Drivel, Fridges, and Stuff
Created | Updated Mar 11, 2018
Character Tries to Open Fridge, But Stuff Happens
That's what I wrote last week, along with a slighting reference to the plotline of the movie Titanic. The next morning, this appeared in my inbox.
Morning boss, You do realize that I just take it as a challenge?
So, as zombies appear to be too low-brow, here's a well-researched, historically accurate, nuanced piece of writing for you to marvel at....snork away!
Freewayriding
Drivel, Fridges, and Stuff
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Pulling his jacket tighter against the icy spray, he finished his cigarette, flipping the butt into the surrounding darkness.
Resisting the temptation to roll another (the spray was high tonight and he didn't want to waste the baccy) he resumed his freezing cold trudge, ever aftwards towards the refrigerators on Orlop.
The night-shift had started brilliantly, no calls, a few games of cards and even a sneaky bottle of Pale shared between the six of them on call till eight the following morning.
A much-needed respite from the non-stop four-day party.
What kind of bleepin' idiot needs a crate – not a bottle or two – no, a bleepin' crate at this hour?
He cursed again as the salt water stung his eyes. Why couldn't these toffs just go to one of the many bars for a drink?
Still, it would keep him in a job for years to come if they were all going to be this bleepin' fussy!
Rumour had it that the three-roomed suite had cost several thousands of dollars, no wonder these people brought crates and crates of stuff with them, they could certainly bloody afford it!
The machinery hummed as he entered the vast cargo deck, passing coal bunkers, meat lockers and the dairy boxes, he located the booze – 1841 Veuve Clicquot – whatever that was?
Struggling to lift the pallet over the hundreds of frosty crates containing shelled walnuts destined for the bank of Chicago, (didn't the Yanks have nut trees? Were they too bleepin' posh to crack a shell?) he finally set the wine down, leaning against the bulkhead to roll another smoke.
He was about to open the bulkhead door when the ship lurched, he momentarily shot eyes towards the silent alarm posts, shrugged, sure he'd get used to the new girl's foibles after a few trips, and picked up the crate, leaving the fridge, happily carrying his stuff; he glanced at the hold's clock.
It was 23.40 hours on April 14th 1912.
