Shoulders hunched, sighing deeply, Pim raised his tankard, gulping down the vapid beer in hope it would wash away his dreadful day. Being called a fatuous little man by the Queen was unfair, rattling him to the bone. It wasn’t his fault the Queen had a sense of humour failure. Telling her was a step too far but he couldn’t help himself. As court jester, he accepted being the butt of everyone's jokes but he didn’t have to accept rudeness.
He felt his punishment, right across his fundament after an hour in the stocks where some cheeky ragamuffin whipped him so hard, he couldn’t sit down for a week.
Laughter rang through the inn and Pim clenched his teeth, roughly torquing his cordovan until it split at the seems and his meagre coins spilt over the bar. Without warning, large, grimy hands swooped, grabbing the coins, pushing Pim to the floor, crying out as he made contact with the flagstones. No one helped him as he struggled to his feet, shuffling for the exit, consumed with pain and embarrassment.
“Oi! Thief!” the gruff voice of the barman shouted.
For the second time that day, Pim found himself in the stocks.
Monday Mixer is hosted by Jeff Hollar over at The Latinum Vault. The idea is you choose a noun, verb and adjective from the list and include in a 200 (exact) word story. xx