed through his still wide-open, lock-jawed mouth. "'e 'oz 'o 'ig 'at I 'ought 'e 'oz' a 'ower 'ot a 'rower."
I was incredulous. "So, you bit off more than you could chew, eh?" I retorted, pleased at my quick wittedness. My smugness didn't last long, however, as I then realised why he was practically hovering over the cushions: What he couldn't fit in his mouth, he obviously managed to fit somewhere else!

* Which is perfectly normal-sized, thank you.


  1. What is going on over there?

    Sounds like the poor fellow has hemorrhoids.

  2. Well, at least the sofa cushions are clean and dry.

  3. That doorframe is normal size for a dollhouse maybe.

  4. MJ: Hemorrhoids? His affliction was a lot more... concerning (thanks, Tim), than bum-grapes.

    Eros: And for that, I'm grateful.

    'Petra: Oh, hush.


Tickle my fancy, why don't you?