The Monologue of Graham

A gloomy basement. Through the darkness Graham jilts forward on a rocking chair. Through the course of the monologue Graham slithers to and from the window to look at the drizzle.

The bloody badger-haired devil! How dare that beast of a man betray me like this? The kerfuffle occurred approximately 2.225 hours ago whilst me and the chaps were pondering the existence of scented draw lining in the mid nineteen hundreds. I examined Ruben's peculiar yet perpendicular body language as normal. There was an anomalous result. Not only was he wearing a mohair style sock, but I could determine evil in his pupils. Eager to dig beneath the dirt, I paced up to Ruben at the end of my club gathering. Immediately his neck tensed like a beaver's tail being slammed in a door. "Graham. There's something I have to tell you...I am afraid I am giving in my weeks notice; I'm leaving the club."
In deranged haste I stumbled, "Y...y...you mugger of the soul!" I turned 180 degrees to fetch my meat knife, but before I was able to pierce the pig with punishment...he had gone. Gone. Possibly to his fortnightly pilates class. My anger sept through my linen twin set like blood out of a bull. I wanted to skin him alive.
Pause.
I want to.

Fade for 1.57 weeks.

His claws have ensnared my mind like a lion and his prey. Too haunted to cook, I hiked down to the local M&S to purchase a meal for one. Being wary about the amount of saturated fat in the ominous potato package, I carefully removed the cardboard exterior as a surgeon does to a body. Ruben.
"The murderous monster!" I shrieked. I was a wasp in a Thermos lunch container, a rhino growling in the heat, a frog extending it's wiry tongue to reach the victim. Thump! The poisonous package was dropped from my claws. The helpless antelope was approaching aisle 17; skillfully, I prowled past the garden peas, the lamb chops.
"It is ultimately over, Ruben," I mischievously informed myself. Virtually 5.38 metres and I would get my deserved revenge, the dragon would be slayed, all approving eyes would be on me, the handsome knight. My core body temperature was rising and my brow was moist and my stomach combusted. I sprinted ferociously to my prey who was observing the Bonne Maman souflet collection.

The cleaner was obviously off duty. In a split second rancid remnants of peel had shattered my dreams.

Lying, humiliated on the cold, yet tantalizing flooring, all eyes were on me. The defeated peasant. My spine collapsed like that of a dead ferret's.
"Excuse me Sir, speak to me! Are you OK?!" The voice of a kind gentleman flowed through my ear passage. With a large amount of efficiency, I opened my eyelids to reveal to myself, the hero. Groomed fur framed his facial masterpiece and he was wearing a khaki Barbour and cashmere sweater ensemble. Huskily he said - "My name's Timothy. I think you had a bit of a fall; why don't you come round mine for a cuppa?"
"That would be a dream come true." I replied, gazing in to his puppy-like eyes.

Fade for 1.03 hours

I could instantly recognise that Timothy was aiming for the shabby -chic appearance in the lower basement. Tortishell dog hairs finished off the creation to precise perfection. The floor was caressed by an extravagant Dalmatian rug which interacted beautifully with the dark crimson arm chair. Timothy pranced to the tea apothecary room - "Herbal blend or Tangy citrus?"
"A touch of tang if you would be so kind, Tim."
Studying the room more concisely lead me to reach a hypothesis as to what the mysterious God of a man does for a living. He is far too polished for carpentry, too down to earth to be a farmer, too brave for local produce taste testing at the Newbridge Nurseries market. Tim's sculpted face beamed at me like a computer manipulated cat as he delicately passed me the tangy tea.
"I'll be back in a tick, Graham!"
The tea tasted like washing up liquid. However, this may not have been a completely accurate or reliable conclusion; I have only tasted the Aloe Vera Fairy Liquid version.
"Graham, this is my latest project!" Tim thrusted an astounding...greasy-haired, vile, potent badger in to my face. Stuffed. My eyes twinged as I examined the hard glass eyes. My hands quivered, my pulse quickened, an outburst of combustion rose through my weak body. Flashing images of me alone at the Historians Society Club rushed through my mind. My body rippled. Digging my pincers in to the stuffed mongrel I imagined Ruben there. Suffering the consequences.
Nothing.
"Graham!"
He saved me. For the second time he saved me. Lying softly in Tim's arms like a wilting bluebell it felt like the right time to ask him. It felt incredible.
"Tim, would you like to be a new member of the Society of Historians?"