Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lisa Harris @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Princes Spicebag
by Lisa Harris

*Disclaimer: The opinions and views expressed by characters in this story IN NO WAY reflect the real-world views of the author.

**Disclaimer: You think the National Dish of Ireland is the Potato? WRONG. It’s the humble “Spicebag.” Gifted to us by the good people of China. Picture shredded chicken in batter with chips, saturated with a mysterious “Five Spice” flavouring. Google it. You’re welcome.

***

“Ah dere she is, me Chinese Empress!”

“Disney’s reject: Princess Spicebag!”

Sophie looked up from her phone in pure disgust as Poxer and his scummy cronies barged through the door, the stink of hash invading the tiny Chinese takeaway. Arthur’s Palace was her da’s business, but Arthur and her ma Shirley were away in Liverpool visiting relatives, so Sophie, nineteen, and her brother Seán, twenty-two, were currently holding the fort. Taking orders, slinging spring rolls, and, despite being second generation Irish-born Chinese, dealing with the occasional, local, ignorant twat. Or three.

“T’ree spicebags with chicken meat – not cat meat, prease!” Poxer dumped a grubby pile of notes and coins onto the counter. No doubt earnings from the night’s drug dealings.

“Yiz can order properly or yiz can fuck off.” Sophie returned to her scrolling, long nails tapping at the screen. She wasn’t taking shit from these scrotebags. She’d grown up in the same flats as them, been to school with their sisters. She was as Dublin as they were.

Mongo and Fitzy, their jiggling hands shoved down the front of their grey tracksuit bottoms, erupted into laughter as their leader Poxer started bowing and crying “Aaaah! Me-so solly! Me-so solly!”

Disbelief burst from Sophie. “ARE YOUS FOR FECKIN’ REAL?!”

“D’fuck is goin’ on?!” Seán stormed from the kitchen, slamming up the counter top.

“Oooooh, look out! Here’s Jackie Chan!”

“Crouching Tiger, Hidden Spicebag!”

“Ha-fuckin’-HA.” snarled Seán, taking a fighting stance. Poxer’s face lit up. These racist cunts loved a scrap, but Sophie didn’t fancy their chances in a proper fight. Not against Seán who was a boxing coach at the local gym. But still.

“Seán, leave it! They’re not worth it!” Sophie was panicking. Seán’s unpredictable temper mixed with Poxer’s notoriously unhinged behaviour was a dangerous mix. This had already escalated wildly. “Just give them the spicebags and they’ll go!”

“OUTSIDE!” roared Seán, pointing to the narrow doorway, cluttered with promotional flyers and menus.

But they didn’t leave. With a nod from Poxer, Fitzy turned the old heavy door lock and drew down the shabby red blinds. Sophie saw a flash of steel as the head scumbag whipped out a knife from inside his North Face jacket.

Seán visibly wavered as the gang advanced, his fists loosening to open palms. Sophie’s mind raced. No point calling the Guards. They rarely, if ever, turned up to call-outs for the crime riddled area. She hastily ducked and dived behind the till, knocking trays of plastic cutlery and napkins, searching for something heavy to defend them with. Anything, anything – oh! She’d found something, it was stupid, but… She picked up the half-full canister and turned back to the nightmarish scene. Her brother was on his knees, upraised palms now slashed and bloody, a manic look in Poxer’s eyes.

“Here lads! D’yiz want yer spicebags?!” Sophie bellowed, ripping the lid off the tube of Arthur’s Homemade Secret Extra-Spicy Five Spice Spicebag Powder, and flung its contents straight into Poxer’s face. It met their target: beady, druggy eyes. Poxer HOWLED, staggered back, one stubby hand pawing at his eyes. Knife still raised, he flailed wildly around the constricted foyer, slashing blindly at the trapped Mongo and Fitzy, who fled for the door and out onto the dark street. Seán launched himself onto Poxer’s back, scrabbling for the waving knife. They fall to the floor, both gripping the weapon. Each man crimson-faced and heaving, Poxer rolled on top of Seán. Murderous, he turned to Sophie, rabidly drooling. “You’re fuckin’ next, ya Chinky bitch!” And gripping a wheezing Seán’s neck with one hand he finally succeeded in retrieving the knife.

Something in Sophie snapped. She let out a prolonged high-pitched scream, and ran back behind the counter and ripped down the Irish flag – hung proudly on the wall by her Grandad Lee in 1996 when Arthur’s Palace first opened. Twisting it as she continued screaming, she swiftly, deftly wound it around Poxer’s neck and strangled, strangled, strangled. The element of surprise worked strongly in her favour, as did the adrenaline supported boost of strength. She strangled until Poxer’s lifeless body collapsed onto a greatly weakened Seán, and she screamed into his dead, flabby face:

“I’M NOT A CHINKY BITCH – I’M A FECKIN’ IRISH BITCH! YA FAT SKANGER!”

Seán shoved the body off him and stared tremulously at Sophie.

“Soph, Jesus Christ. What are we gonna – “

Sophie stormed back to her high stool behind the counter and resumed angrily scrolling her phone, as she had been only twenty minutes before.

“Just stick him in the freezer with the other racist pricks I’ve had to take care of this week and get back in the kitchen. Dat football match will be endin’ soon an’ we’re gonna be hoppin’.” A wicked smirk. “But it’s not like we’ll be short on meat.”