The Mad Hatter's Mirror

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"Aww nerts," the lady exclaimed.

Up until that moment, Franklin had been minding his own business while nursing his endless glass of whiskey. He could just feel that edge and was happy for it. It certainly helped to dull his mood soured from dealing with a...

"Flat tyre," the woman said, which complimented his thoughts perfectly. "A dead hoofer to boot," she added then finished with a deep, woeful sigh.

This prompted him to abandon his crystal lover in exchange for a glimpse of this dame. A face stretcher sure, but he could honestly see this rock of ages' inherent beauty.

"Imagine her with a hat and broomstick," a voice rattling through Franklin's head said.

"Just great," he thought.

Up to that point, he figured the whiskey drowned her out. If only he were that lucky!

"Seems a shame," he said with a booming voice.

He sounded like a man who was hard of hearing. In truth, Franklin was trying to talk over the infernal voice originating from the depths of his mind.

The older woman looked surprised, unaware that she had an audience. A blush flushed through her cheeks, then smile broke out between the two of them. Clearly they had both indulged in too much alcohol and likely for the same reasons.

"You think so," the dame asked once she managed to regain her composure.

Once her smile faded, it left her with a curiously harsh-looking exterior. Perhaps the crack about this one being a bit of a witch was not too far off the mark.

Franklin's eyes drifted to her knee-duster then shifted onto her lovely gams. They seemed so smooth, warm and welcoming, so much so that he could not quite take his eyes off them.

In time he managed a coherent reply, "In a place like this, two people disappointed by their dates constitutes a calamity. Franklin's the name, at least that's what my father calls me," he said before topping it off with a slight chuckle.

He left it open for her to shorten it up and most did, preferring to use Frank or Franky instead. He had no preference on the matter, but to be fair the jury was still deliberating.

A smile returned to the face stretcher. It was a particularly infectious smile, strong enough to bring one upon Franklin's own lips. For a moment he wondered if his cheeks were going to get sore.

Alas, before she could reply a passing waitress tripped then spilled a pitcher of ice cold water all over her. The dame had shock and horror etched on her face, not surprising considering everyone else shared the same look.

The room went silent as a tomb, even the band stopped playing. Franklin considered covering her with his jacket and then escorting her to her room. Who knows, she might need assistance in getting out of those wet clothes and require an immediate dose of body heat. Mind you, melting skin might be a turn off. Wait? What?

By the time Franklin realised what was happening a puddle had already formed beneath her stool. He likened it to a wax figure being exposed to an open flame. First her skin turned to liquid pooling beneath her chair, followed by muscle, sinew, fat and finally bone matter, albeit each at a slower rate.

When one included the constant sound of frying eggs and a shrill scream, it did not paint a pretty picture. Who was screaming like that, anyway? Some poufter most likely. Wait? Was that him?

"Told you she was a witch," exclaimed the voice from the depths of his mind.

* * * *

"Then there was light," said the voice from the deepest corners of his mind.

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