"Bloody ‘ell!" Jacob screeched as a jagged wooden sign flew past his stubby little nose.

  The broken board narrowly missed slicing off his hooter, whizzing inches from his round face, spinning as deadly as a ninja star.

  Unfortunately, it was not the only danger.

  He had barely stepped out of the pub when the monstrous storm, which had erupted out of nowhere, launched a brutal assault on him. The howling wind shoved him harder than a short, insecure club bouncer. Backwards he tumbled, violently knocked about by the powerful gale, while icy rain stabbed at his face.

  His rather short legs strained to battle forwards, to carry him further outside, but the storm did everything it could to force him back into the grotty bar his family had recently acquired.

  Desperate, Jacob screamed for help.

  Inside The Royal Ships, his twin brother remained comfortably seated, nice and dry, seemingly without a care in the world.

  In stark contrast, Jacob already looked like a contestant in an '80s wet t-shirt competition.

  “Geezus Bike, Miller!” shouted Jacob.

  “One sign’s already flown off the wall, and it almost took me bleedin’noggin with it!

  Do you actually fancy giving us a hand saving the other ones?”

  Despite all the begging, Miller showed no sign of leaving the barstool he had been plonked on for the last few hours.

  Most 18 year olds were out having a good time.

  Well, if he couldn’t be doing that, at the very least he could avoid having a terrible time.

  Just because his brother had been stupid enough to go get his arse smacked by what actually looked like a Twister, why should he?

  It was bad enough being stuck in this godforsaken, chocolate starfish of a town, without getting blown out to sea for good measure.

  The better life by the Devonshire seaside, that the twins' father had promised the whole family, wasn’t exactly living up to expectations. Mind, it would have been more surprising if it had.

  However, the move had at least been a good escape from Brum, (Birmingham for those who are unfamiliar with the nickname of the UK’s second city), but, that's a story for another time.

  Once more Jacob bellowed through the howling wind, the lashing rain and the war drums of thunder, but Miller didn’t budge.

  Sure, Jacob could concede that all the noise might steal away some of his cries for help, but the pub's double front doors had been smashed open only minutes ago.

  He alone had valiantly ventured out into the black hole of a night to rescue the new signs he had spent all week lovingly painting.

  You would think that his brother might just take an interest in what was happening to him. But no, not Miller. Instead, his twin remained glued to the news whilst feeding the pet hamster, Mr Chippy, who lived in his shirt pocket.

  Despite his desperate hopes, Jacob knew he would get no help from Miller, and so he persevered through the rain that felt like a tsunami of water crashing over him.

  He almost had his fingertips to the nearest remaining A board when a powerful gust of wind picked it up and gleefully flung it away into the air.

  As Jacob screamed every expletive he could remember at whatever force was behind his torment, he noticed that, actually, the weather was really weird.

  It appeared that all of the rain, lightning too, and gale force wind, was coming from a single spot directly above their pub.

  In fact, it seemed to be coming from…whooosh!

  His attention was swiftly diverted as the A board came back around and yet again, just missed his head.

  Well, he thought, it seemed God didn’t like being called names, so in future he would keep those just for his brother.

  He really should go back inside but he desperately wanted to save the last remaining sign he had painted.

  How else would the local yokels know about his amazing promotional plans? Like Blind date night for actual blind people! He would round up all the local uglies and tell’em that for the price of a beer, they might actually find love. They could meet folk who really meant it when they said that they were more interested in personality than looks.

  However, having run out to save the boards from the storm, Jacob was now suspecting he might not be around to enjoy any of his guaranteed successes, as the wind would no doubt carry his short arse off to Oz any second.

  “Milllllller!” he yelled, more panicked now.

  The wind was literally lifting him off his little feet.

  Frantically, he grabbed hold of the door handle to stop himself being blown over the cliff edge their pub was precariously perched on.

  “Can you PLEASE help me!”

  “Ang on a minute, J!” Miller sniped over his shoulder.

  Inside the Royal Ships, Jacob’s twin tried hard to hear what the news lady was saying. With all the crash bang wallop of the storm, and his stupid, whiney brother bleeping on, he was having a real hard time making out what was being said.

