Don't Eat Cheese Before Bed

by SEHalliday

      The murder of Proudy Hoare was only half the most exciting thing to happen at The Daffodil Bar that summer, and it wasn't that the slaying itself was a considerable coup de théâtre (which it was), or that the ex-sanguinary effects  weren't both colorful and projective (which they were)it was just such a bloody marvel the whole thing might have been orchestrated by a Broadway impressario.

"Effin' hell," shouted Pickle (he was visiting London on vacation and believed he had taken to the vernacular) as Proudy's head thumped to the burnished brass-accented oak bar and rolled through a multicolored gaggle of parasol-sprouting cocktail glasses, scattering akimbo their umbrellature like a drunken stagehand lumbering through the set of Mikado

The rest of Miss Hoare danced a jig, sporting and sprinkling, as Palula cried "Oh, Oh, Oh!" and applause thundered  when the dog-headed concierge ran lightly away into the lobby of the Wentworth Hotel, machete-handed and a dripping head held high like an Olympic torch.

I drank the cocktails from the oak: Cosmopolitan, Screwdriver, Vesper Lynd and something with olives. Palula joined me to bob-the-olive in a deep puddle of gin but I couldn't get a bite on the smooth skin so I kissed Palula instead, biting the skin of her lower lip.

Her mouth was sugary wet and we sucked each other like teenagers as I squinted left  (one eye is best in such situations) and saw that Proudy had found her head to join the Parasols in a rousing chorus of Poor Wandering One.