Ok, so, in Book Three of my Blood Magik saga (I call it a saga instead of a series because it’s all one story, but who knows… It’s its own universe, after all, so may turn out to be a series yet) I pay homage to some of my favorite writers (who are almost all from the UK) by creating a Cockney zombie character I call the Gent. He’s this eerie sort of heckler out of place and time who shows up to test the Coach’s mettle when he’s nearly lost it. A gangly ol’ “sod”, the Gent just may be what tears a tight-knit gaggle of apocalyptic do-gooders apart. Here’s a little taste:
It wasn’t long before their resolve was tested.
A particularly awkward gangrel with a top hat and a chewed-at human finger-bone between his teeth moseyed toward them, eyeing their raised weapons with retinas ablaze and gore-stained hands held high. The Coach usually wouldn’t have bothered entertaining the notion of any other option other than war, but the peculiar dress-wear and stroll of the dead-man put his priorities on a tilt, slightly sloping toward curiosity. His reason, of course, eventually tipped the scales and his trigger-finger tensed, but before the hammer went clink, the stranger spoke.
“Oi oi… A wee bit lairy, are we? I’m not here to mess you about, guv. Only curious.”
It wasn’t the painfully thick accent that gave the Coach pause… It was the creature’s denotive curiosity. It seemed…unique in its ways. That and his style resembling an early nineteenth century Englishman was slightly bewitching.
“Fuck off, dick-snot. We’re not here to shoot the shit with homeless dead-heads, alright?” Regardless of his own curiosity, he still didn’t feel the urge to be polite.
“Heh. Always did fancy the mouth on you septics. Randy as a rat-arsed dollymop, the lot’a ya!”
“One more step and I turn yer brains back to dirt, shit-bag.” He couldn’t discern much detail through the mists other than the twin-tailed black tux and red eyes. His pant legs hung inches above his ankles; long arms extending well past his jacket’s sleeves. The Coach couldn’t decide if the dead-thing was actually from the eighteen-hundreds or just peculiarly fashioned: some sort of uber, new-age hipster who thought dressing like Abe Lincoln was the bee’s-fucking-knees. “Keep those filthy paws where I can seem ’em, son. Only reason you ain’t a stain already is ’cause yer no threat to me. I’d rather not raise a stink right now if I don’t have to, but I’d rather raise one than allow you any sorta notion you got a shot at The Champ.”
“Izzat you then, mate? Fancy yorself king of the bleedin’ pilloks?” He waved his arms around to aggrandize, then lowered them with several tsks escaping his dead tongue. “How, then, fairs His Majesty with naught but a single subject to rule?”
“The fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Yor flock, guv. Flown away off ta the bog, ’ave they? Abandoned their mates for a unified ‘wringing of the socks’?”
Desi shifted against the tree they perched under at the mention of their backup. What the hell was this lunatic getting at?
“Or ’ave you a scheme a bit more potty to dazzle me wif? Say…a trap, perchance?”
The carousing winds parted the mists enough for the Coach to catch a glimpse of his inquisitor. His thin face did justice to his slight frame, with ears like satellites angled to refract covert, international intel. Blood as thick as paste painted a Joker-like smile that enhanced his already deranged aura from nutcase to super villain. And he stood crooked – always – shoulders angled so his left arm seemed inches longer than his right. That long arm lifted to pry the finger-bone from his teeth just before the mist again coalesced until he was just a shade in a garnet soup.
One thing I’ve realized is how much more potent an accent is in writing when it’s written like it sounds, but this can also be a bitch to read for those who aren’t used to reading it. So how’d it go for you? Tough to get through? Thanks for the feedback, zompeeps. \m/ -z/cm