Thou Hast a Most Wretched Potty-Mouth (Shakespeare's Cursed Grave)

It was a fortnight after the bones were moved that he started to change.

It first showed itself at nine o’clock in the morning. Jamie came over with a sheaf of papers to file.

“I want these sorted by noon.”

“Nay, by’r lady, that I think a’ cannot.” The words didn’t come to his mind. They just sort of popped out.

“Excuse me?”

He repeated himself. He knew it sounded ridiculous, but somehow he didn’t have control over his vocal cords.

“I see. Well, then, I guess I’ll be telling the boss,” she said, fingering her horn-rimmed glasses.

“By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the ‘orld: I will verify as much in his peard: he has no more directions in the true disciplines of management, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.”

She huffed in shock, then composed herself snootily. “No worries, I already heard him talking bad about you anyway. In the meeting.”

“He was gotten in drink: is not the humour conceited?”

She stomped off.

“Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!” he screamed.

View this story's 9 comments.