  “MILLER!” wailed Jacob.

  His wet, small hands were having a real difficult time keeping a hold on the smooth brass handle. As he pleaded for help, his voice definitely hit notes that Mariah Carey would be proud of.

  “J! Can’t you see I’m actually working here?” Miller snapped, in the broad Brummie accent that meant they would never be accepted as locals.

  “I’m watching the bar, aren’t I?” and he let one hand lazily waft across their empty shambles of a public house.

  “Hey, the news lady said UFOs have been spotted around Torquay tonight.

  Have a look, will ya, whilst you’re fecking about out there.”

  The only flying object Jacob wanted to see was his fuzzy face brother soaring up into the air as he kicked him up the arse.

  “Nooooooo!” he cried as the storm finally tore the last sign from the pub's wall.

  As his wide, pained eyes followed the board up high into the heavens, he noticed that it wasn’t alone up there.

  Through the blustering rain and swirling debris, he thought he could see a sizable silver ball hanging motionless in the sky.

  It was completely unaffected by the ferocious storm that was battering it from all sides. If it was a balloon, or even a drone, it would be getting tossed about harder than a stag at a massage parlor, but it was eerily still.

  Could it actually be a UFO? Jacob swiped the rain pooling in his eyes and squinted to see better, but no sooner had his vision focused, a flash of lightning briefly blinded him.

  When his vision returned, the object was gone.

  “Miller. Miller. Miller!”

  No reply from his twin.

  “There’s a UFO out here. I can see one! It’s right outside!”

  Suddenly, his little brother (who was actually the same age as Jacob, but just little too), scuttled up right next to him.

  He saved himself from being snatched up by the villainous weather by keeping a firm grip of the stained curtains either side of their entrance doorway.

  “Where, J? Where’s the UFO?” begged Miller.

  “I can’t exactly point it out when I’m holding on for dear life, can I!” answered Jacob angrily.

  With a well practiced roll of his eyes, Miller grabbed a hold of his twin and heaved him back inside. The pair went crashing into the soggy carpet.

  Miller might not notice one more blemish on his rather tatty work shirt, but Jacob prided himself on being dressed to impress, for he was a serious businessman.

  Miller sat up, checked that Mr Chippy hadn’t been squished, and then turned to his brother.

  “So where about is it, J?”

  For a second Jacob felt a surge of excitement and an eagerness to tell Miller what he had seen, but commonsense quickly prevailed. Any mention of UFOs would no doubt spread amongst the common people and it would seriously tarnish the respectable, professional image he was trying to create for himself.

  Mention Aliens and it wouldn’t take long for the jokes to start. He’d soon be known as the ‘Probe guy.’

  Within a week, there would no doubt be rumors about him running around the Moors, pantless, hoping for a ‘third close encounter.’

  So Jacob swallowed his enthusiasm and remembered his anger.

  “There is no UFO you bleedin, idiot. I just needed you to help me in.”

  “Ah, quit being a bloody soak. It ain’t that bad out there,” sulked Miller.

  “True, it’s dying down a little, but if I hadn’t grabbed hold of the door, I’d be somewhere over the rainbow by now!”

  “Whatever J. So you didn’t see nowt?” asked a disappointed Miller.

  “Nothing other than all me hard work being fed to the bloody sea,” Jacob groaned.

  “We might as well shut up. I don’t think any poor sod would make it a couple of feet outside of their own house without being blown arse over tit!”

  This perked Miller up.

  “Roger that, J!” he replied with a spark of glee.

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  He was eager to race off upstairs and break out their Dad’s old telescope. If there were UFOs out there, then he was gonna find’em.

  “People just don’t appreciate how hard we bar stewards work, you know.” Miller mused.

  “Ohhooo” Jacob laughed bitterly.

  “You’re not going anywhere, ya lazy arsed muppet! You can grab the mop and actually earn your wage for a change! I am absolutely fed up with doing everything around here! I’ve spent all day clearing out every last drop of your ‘home brew’ from the pipes. Had anyone actually drunk any of that stuff, we’d be looking at 20 years for murder!”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we don’t ever have any customers then!” snarked Miller, who really was eager to get away and spot any interstellar visitors before they decided to go home.

