Lesson 08 wants me to murder adverbs — no adverbs near this post. Since I get confused with these stupid words I’m using an adverb detector to help me.
My excuse, Welsh is my first written language (my second spoken) so my English version is my own take — don’t ask me to speak or write Welsh, I wasn’t good at that either. I can bumble through and I’m better than a non-Welsh speaking / writing person — high five!
So far so good (I just pressed check, except for the word ‘far’ but not the second or this ‘far’, instead the word ‘not’ but not the second or third — see, I wouldn’t have caught this pattern).
The brief says: Go to a local café, park, or public place and report on what you see. Get detailed: leave no nuance behind — there’s 2 adverbs in that, ‘on’ and ‘behind’.
Since the brief says I can revisit and edit an old post I surmise I don’t need to visit anywhere and that I can kill Fred adverb free. I don’t like Fred. He’s a bastard.
As the title suggests, I didn’t manage it adverb free. Can you spot them?
How Fred died with 2 adverbs
The Golden Crown was quiet until Fred arrived. Music played and laughter erupted and the atmosphere was nice. Fred arrived, slammed the door and shouted:
“Fuckers, I’ve arrived!”
He drained the joy from these drinking people.
Conversation turned to murmur — a phantom pall of smoke, the memory of it, descended — as no-one paid him attention.
He didn’t like that.
Fred staggered to the bar and pushed an old man, spilling his pint. He didn’t apologise, instead snarled: “Watch yourself Grandpa.”
And Fred laughed hard because he was a bastard. A fucking bastard. No-one liked him. Some even called him a prick. His mother had disowned him. His wife had divorced him. His children wouldn’t speak to him. He had no friends. Why? Because he was a vicious, vile, obnoxious, pompous, two-faced, slime-ball sack of spunk that hadn’t the right to breathe.
He was sacked from his job at the waste water treatment facility for throwing shit in his boss’ face, and he was evicted from his council flat for hurling racial obscenities at his neighbours. Sleeping rough. No sofa’s spare.
It was rumoured that he’d hit an old lady after she’d mistaken him for her nephew. She broke her hip and he laughed in her face. Nice man. Salt of the earth.
Fred slammed his palms down, made the glasses clatter all over the bar. “I’ll have that pint,” he said.
“It’s for someone else,” the barmaid poured the beer and ignored him.
It wasn’t busy, he would’ve been served next, but Fred wanted the pint in her hand. He snatched it when she put it down, threw money that rolled towards her, and sauntered to his favourite table.
“Move,” he growled.
The man and the woman looked up.
“I said, move.”
Fred didn’t like being ignored.
Fred took a swig of his pint and threw the glass at their heads — the woman screamed, the man didn’t flinch. It flew passed them. Soaked them. He stood — the table flew, their drinks flew. He was massive.
Fred was the one who flinched.
The bar fell silent — someone turned off the music — and all eyes watched Fred as he folded, one punch to his waddle throat.
He gasped, clasped, clutched for air — fell to his knees, pathetic. Wimp. Floor. Was. Blue.
The bar cheered until they realised he wasn’t moving.
No-one went to his funeral.