Part Six.

“Alright then,” Nick said, a little unsteadily. The first four pints were easy. Now, after an hour and a half plus six more pints, he was starting to wish they’d stopped off for a little something to eat before they started. Stifling a burp, he tried to focus his thoughts into some form of coherence. “So all these things I’ve heard about you. . . how many of them are true?”
Drake laughed, sloshing lager over the table. “Depends mate. You run off a list and I’ll tell you.”
“The basilisk?”
“Sort of. Got round behind it and clawed it’s little eyes out, then snapped it’s neck.”
“Didn’t even think basilisks were real.”
“Oh they are. Little cunts. Cockatrice however. Completely made up.” He knocked back the last of his beer and moved the back-up pint into place. “Carry on.”
“What about summoning a demon just so it  can light your cigarette?”
“Just the once. Martin didn’t half bollock me over that.”
“. . . biting werewolves?”
“Fuckers deserve it.”
“But why? Is it to convert them?”
“Nah, if I wanted to convert a werewolf, I’d kick the cunt over the crossbar at Twickenham. Self-defence mainly. If it bites, bite back… first.”
“Alright then, is it true you nutted the devil and called him a wanker?”
Drake laughed loudly. “Utter bollocks mate. Utter and complete total fucking bollocks.” He sipped his pint, then added under his breath. “I didn’t call him a wanker. I called him a cunt.”
Nick poised himself to ask what (in his mind) was the Big Question – capital ‘B’, capital ‘Q’. “You were the sole survivor of…”
Drake cut him short. “Yes. That is true. Sorry son, I don’t really like to talk about it. Look, Fred’s going to call time in a minute,” he fished into his pocket and brought out a twenty-pound note. “Get another round in. I’ll tell you some day, just not today.”
Nick grabbed the note and headed for the bar.