So, to set the story my two flatmates and I decided to move from Newcastle to Bristol on a whim a month ago to live with other losers in the beautiful village of Clifton. In our murky basement flat we had spent our days never seeing the sun, living off 17p cans of soup and being in constant fear of the tv licensing flunkies bursting down our door and demanding a ransom if we were ever to watch the 4music RnB top 40 again. That is, until our friend Blacky came to stay. Blacky is great. But if we were the cast of South Park, he'd be Butters, he's total pushover. We thought he'd be an eternal virgin but he'd spent the summer in America pulling loads of babes who were fooled into thinking he had a Hugh Grant-esque charm, so naturally we were super excited to get him drunk and make him shuffle in his seat uncomfortably as we interrogated him about his sordid American sex-capades. But little did we know that a whole lot of shit would go down before we even got the chance to hear him talk bumping uglies. Within two hours of Blacky stepping off the mega bus, we had three police officers in the flat, and a possible dead body on our hands.
So we live in this dingy basement flat in the same building Derren Brown used to live in, which kind of set us up for freaky shit happening in the first place, and all the basements here have this creepy dungeon thing opposite, under the street. We'd managed to leave it alone for the past month, but Blacky's natural sense of adventure got the better of him, and he was soon brushing aside the cobwebs for some serious Scooby Doo investigation. We were having a blast grossing each other out with old milk bottles when Dapper, the sardonic bespecled one, pointed out that this rotting heap of clothes looked kind of like a rotten heap of flesh. We laughed, and then decided it'd be fun to put Blacky in a claustrophobic little cubby hole to poke around some more. Being Blacky, he agreed. Rooting around like a pig in mud, I'd never seen him happier, yet his child like glee got the better of him and he carelessly dropped his phone.
As he reached down cautiously like a withered old miser bending down to pick up a pound coin, we heard a little whimper. His pitiable mark of distress soon progressed into "OH FUCKING HELL THERE'S A RIB CAGE IN HERE" Our first reaction was to burst into hysterical laughter, and get the fuck out of there, leaving Blacky and the rib cage together. When we'd taken a moment to gather ourselves and Blacky's distress was becoming ever more apparent, we ventured in to rescue him, pulling his gangling cobwebbed limbs out of that dark filthy hole. We peered in. Now genuinely spooked, apart from Dapper, ever the cynic, we looked into each other's young, uncorrupted eyes and up to the heavens above for guidance. Sophie, being a photographer, dangled her camera into the hole and took a few snaps for keep sakes. We crowded round and held our breaths in anticipation. It was all brown and knobbly as if it'd been barbequed or something sick like that, but it did look rather disgustingly, convincingly like an ancient, baby's rib cage, or some sort of rotten wicker basket. We weren't too sure, so we decided to go back inside and mull it over. But Blacky was too quick for us, and before you could say dead-baby-in-a-dungeon he was upstairs ringing 999, tears (probably) stinging his big brown eyes.
Two burly police people were soon arriving at the scene, demanding cups of tea threateningly and making fun of our ludicrous choice of a gap year. We thought the torment would be over soon, but one of them had conveniently forgotten his torch when he put his cavlar on in the morning, so they had to send for one whole more person to peer into that godforsaken crevice. Though we were wondering what the hell Blacky had got us into, it was all quite sexy and exciting for a bit while the police put special latex gloves on and talked on their walky talkies about "sending the CSM". After a final root around, a big police man came walking solemnly out of the dungeon with something in his hand, "You were right, one small child's rib cage" - as he lifted the article into view, wetting ourselves with horror, we saw that he was in fact holding an extremely old wicker basket. "Any of you kids like weaving?" He asked as Blacky sunk with the disappointment of his own wimpy predictability.
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