The things you come up with when your mum asks you to bring the washing in.

Washing Line

It was yet another sunrise on that lifeless wasteland, where the survivors from the Great War were left to roam. The entire place was as silent as a tomb, for these mutated loners were too frightened to venture out in fear of the half-crazed cannibals that often hunted there. It was just the perfect environment for a man like Salad Fingers. He was miles away from any intruders, he had his telephone and his cupboard. He had an attractive tree in his front garden. He had just about everything he could ever want. Or so he thought. You see, something happened to Mr. Fingers in the past and no one really knew what it was. Everyone had a theory on it that some called either implausible or genius. Maybe he was the one who had started the Great War. Or perhaps he was really a she in disguise who married a man and raised a daughter named Yvonne whom she later disowned for disgracing the family name. There were rumours that his brother left to fight in the Great War and never came home, and Salad Fingers had spent the rest of his life hoping he would someday return. Others were convinced that his parents and siblings had abandoned him in that little shack of his, and others believed that it was him who had murdered them all. Well, whatever it was, it had left him with severe mental health problems that made him a laughing stock. He would slip into these strange episodes, ranging from the bittersweet to the downright insane, that often very nearly killed him. So it was on this day that another of these episodes occurred.

When he awoke from his two-hour slumber, he could do nothing but squeak with delight. He had a lot of nice things planned for the day, and then in the evening, his dear old friend Pickles McCartwright was coming to tea. It was to be a very busy day indeed! The first thing that needed to be done was the laundry. Salad Fingers was particularly excited because this load was something he had never dealt with before, and that was rare to come by in those days. It was the skinned remains of dead rabbits, which, to Salad Fingers, appeared to be nothing more than patches of tatty old fabric. He was planning to create a spiffing new dress that was sure to make him popular with all the boys in town. The blood dripping from the rabbit corpses, as Salad Fingers began to pluck them off the washing line, he struck up a merry little tune that quickly forced him to sing.

" When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, 'What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?' Here's what she said to me…"

Just as he drew a breath to start the chorus, his smile slowly faded from his face. He watched closely with those sad, sad eyes as one of the rabbits' eyeballs fell out of its socket. It fell to the ground with a muffled wet squelch.

Salad Fingers blinked once. " Oh, my," he muttered to himself. One of the decorative bells had fallen off. This wouldn't do at all. He stopped to think for a minute, tapping one of his long green fingers on his bottom lip. Eventually, he got an idea. " It's a good thing I have a sewing machine," he said, picking the eyeball up off the ground. " And it's a mighty fine machine, too! The finest in Leicester," he cried and gave a wheezy squeak of amusement. He took the skinned rabbit and plopped it in the basket with the others. He was oblivious to the pool of blood that was gathering at the bottom. The redness was the only bright colour for miles around.

Inside the house, Salad Fingers had set up his sewing machine. It was a battered, rusty ancient thing that no doubt had a history of its own, but it still worked. Just about, though. The ugly bald green man began to whistle the song he was singing earlier. He slapped the 'broken' rabbit underneath the needle, the blood splattering everywhere including Salad Fingers' face.

" I shall make the most appealing dress!" he said to himself as he returned the eyeball to the socket. " All the girls will be so envious! And perhaps that nice young man will talk to me! Ooh!" he gushed. But he wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. The needle came down and went straight through those scaly green fingers. Their owner gave a cry of pain, and once he noticed the blood pouring from the tips, his eyelids lowered. He heaved a deep sigh of complete contentment. He sunk into a dream.

He found himself in a large dance hall with a swing band playing upbeat music as a hundred couples danced along to it. And then Salad Fingers saw who was standing opposite him. " Why, Mr. Laverne. You're looking very handsome tonight," he whispered and blushed.

Mr. Laverne was tall and he had a little bit of a beer belly. Aside from a few wisps of yellow hair, the top half of his skull was missing, revealing his brain. He had what was once described as 'the most beautiful eyes in the world,' which were now large, bloodshot and bulging. The song ended and another began, but this one was much slower and more romantic. The mountainous man grunted as some sort of response and he outstretched his mismatched arms to Salad Fingers. The coy little creature gasped in awe, his eyes transfixed to them. His fingers were made of rusty spoons.

" Ohh, Mr. Laverne! I never thought you'd ask!"

He squeezed Mr. Laverne's hands and they began to dance in time with the other couples. Salad Fingers sighed blissfully, his arms around his partner's scarred, blue neck. Mr. Laverne just danced as stiff as a board. As the pretty singer sang so expertly and so tenderly, Salad Fingers couldn't resist any longer. He brought his mouth to the corpse-like man's ear.

" I've dreamt of this night for a very long time now," he confessed.

Laverne grunted.

The couple shared a sweet kiss.

Suddenly, Salad Fingers snapped back to his reality. He had that same blissful expression he'd had in his dream.

" That was lovely," he whispered, still in awe at Mr. Laverne's beauty. After blinking the dream away, he looked down at his injuries. He frowned in utter confusion. " What in God's name happened here?" He simply gave a shrug, tore his fingers out of the sewing machine's grip and wandered off. Bits of green flesh were still attached, while the bones of the fingertips were exposed to the polluted air.

