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Malicious Use of Prawns II - The Monk
[Continued from last week...]
They lay in a pile, and he noticed that her skirt felt quite thick against his leg (also tweedishly clothed), and he could feel the crackly slick feel of nylon moving beneath the skirt's fabric as she shifted her weight after having arrived, by virtue of both gravity and fear and probably other factors, if he thought about it, almost squarely in his lap, his lap positioned somewhere near the back shelves of the library where they kept the Flann O'Brien on the floor, also brought there by a combination of gravity, fear, and prawn-induced backwards and downwards motion. He could feel the crackly nylon and the smooth curves of it as it rounded her bottom, which was seated snugly against his thigh, mashing his keys into the aforementioned thigh, though he strangely didn't seem to mind, and he could feel the firm fleshy bits of her hamstrings (Or were they glutes? He could never remember which was which amongst the muscles and all that lot in the legs, he could generally identify the calf, but get above the knee and he was a lost cause, really. No matter, whatever they were, they were pressing against his own thigh, probably, the upper portion of his leg, anyway, and she leaned back into his chest gingerly, looking forward.)... 'Ah, right, think of imminent death, think of imminent death,' he thought, and glanced up at the roly hooded figure approaching them, at whom she was also staring, and probably not considering his tweedy covered leg at all, 'right, think of imminent death, or pain, at the very least, imminent pain, or perhaps, umm, imminent, ehm, discomfort...'
The hooded figure approached them every more steadily and seemed to be flailing its' arms around and about, the long sleeves of its' robe flapping and thwacking softly against the its' wrists.
And, indeed, as it approached in the dim lights of the back shelves, it attempted to do a move with its' hands moving at lightning quick speed and dexterity, the kind you might try with nunchakas after having stayed up all evening watching kung foo films, which is arguably healthier for yourself than attempting backflips and leaping in and out of trees. Unfortunately for the hooded figure, prawns that were slowly going soggy didn't cut quite as imposing a figure as it might have intended, and in the middle of all the flailing a faint *plock* could be heard, and she was struck in the side of the head with the meaty bit of one of the soggy prawns, and it travelled onwards and off his hair and on to the ground behind the both of them where they lay sprawled on the library floor and the hooded figure remained flailing one prawn and the tail of another at them as it loomed closer.
He felt her shift against him and her breast grazed his arm, which was clutching her perhaps a bit too tightly, though he hadn't realised he had been, as he'd been concentrating on the imminent whatever it was looming and flapping towards them with wide eyes and open mouth, and he was just reminding himself to think of the imminent thing in the brown robe with the oversized hood and the flappy arms and now half-armed with nunchaka prawns and which bore a strong resemblance to a monk, he supposed, now that the monk entered the scope of one of the weak little bulbs that dotted the ceiling of the back shelves area, and he also thought about his shoelace, which he'd thought was coming a bit loose before they'd come down the stairs to this part of the library and smelled and saw the malicious arrangement of prawns in a bowl on the very back shelf, sandwiched (though he hated to use that description) between At Swim-Two-Birds and some critical papers and theses on the same title.
Which was the very same shoe, he noticed, which she had reached down to pull off and hurled deftly not moments after that thought towards the hooded monk, who was still flailing up to and beyond the moment the shoe made contact with the dark space under the hood with a surprisingly loud *thock* and the monk let go of the nunchaka prawns and his feet lifted off the ground a bit before the hooded whole of him descended like a very fast and heavy version of the snow in a snow globe to the floor of the library.
And he felt her breast brush against his bare arm (well, to be fair, it was probably her breast but the fabric of her very lovely blouse and a rather thick brassiere or so) as she pushed off him and buried her elbow momentarily and probably unintentionally into his rib cage and then his Adam's apple and leapt towards where the monk lay.
"Who are you?" She stood over him, brandishing the shoe, which had bounced back halfway between where they had lain on the floor and where the monk had come to rest. The same monk who had placed his hands on the shelves a few up from the bottom and had been attempting to scramble to his feet to meet the onrushing woman with the shoe. The monk who was also attempting not to let any of the blood from his lip, should it be bleeding, as he thought it was, and believed he could taste as he licked his lips nervously, drip on to his hood or the floor, for that matter.
"I... am the Librarian," he said, before losing his grip amidst the rows of literary theory and falling to the ground again.
disclaimer:
The thrilling conclusion[1] to the series is next week! Stay tuned!
1. Insomuch as there can be closure and conclusions, of course, to keep those hypercritics happy out there.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Mutton chops.