Wednesday, November 12, 2008

The Hook


There’s a good solid hook in one of the cellars of Laverstone Manor. I know it all too well, having become rather more closely acquainted with it than I might orherwise have like back in the eighteenth century.

I was still practicing the art of smithing in those days, since the role of a gentleman’s gentleman was still reserved for those of paler skin, though I would graduate to that role in the next century. However multicultural Britain is, the English gentry have never trusted a black man. They would have trusted me even less if they knew I was a demon.

When a pig went missing I, as a black man, was the main suspect. They hung me on the hook until I confess.

It was lucky for me that the pig turned up two days later.

4 comments:

Stinking Billy said...

jasfoup, I have always known that you are a survivor. No tuppence ha'penny bunch like that lot were ever going to dispatch a demon. I trust you promptly stole the resurrected pig?

Leatherdykeuk said...

Billy, when I was let off the hook (which is the origin of the phrase) I did indeed treat myself to a pork supper.

aims said...

Isn't there always a hook to a story?

Leatherdykeuk said...

There should be ;)