Crispin had heard somewhere that if six people sat around a table to eat, chances are that one of them is a killer, or who fantasies about killing. It amused him that most of his friends pointed to him as being the most likely, whenever the statistic was brought up.
He was, after all, the self-confessed odd ball of any group.
‘Coupled with the fact that you know a suspicious amount of stuff about killers,’ Mick, a colleague began, as they all sat eating dinner, one night. ‘And you being not quite right in the head, my vote goes your way.’
Crispin and the other four, seated at Mick’s dining room table, laughed along.
Crispin didn’t mind their amusement at all. The way he saw it, if the other five were pointing his way, and he knew he wasn’t a serial killer, then they can’t be either.
Ergo: it must mean that he was safe to wonder free in their worlds.
He was about to say just those very words in response, when his head began to spin and he unfortunately lost consciousness.
When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the terrible pounding in his temples and at the back of his head. The next thing was the acrid aroma of vomit. He tried to lift his head to find out where the smell was coming from, but found he had been heftily tied to the table the group were previously sat around.
He hoped that one of them had escaped to call the authorities.
‘Hello?’ He groaned. Sharp, violent pains shot from his head as he spoke.
‘Awwwww,’ Mick appeared to his right and cooed. ‘You’re awake. The fun can begin.’
”Mick, what’s happening?’ Crispin asked, feeling ready to add to the vomit perfume that filled his nostrils. ‘Where’re the others? Are they okay?’
‘Hush, my old mucka. Everyone’s fine. Look, see?’
The faces of Janet, Simon, Whistler and Mary appeared around him, like pop-up loons.
They all greeted him with big smiles and wide eyes. Mary even stroked his cheeks in a matriarchal manner.
‘Is this a joke?’ Crispin asked with hope.
Mick frowned before answering, ‘I wouldn’t say joke.’ He then produced a very shiny butchers knife. ‘It’s a lesson in never trusting statistics.’
The others showed Crispin their knives, giggled like maniacs and then began hacking away at him to a song only the seven dwarves should be allowed to sing.