  “We have some!” snapped Jacob. “Such as Pie Guy!”

  Miller gave the mop a double take and shuddered. He knew what was coming next.

  Jacob continued.

  “Pie Guy was in the loo earlier today and it’s blocked again!”

  “Er, who da bloody’ell put you in charge, J-balls?" asked Miller, incredulous that his night was possibly in danger of being stolen from him.

  “Er, Mom did!” squeaked Jacob, instantly losing the respectable businessman aura that he was so desperately trying to cultivate these days.

  Once again, he found he had automatically reverted back into the bickering, whiney twin he had always been.

  “Well, I missed that bloody memo!” returned Miller venomously, eagerly ready to entrench himself into a war of attrition.

  He knew from well practiced experience that if he engaged in a long enough battle of words, his brother would eventually stomp off exasperated and definitely be the one to stick his arm down the shitty u-bend.

  However, interrupting the ensuing brotherly argument was the sharp ding of the brass bell as the front doors once again flew open.

  Normally this sound heralded the arrival of a rare customer, but instead it now welcomed screaming wind and machine gun rain that had come to invade the bar for a second time.

  Joining the penetrating chaos were snap crackles and pop of lightning. However, the vicious weather was not alone.

  Being pushed along and shoved into the pub by the furious gale force wind was a plump, spectacled, young(ish) man who looked thoroughly harassed and disorientated. Dressed like an accountant, though minus a much needed suit jacket, he was soaked through.

  He had all sorts of muddy and bloody debris covering him, and he also had a very nasty bloody cut above one eye. He had the appearance of someone who had accidentally stumbled into no man’s lands before managing to escape into the twins pub.

  The strange looking fella quickly staggered towards the bar. His wet white shirt was completely see through, allowing the lads to witness the unedifying sight of his moobs jiggling as he stumbled, lurched, then collapsed bodily onto the bar countertop.

  The twins made their way over to the slumped gentleman with an edge of weariness.

  “Er, can we help you, mate?” asked Miller, somewhat concerned for the stranger’s well being.

  Jacob, however, narrowed his eyes at the muddy mess that the fella had dragged across the carpet he had cleaned not two hours ago.

  The man lifted his damp, gore flecked face from the bar and looked at the brothers with an expression of pure dread.

  “No one can help me…no one can help any of us. We’re all buggered!”

  “Sorry, I missed that,” said Miller, gesturing to the little furry friend poking his head out of the shirt pocket he called home. “I’m afraid Mr. Chippy here is a right ol’ noisy eater. What can I get you, friend?”

  "A pint… please!" gasped the breathless, distressed man with forced politeness. He then quickly scanned the back of the bar and began pointing to a succession of spirits.

  “And…and, I’ll av one of those. And that. That too. Give us that red one as well, at the end there. Give me one of each…oh, and make’em doubles…please!”

  Miller looked over the strange man's rounded shoulders and gave his brother a raised eyebrow. Their bubbling argument was quickly forgotten and they automatically fell into work mode. The slight raise of Miller's eyebrow, and the answering return of Jacob's nod were shorthand for "well shit... nutter alert, nutter alert!"

  The best way to deal with people who were 'on the edge' was to gently talk them away from the cliff drop. Miller decided the situation called for his rare use of sensible behavior.

  "Here you go sir," he said as he handed over just one pint.

  "A rough evening?" he asked in an overtly soothing, soft voice.

  "Evening!" the man virtually shouted, spraying warm froth into Miller's unkempt beard.

  "Well, it could have been plenty better," he laughed maniacally. "It REALLY could have been better," and to really accent the drama, the broken doors to the pub clattered loudly as another crash of thunder rocked the bar. It was quickly followed by what looked weirdly like a flash of green lightning.

  The fright of this sudden intrusion took the sting out of the stranger’s outburst, and he quietened down again.

  To settle himself, he attempted to take a big gulp of his drink, but promptly lost half.

