Dave Ryman sat grumpily in the passenger seat of his wife's car as they hurtled down dark country lanes. His arms were crossed and his face was slowly turning a shade of maroon that clashed violently with his short ginger curls. He was making a point of staring out of the window, despite the fact that he could see absolutely nothing out of them.
"Stop frowning." His wife, Anne, said as she threw the Volkswagen around a corner at sixty miles an hour. "Your face will get stuck like that if the wind changes..."
"I'm not five Anne!" Dave snapped. "I'm thirty three!"
"Then act like it!"
"No." Anne sighed and focused on the road ahead. "I still don't see why we have to go out anyway." Dave muttered under his breath. Anne, like every woman ever, knew exactly what he had said.
"Because my parents invited us Dave, that's why!"
"You know I don't like restaurants!"
"Oh for Christ's sake Dave! Not this again..."
"This? This!?!" Dave spluttered. "I can't help this! I can't..."
"Can't you just... you know... switch it off? For one night? For me?"
"Switch it off? It's not a bloody computer program Anne! I can't just... Fucking Jesus!!!" Dave swore, catching sight of the dashboard. "You little... Green piece of shit!"
"What is it?" Anne asked, worried. "Is... Oh, is it..."
"Yes." Dave sighed. "It's George."
Dave had a gift. A very special gift, although more often than not he saw it as a curse. Dave saw dead people. Well, not people per say, although the animal rights activists would like you to think of them as people. Dave saw dead animals. Specifically the ghosts of dead animals, because just seeing the lumps of flesh that were once animals would probably have made him a butcher. Or the owner of a french restaurant. Now, one thing you probably know from seeing any number of psychics or mediums is that they all tend to have a 'spirit guide'. A benevolent spirit that helps guide them safely through the avenues and alleyways of the ether and communicate effectively with spirits that need their help. Some psychics get someone cool, like a native American chief. Or the captain of a royal navy frigate from the first world war. Dave got George. George the Blue Peter tortoise. And one thing that neither Dave nor George can fathom is why, when George speaks human, he does so like he's from Liverpool.
"A'ite Dave?" George asked, his little reptile mouth moving out of sync with the words that came out of it. After all, a tortoise wasn't designed to speak human. "'Ow's it goin' mate?"
"All the better for seeing you George!" If the sarcasm could have dripped, Dave's feet would have been damp. "Just what I need. Just what I fucking need!" Dave gritted his teeth.
"Now now. No need to be like that." George relied, blinking slowly. "Tell me yeh troubles mate. Ol' George'll sort it out."
"I'm going to dinner with Anne's parents. At a restaurant."
"Ahh mate!" George laughed. "You's fucked!"
"Yes George. I am fucked. Right Royally. Thank you for informing me of the fact..."
"Hey!" Anne cut in. "That's my parents!"
"Dear," George replied. "Your father runs an abattoir. An abattoir! Do you have any idea how many spectral cows follow that man around? Not to mention chickens. Good god... the chickens and their infernal clucking! Some of them are practically puce with the amount of rage they have stored away! Rage! In a chicken!"
"My father is a very important man in the meat business!" Anne retorted angrily, swerving around a broken down van. "He paid for our wedding!"
"Yes. And the cows that went into the steaks certainly seem to love him for it."
"It's true!" George said. "They's well pissed them cows! There's this one bull right, with a huge fuck off nose ring right, an'..."
"She can't hear you George." Dave sighed.
"What's he saying?" Anne snapped. "What is that little green turd saying about my father?"
"He's just trying to get across my point..." Dave tried to say, but Anne interrupted him.
"I never liked him you know, when he was alive. Smug little reptile, getting all that attention just because he moved around slowly and ate lettuce..."
"'Ey!" George shouted. "I don't 'ave to put up with this abuse! I spent years being fondled by Peter Duncan! Years!"
"... With his stupid little eyes and those stubby little legs..."
"Come to think of it, 'E smelt quite funny did Peter. And Yvette Fielding... She was an odd one..."
"Anyway." Dave interrupted them both. "More pressing matters are at hand. Like my imminent psychic overload."
"Oh don't be so over-dramatic." Anne scoffed.
"I am not being over-dramatic."
"He's not." George added.
"Thank you George. No dear, I am not! Do you have any idea just how many dead animals there will be in that restaurant? Not to mention your father's spectral menagerie?"
"Dave." Anne sighed. "I don't care what you or your little... pet say. You are going to this meal!"
"But..."
"No buts Dave. My parents deserve a decent sit down meal with us. Especially after the turkey incident."
"It was trying to push over the Christmas tree!"
"Enough Dave!" Anne practically screamed, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Either man the fuck up and mange to sit nicely through one meal with my family, or I throw you out of that door at seventy five fucking miles an hour!"
"I..."
"I think it's safe to say yous been beaten mate." George sniggered. "See ya!" And with a little pop he disappeared. All was silent in the car for the next few minutes, with the sound of air being forced in and out of Anne's flared nostrils the only noise aside from the car itself. Then there was a little bump in the road and a minute or so later Dave said;
"The Badger says that hurt... Ow!"
