“So there we are,” said Dirk, “the five of us, coming out of the Horny Dragon, around three in the morning. I’d picked Mick up outside the prison, and we drove straight to Hillbrow to let the celebrations begin. It was Mick’s idea to go to this place, after everywhere else had shut or kicked us out.
“We get outside, and we see that Mick’s got blood all over his face. Now, Mick has his problems, but even he doesn’t walk around with blood all over his face.”
Dirk stood in his favourite spot, behind the bar in Valhalla. The nightclub, not the mythological Viking hall where warriors slain in battle feast under the watchful eye of Odin the All-father. Although Dirk could have been mistaken for a Norseman, with his long hair, unruly beard and arms full of tattoos.
The bar was always packed. Dirk would pick a spot, strike a pose, and entertain his patrons while they converted their wages into his profits. Not to be outdone, he often converted those profits immediately into even more empty bottles.
“So we ask him what’s happened, make out? And he schemes some oke just klapped him as we were walking down the stairs. For no reason.” Pause for a drink. “So. I go back up the stairs, but the bouncers won’t let me back in. Now you know me. I’m normally quite a peaceful sort. But I was starting to get a bit tense here.” More grins around the bar. Dirk’s “peaceful” personality was well known in Valhalla.
“So. I explain that we want to see this guy that did it. Tune him what what? Make out? And all this time, Mick’s just standing against the wall, wiping blood off his face, shaking his head. He’d been dipping into his own stash, so he’s well gone by this time. But we’re all feeling, like, sorry for the guy. He’s a china, make out?”
To keep people entertained while we all struggle to find our feet in a world suddenly flipped upside down – I’m releasing Dancing in Valhalla in weekly installments.
Read them each week on FaceBook or WordPress. Receive notifications via Twitter, Tumblr, GoodReads, or Amazon.
No charge. No obligation. Read for free. Share with your friends.
Cheers.
Full published version includes 13 twisted tales of music, magick, mayhem & murder.
Some torn from headlines in sunny South Africa where, for many, these are part of everyday life.
Shop for shrunken heads in a village that time forgot.
Witness an ancient ritual passed down from the Aztecs through Jack the Ripper to modern-day London.
Savour the sweet taste of revenge in a French restaurant.
And sit in on the Grim Reaper’s disciplinary hearing.
Relax and enjoy an assortment of characters nearly as twisted as the endings of these 13 tales of psychological suspense.
Physical paperback copies are available from BookDealers of Rivonia – 40 Wessel Road, Rivonia, Sandton.
And from Snow Lion in 7th Street, Melville.
New science fiction novella coming soon. “Let Sleeping Gods Lie.” What happens when mankind ventures out into space and encounters ancient gods who would really rather be left alone?
Ken watched as couples split off from the feasts, laying in the streets, in full view of their neighbours and the live newsfeed. Ripping the clothes from one another’s bodies and rutting like animals with nobody batting an eyelid.
In fact, in more than one scene playing out before them, several people from nearby tables tore off their own clothes and joined in.
“That’s what we’re dealing with, Ken. Call it mass hysteria, if you like. Or a return to a simpler time. What did he call it? A ‘golden age.’ The authorities don’t know how to handle it. In most cases, they’re joining in. See that London feed, top left? The feisty blonde with the riding crop and a bulldog tattoo on her butt? No, wait, it’s gone now. That big guy rolled back on top. He won’t last long. Wait for it. Wait. Right. There she is. That, my suddenly rich and famous friend, is the British prime minister.”
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