  A barfly was suddenly treating him like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building, and the remaining bitter drink in the man’s glass splattered across the bar as he woefully failed to swat the bastard winged bugger.

  Having dodged the assault of foul bitter flying his way, Miller tried to laugh it off, but the panic he was beginning to feel made it difficult. He looked over to his brother, who had developed a funny look on his face, almost like a wicked, vengeful smile. "Hey, Jacob," Miller called out, "do you fancy giving me a hand behind the bar? I think the glass washer is playing up again."

  "No, it's fine," Jacob replied with a twinkle in his eyes, "I fixed it earlier."

  Miller clocked immediately where this could be going, and he wasn’t impressed at all.

  "Are you sure? I think it might be a problem again," he said, with heavy emphasis on the word problem.

  "Nope, it's all good in the hood. Anyway, I've gotta go fix the toilet, remember. That was another thing I had wanted help with earlier," replied Jacob, who was happily sporting a Cheshire cat smile.

  "Oh, I'll do that if you want. You shouldn't have to do all the crap jobs around here," Miller quickly replied, groping for an escape route.

  "I've already got the mop now," which Jacob held victoriously like a warrior on a battlefield.

  "I’ll sort it. You look after this fine fella here."

  The slamming of a glass on the bar made Miller jump as the man shouted, "Again... please," the word please coming out wobbly as he suppressed a rising urge to vomit.

  The man took a steadying breath and then repeated more calmly, "Another pint please," and he slapped a twenty note on the bar to show that he was good for all the drinks.

  "Are you sure, sir? You look a bit... erm... are you feeling okay?" Miller asked, searching for an excuse to stop serving this fella before he made a stop at the drunk shop (which was a store that supplied all kinds of unpredictable crap).

  "I'm fine!" he shouted, "I'm fine," he followed with an over compensated whisper. Miller suspected that normally this gentleman was actually rather respectable, but whatever had happened to him had set the man on a mission to get completely wasted.

  "Are you quite sure, sir? You see, I've just cleaned this bar, and I don't fancy having to do so again if you chuck chunks all over it."

  "Errrr, who cleaned the bar???" Jacob asked indignantly before the stranger could protest himself.

  "Jacob, please! No arguments in front of customers," Miller sarcastically reprimanded, before turning back to the stranger with an eye roll designed to enrage his brother.

  "Geez, young people today just don't know how to act professionally!" he stated, unable to resist the chance to slip a dig at his twin at any given opportunity, no matter the situation.

  Normally Jacob would agree that the best course of action would be to cut off troublesome customers' access to alcohol and to encourage them that it was time to go home. However, Miller was a knob head, and he spotted a golden chance of his own for some delicious revenge. For once, his brother could deal with a problem in the pub. Plus, on top of that, the man was spending much needed dough.

  "If the gentleman has the money," Jacob loudly announced, "then it is up to him how he spends it.

  Who are we to spoil his good time?

  And of course, it would be rude of me not to thank the good Sir for helping me when NO ONE ELSE WOULD! So, Miller, please give my savior a free shot, on the house."

  "All I'm saying, J," replied Miller through gritted teeth, fully understanding what his brother was trying to achieve, which was him getting the arse kicking that his twin would never be able to deliver himself, "All I'm saying to this fine gentleman is that there’s no rush. He should slow the drinking down a little. We have all the time in the world!"

  "HA!" the man screamed, unable to control the involuntary escape of bitter laughter.

  "Time! Bloody time! Too much of it, you know, but then, not enough now," he said, full stopping his sentence with a loud, ugly, stinky burp.

  "Aye?" asked the brothers in rare union, once again their arguing being stopped in its tracks by this strange, strange man.

  "TIME!" the mystery customer clarified.

  "We don’t have as much of it as you may think."

  This remark certainly intrigued Miller.

  "How’d ya mean?" he asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  The man conspicuously leaned forward and pulled out something that appeared to have been wedged down the back of his pants. With an almighty thwack, he slapped down a small brown booklet on top of the bar.

  He narrowly missed the fly that had decided to take a rest from attacking him and now seemed to be just as intrigued as the two barstewards were.

