“My boy! That was an amazing performance!” said Dawkins, whom I was their understudy.

“Same can be said for you sir!” I replied back

Dawkins is one of these Shakespearean actors, has acted in Macbeth and Hamlet many a time in many theatres so it comes as a surprise when he calls my performance “amazing”. I’m a bit more contemporary I guess, I come from a background of cartoons and Netflix Originals and while I’m certainly not bad at acting I could never get to Dawkins’ level. He just has so much natural charisma and is so loud, I’m convinced he’s a dead ringer for Brian Blessed or Oliver Reed on a deeper and more spiritual level. He also likes his drink, as was evident by him reaching for his secret flask of alcohol tucked away into his bag. Dressing room necessities I suppose.

“Dawkins, it’s four o’ clock in the afternoon” I say to him, concerned

“Pffftt” he says “Time is merely a human construct boy, all the birds and other mammals don’t look at the clock all the time do they?”

“That’s cause they’re animals Dawkins, they don’t even have a grasp on the concept of money to go buy a clock let alone time itself”

“Ah you know what I mean! Don’t try and be clever!”

“I’m just saying man, maybe wait until later to have a drink? We still have another performance to go”

“I know I know, fine I’ll keep it for now” he says hesitantly, putting the flask back into his bag and gets himself ready.

Dawkins does this thing sometimes, where he’ll do this little shuffle/twitch to get himself ready. I’d normally chuck it down to a superstitious actor but with him it’s different, like really different. I’ve seen him absolutely smashed before a gig, I’ve yelled at him to get his shit together and in no time at all he shuffles and he’s in perfect working order again. Since we had time, I asked him about it.

“Say Dawkins? What’s with that twitch?”

“What twitch?” I’m taken aback a bit, he doesn’t realise he does it?

“You literally just did it, you drank, you kept the flask and then you did a little shuffle”

He looks just as taken aback as, presumably, I am. “I didn’t do a shuffle what are you talking about?”

“You JUST did it”

“Did what?”

“Shuffle! You did a little shuffle!”

“Oh you bloody kids! You should get your head checked since it’s your generation that brought in all that snowflake ‘PMA’ shit. In my day you just got on with it!”

I point to his bag “and thus you developed a drinking habit to cope instead. Don’t bring all that baby boomer energy into this, I don’t need that”

This aggravated him a bit. “How fucking old do you think I am? I’m NOT of the baby boomer generation. Besides, if my mother and father had joined that fucking crowd of ragingly horny hares then not like I knew! I was raised a goddamned orphan.”

Suddenly my frustration turned into sentiment. “O-oh, I’m sorry to hear that”

“Ah, it doesn’t matter. I doubt they’d have been happy to see me like this, going into the arts and all. Oh well, like I said, we just got on with it and I certainly did and never looked back.” He stands up, and says “now come on, we have a crowd to please boy.” Upon him saying that I realised what the time was and walked back onstage with him.

“What a fucking disaster of a performance” Dawkins says

“You could say that again” I reply

It was an absolute disaster to be fair, a part of the background fell, one of the newer actors forgot their lines at a crucial point in the performance, a drunken onlooker who somehow stumbled into the theatre threw a full packet of crisps on the stage. It was awful to be a part of, god knows what it must’ve looked like as an outsider. Dawkins is, I’m sure, halfway through his flask not even ten minutes has passed by. However, this time, I won’t blame him for it I even ask for some.

“Can I have some of that?”

“You out of your mind? This is my personal flask and besides, it’d be too strong for you.”

That to me, sounded like a challenge. “Listen, grandad”

“Don’t fucking call me that” he interrupts

“Sorry. Listen man, I’ve chugged half a glass of vodka at a house party once I can handle my alcohol”

“How old are you?” he asks

“20”

“You can have a sip”

He hands me the flask and I take, as allowed, a single sip of his drink. As soon as it hits my mouth I start gagging and nearly fall to the floor.

“What the FUCK is in that?”

