Mrs Lovett's Pie Shop
Six legs. A crusty shell. I try to smash them but they're quick. You see, sir, 'roaches make the pie more thick. Why did you come in? Was it the flashy sign? Bright neon colours in the night? One of the letters out of sight? Did you think it was any good? A meal worth your time? I'm sorry to disappoint, sir. Here nothing is divine.
As you can see, feline faeces can be found. They are scattered around the ground. Be careful where you step. Not all black tiles are safe and sound. And there, on the corner, pies are full of mould, with loathsome vermin and more to glut. It is as if the Plague decided to come in, leaving Fame and Fortune before the inn. But please, sir, have a seat. Pick any chair. Any one you choose. Except that one! It is old and cranky, missing a few screws. The wood would crack, a leg would break. There, sir, good empty chairs at strong empty tables, for heaven's sake.
Let me take your coat. London's rain has left it soaked. It does the same to my poor shop. Look how it pours from the beams onto the walls and floors. No, the TV won't work. A rat chew through the wire. Doesn't matter, really, as long as it doesn't start a fire. The screen needs to be cleaned. It makes every actor look like a fiend.
Here, have a bit of ale. You'll need it. Believe it. It won't be enough to wash out the taste of what should be awarded as the most revolting pies, who no one shall surely eat with haste. The most ugly-looking, stomach-turning, off-putting, simply nauseating pies in all the West End of London. I dare you to take a bite.
I apologize, sir, for all the grease and things as such. Pity me. A lonely woman that doesn't have much. I am in need of a partner, someone who can fix the fridge. Trash what's rotten and fill my kitchen cabinets, every each. For real, sir, why do you wish to stay? Is not the smell of foul meat enough to keep you at bay? I wish to understand your game. What is your aim? Pardon me, sir. Do you have a name?
Copyright © Angela Pereira | Year Posted 2018