Lug’s Luck

“Yeah, right!” Icon laughed.

It was not that Alvin lacked any character, but upon festooning our eyes upon the little grey primate one would unavoidably find themselves drawn towards the biro lodged in his top pocket. It was not that the biro enhanced his character of course, being a plain plastic, see-through variety, but still Alvin always wondered why people never looked him in the eye. After many years careful consideration he had come to the conclusion that it all boiled down to their own lack of character, they couldn’t stand to meet his eye, his aura was far too powerful and the majority of people lacked any natural fibre and grit these days.

“The probability of his being alone for the rest of his life is hardly even worth thinking about. Don’t dwell on it.” Said Alvin.

“Sorry man.” Sniffed Icon “I can’t really relate to what your saying. I mean you’re talking about Lug man.” And with one scrawny arm he pointed to the focal point of their conversation, Lug.

Lug was propped against a matchbox, which in turn sat upon a rather plush deep red square cushion.

“Well I believe we can get him hitched up.”

“Sure man, sure.”

Early morning in some downtown nightclub. The place is loud, trendy, filled with people moving, sweating to the pulsing X-Bass. Occasionally a strobe distorts the perception of how we perceive their movements, the dancing mob stagger like deranged inmates beneath the rapid glare of white strobe. Time is distorted and unbalanced. The music skips between different beats, the DJ is not unlike a god, worshipped by the dancing mob, but he is lost in his own, thump filled world.

Get down.

Icon squeezes a black head out of his upper lip and flicks it onto the dance floor.

“You’re sick.” Complains Alvin.

Icon affects a drunken sneer.

“You always turn into a pig when you drink!”

Lug sits between the two of them, unmoving. He is an ear and acts accordingly. Even the flashing strobe does nothing to enhance his mobility, or lack of it.

Suddenly Icon leans over the small partition to the next table, which is surrounded by a gaggle of night clubbing girls, dressed in all their silvery, glittery best. “Hey would any of you girls like to dance with my friend?” he shouts at them above the music.

“Maybe, is that him?” one of the girls points at Alvin’s top pocket and smiles.

“Naw.” Sneers Icon.

“Where is he then?” caws one of the girls.

“Icon points down at Lug.” The girls look puzzled and then peer beneath the drink-laden table.

“An ear? It’s an ear!” and for the next five minutes they proceed to shudder with hysterical, hacking laughter.

“That’s not funny, he’s all embarrassed now. He wants to go home.” Alvin struggles to inject some fire into his tone as he gently picks Lug up and places him gingerly in a brown paper envelope, which he then places next to his pen.

“Wait a minute. How do you know? How do you know what he wants?” yells Icon drunkenly. Alvin turns his stunted form towards the exit and begins to weave through the crowds

“Because he’s my brother.” He says, but nobody heard.

“Numpty.” Icon mumbles beneath his breath. As he drains the dregs of his beer his eyes fall upon the dance floor and, for a moment, he stares. His eyes are large and round, they almost pop from his thin face.

A grin begins to form on his lips, like a split in a rotten tomato - he begins to laugh loudly, hysterically.

On the dance floor the throng grind their tribal rhythms around a tiny area of perfect stasis. A single, yellow spotlight illuminates the space. In the golden pool lays an ear, quite motionless. Icon was almost choking now, he pointed and gasped the words.

“It’s wearing a dress… a dress…”

But there was no one around to hear.

Ω

Dave Migman  Dave Migman's website is a strange, elusive creature. Uneducated and uncouth it is rumoured he inhabits a small island in the Aegean where he farms woodlice and harvests butterfly wings.

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