  "Is that blood?" shrieked Jacob, who was conflicted with what he found more alarming. The bloody book or the fact that the same item had moments ago been crammed down some chubby fella's hairy arse crack and was now being wiped all over his freshly cleaned bar!

  "Oh, er, no... no," said the man, looking rather sheepish.

  "It's... it’s... ketchup!... Yeah, ketchup, sorry. Yeah, I must have splattered some on it earlier... when I was using it to rest my fish and chips on."

  "Oh," said Miller, feeling relieved.

  "I'll clean it off for you."

  Before the man could protest, Miller had picked up a bar rag and begun working at the red substance that covered the entire book. However, instead of cleaning the sauce away, it just smudged into a bigger, inky mess, leaving Miller very much doubtful that it was actually Heinz’s number one seller.

  Once again, he felt panic beginning to bubble in his little pot belly. Not wanting the man to realise he suspected it could be blood, he decided to really put some welly into his wiping effort.

  For the first (and only) time ever, he found himself desperately wishing he’d done more cleaning around the bar, instead of offering his brother delightful, absurd excuses for not doing so, like the time he claimed he’d been superglued to the barstool by local riff raff.

  In truth, he’d happily glued himself there to avoid doing any work after a late night on the pop with a wonderful homeless drunk who believed he was the real Santa Claus, who quite convincingly proclaimed he was currently on the run from world governments, who wanted him to deliver political assassinations to naughty boys and girls instead of presents.

  Anyway, had he done more cleaning and less lazing around, he might actually be able to remove this bloody, terrifying red stain. But he’d been an idle arse, and now the mess was going nowhere. Worse, it was spreading, across the bar surface and, most damningly, all over his hands.

  Looking up at the wide eyed stranger, Miller nervously chuckled. "It’s alwright, fella. Just a bit of sauce, ain't it. I see you've got yourself a leather book here. The ketchup's just steeped into the material is all."

  "You've got it on your hands," the man said ashen faced.

  "Oh, I'll be fine. It'll wash off... no damage done," Miller replied, trying to placate the customer.

  This statement seemed to transport the man somewhere else, somewhere his mind desperately wished it could forget. In a small voice, he told the lads, "It's done plenty of damage for sure... plenty of damage indeed."

  Miller and Jacob shared a look. All Jacob's plans to teach his twin a lesson now long forgotten. This was clearly not your run of the mill, late night lager lout. This was something different and actually quite scary.

  "Where did it cause damage?" asked Miller, who really should have known better than to encourage the nut job, and a kick to the arse let him know that Jacob thought so too. But, as dodgy as the fella was, Miller couldn't help being interested.

  What the bloody 'ell was he talking about?

  "Where did it cause damage?" repeated the stranger, and then he paused for a long moment, deliberating before answering gravely, "Every... where!"

  Jacob felt a chill but quickly shook himself out of it. This was clearly a situation that a professional like him ought to be able to deal with. Besides, their parents were away for a couple of nights, so he had no choice.

  "It appears you, errr, got some ketchup on your clothes too, Sir. Perhaps you should go clean yourself up before it stains," Jacob stated before handing the man a tea towel.

  "Also, you are soaked through. We've got some hand dryers in the toilets round the back there. Why don't you go through and try to get yourself a bit dry? In fact, I might even have a spare bar top you can borrow. I'll go look in the office for it."

  The man snapped himself out of the trance he had found himself lost in. He appeared to notice for the first time that he was, in fact, soaking wet.

  "Yes, I'd best get this… ketchup off me. Silly sod, aren't I?" he laughed, unconvincingly.

  "That'll teach me for using fingers and not a knife and fork. I'll... I'll just pop to the loo and clean up. Could I have another pint ready for when I get back?" he asked.

  "Yeah, sure," Miller replied weakly, not wanting to say no to a potential axe murderer.

  "Thanks," replied the man, and with that, he hobbled off of his bar stool and unsteadily followed Jacob's hand signals to where the toilets could be found. Both brothers stood in silence and watched as he slowly stumbled around the corner of the bar and down the long hall to the bogs. Then they turned on each other.