“Told you it was too strong for you” he says as he proceeds to take a massive gulp of it.

“That’s not just alcohol in that, there is something ELSE in that” I theorise

“You know, you are right” he says

“Oh? What is it then tell me”

“Oh if only I could tell you without you making a big fuss, you fucking snowflake” his tone has shifted from a cheeky sarcasm to a lamenting whimper. He starts crying.

I quickly try to comfort him. “Hey hey man, what’s wrong? Tell me”

“If I told you you’d curse me forever” his head in his hands, tears streaking through the gaps in his fingers.

“You don’t know that! I doubt you could make me upset twice in one day!” I say with a joking cheeriness but his sudden misery wouldn’t budge

“Oh, if only I had your innocence boy. You still have so much time left. Me? My days are numbered, fucking numbered” he was descending further and further down.

“I promise you Dawkins, I won’t be angry if you tell me.” I reassure him

“Alright, if you say so boy. Contained within this flask is”

“Yeah?”

“A mixture of rum, Coca Cola and my best friend’s ashes”

“What?” I say, trying not to be too aggressive. “What was that last ingredient?”

“MY BEST FRIEND’S ASHES OKAY!? I knew you would act like this. You’re just like the rest of them! Don’t believe in true friendship! It was HIS LAST WISH”

“To be DRUNK WITH SOME ALCOHOL?” I could feel eyes burning on us

“We were drinking buddies, closest I ever had to a twin brother. We look fairly similar, drank the same beers, fancied the same women. He was delightful, old Arthur”

“What happened to him? Did he drown by chance?”

“Stop it you!! No. He was shot, and left to die in an alleyway”

I felt awful, bringing this up, I could tell how much it pained him to reminisce. How much he missed Arthur, how he so wanted to drink with him again. He looked up and then down again.

“Arghhh fuck!” Dawkins’ hand is clenched to his chest and he falls down onto the ground

“Dawkins?! Are you ok? What’s going on?”

No words came out, only moans and throat sounds

“Hello!? Can someone help?” I shout out

“T-there’s n-n-no p-point boy” he stammered “you’re too l-late.”

He pulls me closer

“My d-d-days are numbereeeeed”

Dawkins lets out a piercing scream as both of his legs unnaturally extend in a horrifying fashion. Cracks of bone and rips of skin are heard in the room as his legs are reduced to a bloody, elongated mess. His feet outgrow his shoes and what come out are hooves, human hooves with some toes still attached and webbed to the black hoof itself. His skin on the sides and his stomach stretch and rip to reveal fur, and growing out of his chest were two more legs with hooved feet. Dawkins’ mouth and chin area grow forward as more skin is bloodily ripped from his face, revealing more fur underneath and his nose grows to be black and bruised. His eyes roll back and turn to a dark colour, and out from within his forehead big antlers grow. Dawkins was long dead, and replacing him was whatever the hell this thing was.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAAAT!!!! AAAAAAAAA” I point to the creature writhing on its back kicking and screaming “DAWKINS!!”

The atrocity, a cross between Dawkins and a hellish deer, gets up on its feet. The full extent of the horror had now been revealed, as this thing still had remnants of Dawkins left. His torso (with his arms still attached) and his head were still there and it was still wearing Dawkins’ clothes. It’s aggro’d by something I can’t see and runs out of the changing room and into the theatre which was still fairly crowded as the screams were deafening.

After that horror, I got myself signed up for therapy because I couldn’t sleep at all after that night. My therapist recommended me jot the entire thing down and get my feelings out in a healthy way. I know he’s still out there in god knows where wreaking havoc. He seemed off after that performance but Jesus, fuck. I turned on the tv earlier and he’s turned into something of a folk tale, a legend but nobody wants to believe my story. I’m convinced that not even my therapist believes me, all she does is say “mmhm” to everything. Regardless, I can only hope that Dawkins is in a better place now and maybe, just maybe, he’ll find peace in his new form. If he dies I hope him and Arthur find each other, and only then he will be truly happy.

-end