Now that the washing was done, he plodded off back outside to prepare for Pickles' arrival. He hadn't seen Pickles in years, so there was to be much gossip and catching up to do. He'd heard that Pickles had married into a rich and powerful family, so he had to make sure that his house was clean and attractive enough to be complimented on. There was no way Pickles McCartwright could outdo Salad Fingers! For that reason, he was going to find some flowers to brighten the place up. But unbeknownst to Salad Fingers, there had not been a flower bud for decades. He went back to the area that was once bursting with plant life. But there was nothing there now, except for dirt and sand.

" That's funny," he muttered.

Just then, he spotted a little girl standing behind a homemade lemonade stand. But really, it was just a pile of driftwood and the corpse of a little girl.

" Hello there, young one," he greeted cheerfully, giving a little wave of the hand, which had miraculously healed itself. " Your lemonade stand must be very popular! May I have a glass? I'm parched."

He then placed a hand over his mouth and held the dead girl's decapitated head in his other. " 'Of course you may! Here, have my very last glass!'" he exclaimed in a completely different voice from his own. He moved the girl's head in time, creating the illusion that it was her who was speaking. He smiled as he crouched down to take a drink from the puddle that had just appeared beneath his feet. " Such a polite young child. Your mother and father must be very proud to have a daughter like you," he commented. He slurped noisily and smacked his lips. " Your culinary skills are top-notch, too. Now…" he began, " could you please tell me what happened to the flowers? There used to be so many in this meadow. It's just that I have a visitor coming over for tea tonight and I want to impress him." Suddenly, he turned angry. " Ooh, that Pickles McCartwright! I'll show him who's a bad housekeeper!"

The corpse girl did nothing but lay there, half-buried in the dirt. Salad Fingers suddenly became aware of the girl's silence.

" You shall answer to your elder!" he ordered, raising his voice, furious at this little corpse. " Honestly, the youth of today…To tell you the truth, I blame the parents. They raise their children to do whatever they wish. We'll lose the war if they keep up with this behaviour," he ranted as he wandered off, apparently to another person who wasn't there.

Back at the house, he was keeping busy by cleaning the place. He was happily dusting the black muck off the windowsill when he spotted something on his doorstep. Curious, he went to see what it was. The door swung open to reveal that there was nothing there. Salad Fingers frowned. His gaze slipped down to the ground and he noticed an old, dirty, cracked plate with a mysterious black liquid on it as if it was a delicious meal. Salad Fingers made a curious squeak, taking a closer look at it.

" What's this?" he asked. " Someone has presented me with a gift? Now what kind of person would do that? Well, whoever did this, he's looking in the wrong place! I'm off the market!" He gave a wheezy chuckle. He picked the plate up and took it inside with him.

He sat at the table and proceeded to eat the black guck, but he was interrupted by a strange noise outside. It was a loud screeching sound like nails on a chalkboard. It seemed to hurt the poor man's ears as he let out a cry of pain. He went to investigate. As he marched across the yard, he saw that a radiator had been lying in the dirt, just beneath Mr. Branches. His face lit up instantly and tears formed in his large, dead eyes.

" Pickles McCartwright!" he called. " I wasn't expecting you 'til evening. I am so glad you decided to come early. Come inside, why don't you? Rest your feet," he cried and grinned.

He picked up the radiator and dragged it back into the house, chatting incoherently to it along the way. He sat the radiator down in an armchair in front of a roaring fire while Salad Fingers sat in a rocking chair opposite. The two old friends talked warmly about the old days.

" Remember when old Mrs. Gertrude Tankard baked cookies for all the children? Those were such lovely times," he wistfully recalled with just a hint of sadness and longing.

Pickles responded with a screeching wail.

" You do? How is the dear old soul?"

The radiator wailed again.

" I see."

This time, Pickles let out a quiet hiss, its 'gaze' on the skinned rabbit that Salad Fingers had repaired earlier.

Salad Fingers laughed. " That's a secret experiment I've been working on."

The lifeless object named Pickles let out an angry sounding wail.

" No! You shan't take a peek! It's a secret!" the bald man cried testily. He watched in horror as Pickles hopped off to steal it. " Hey! Come back here!" he called.

But Salad Fingers was powerless. Pickles McCartwright had taken the experiment and he'd undoubtedly planned to claim it as his own. That was something that Salad Fingers couldn't allow. He followed the radiator outside as it raced up the yard with the experiment in its hands. It seemed to laugh at Salad Fingers, its cruel laugh torturing him to the point of insanity. Salad Fingers roared in anger and he picked up a long, rusty metal pole that sat on the wall of his house. He threw it as hard as he could and it struck Pickles straight in the heart. The radiator moaned and groaned in agony as black liquid spurted from its wound, and at last, it fell motionless on the ground.

Salad Fingers chuckled smugly to himself. " The children shan't go hungry tonight," he muttered sinisterly. Once again, he began to drag the radiator back into his little shack.