Worst Pies In London
It was 1785, a tough time for Hanji’s pie shop. Meat wasn’t the cheapest ingredient to buy and it was a tough graft making pastry for the few customers that came into her shop. Clad in her floor length dress, a tight corset bound her waist and chest, her hair up in a messy bun.
But what was this? A customer? Hanji quickly jumped into action, getting out some dough to start kneeding out her pastry while she waited for the ones in the oven to be done. But something struck her about this man sitting at one of the dusty tables, “You look like you could do with this” she stated, pouring out a glass of her whiskey and giving a pie. She’d just end up throwing them to the beggers at hyde park. “Don’t drink it all at once. You’ll need it to wash down that” she laughed almost menacingly as she stepped on a cockroach.
Could it be who she thought it was? The man that used to live here with his wife and kid? The one that was dragged away to prison. It sure looked like him, a withered down and tired looking version, but still him. She’d know that short stature, and strong jawline, those narrow, sunken eyes. It had to be him. “You remind me of a barber I used to know” Hanji spoke, choosing her words carefully.
mediocrity-unaccepted
