Orthopaedic Vet, Port, Memoir
Tristram Pentacost put down his pen. Finished. He could retire now. Not that he wanted to, not with his reputation trashed. He’d tried his best to save the world from the horrors of its reality, yet the naysayers and nincompoops called him Doctor Frankenstein. The bloody press.
Tristram looked around his small office and beyond to the operating theatre. He could smell the salt, hear the clang of cranes as cargoes were unloaded and crates inspected; behind it the hubbub of a normal day in the custom’s shed. Not that any of his days were normal. He’d spent a career maintaining the fiction that the world was normal, that fantasy had no basis in reality; ensuring that no one had their myths confirmed by the release of some fantastical beast.
He should be a hero. When he’d started, this place was little more than a slaughter house; now, what with modern sensitives he’d developed his unique skills and at the last count he’d dehorned 1291 unicorns, unwinged 57 griffins and performed 17 chimera adaptions. He felt especially proud of the chimeras; devilishly tricky, separating the little buggers into their constituent parts.
He’d have continued but for the ego of that obese paedo-philanthropic pogonophile. He should have insisted, the first time he came through customs but the fools in admin believed him when he said he was invisible. It wasn’t as if the operation would have been difficult; a simple nose job. But they were seduced by his twinkly eyes, the old fraud.
But then he gets caught, blabs about what goes on here and before you can say ‘magical beasties’ the Mail Online are doing an exposé. Sheer dumb luck and all for the sake of a red nosed reindeer. It was enough to make you vegan.