Port and Porter (Fiction)
“Porter, old mate,” Stilton said, a hand on his ring of keys and a grin ear to ear, “how have you been? It’s been years since I’ve seen you.”
“I’m not your mate,” Porter said, his head hung low, so no one could see the whites of his eyes. He’d say it’s because he was trying to be mysterious, but he just wanted to hide the tears fighting to cling to his lashes. He had been handcuffed to a wooden post for hours now, but lost count after the sun went down. A pinch in his stomach grew to a proper cramp, and he thought he might get sick if he shouted.
“Mate,” Stilton said again, this time emphasizing the t-sound, “you’re a right old fool, you know that, don’tcha? What were you doing in the captain’s private room, huh? Did’ja think we wouldn’t capture ya? Did’ja think you’d get away?”