Weaver Wormhole searched frantically through his pockets. He was sure it was there. The crone had been adamant that he keep it safe so as to ward off anything evil that might come his way and right now evil was staring him in the face and his talisman to ward of evil was no where to be found.
Weaver notoriously lost things. It was a feat he thought, to be able to lose things with the regularity he achieved.
But now as his life began to flash before him and the one great fear he had in life descended upon him in ever increasing strides he knew that if he couldn’t find it NOW the end was nigh.
The sight of his wife in a rage was enough to put him into a panic beyond all reason. He could feel a most embarrassing event about to occur in his pants and on top of her rage swamping him and no doubt leaving him a blubbering wreck the thought of walking the rest of the way home with an ever increasing rash between his legs made him search even more frantically than before.
In his fob pocket he felt it….the chain he wrapped round his finger, the small metal disc the crone had given him leapt into his hand and he pulled it from the tiny pocket and held it in front of him hoping for the best.
His wife was not familiar with the talisman, she was more your rolling pin, cricket bat sort of girl so when the power of the talisman hit her and sent her sprawling into the gravel she was somewhat taken aback.
She looked at Weaver with renewed hate and venom, Weavers wife had the power to smite you if she got close enough. Weaver could vouch for her smiting ability as he had been smited on a regular basis for many years, finding himself at the end of her rage over his failure to perform in bed, that was a big one for Weaver and wished he did have such a thing he had not only read about but had heard his wife remark about on numerous not just to him but to their friends and neighbours. Needless to say Weaver suffered the looks of pity to his wife and the looks of “lift your game Weaver” from his judgemental neighbours.
But today he knew her ire was to do with his lack of employment and therefore lack of funds for her to indulge herself in her favourite pastime of having a bet on the horses, that is apart from Weaver bashing which she’d honed into an art form.
But today the talisman was doing the trick. The wife spat out a few grains of gravel and looked at Weaver. She got to her feet, gripped the handle of his favourite cricket bat and launched herself at her husband swinging widely only to find herself again eating the dust on the ground.
Weaver then made the somewhat fatal mistake of laughing at her.
The roar that came from her lips was terrifying and Weaver at this point decided that retreat was an option he might then exercise. After all he knew he could run faster than her and he might need the talisman tomorrow, which of course was now highly likely.
As he disappeared up the road fleeing from certain death he reasoned despite the talisman’s power he knew his wife was a very formidable woman.
At last safe under the town bridge he caressed the metal talisman thankful it was in his hands and not in the hands of his wife.
He was pleased with his day’s efforts and was quietly congratulating himself when the crone showed up to remind him the talisman was only a 24 hour loan and his time was now up.
She grinned at him with her toothless mouth as she took back the only thing he knew keeping him from the wrath of his wife.
Weaver sat there after she left and felt himself gulp.