Bodopoly pt 8 (Finale)

Bikle sits on the sofa in a distinctly dejected state. Looking around him at the clean, well decorated, tastefully laid out internet cafe, he is forced to admit to himself that he couldn’t have got the old place looking half as good as this in a month of Sundays. This leads him to accept that throughout all his travails and traumas, he has always had the final reassurance of being at least superior to Buckle, of never quite being the absolutely lowest of the low, but now even that comfort is denied to him with Bickle’s newfound intelligence and savoir faire. A tear falls from his eye, and a soft sob of self pity comes from his throat. Perhaps Percivella could cheer him up? Then in a further instant of self awareness, he sees himself as others must see him, a creature so utterly beyond contempt as to be barely real, with so little self esteem that he has been forced to create his own unique fetish, where he can visualise a whole actual, if dysfunctional, relationship with a takeaway pizza menu or an Aldi discount voucher. Worse, he remembers the times when his papery paramours have actually spurned his advances. His mind reels as it dawns upon him that deep down, he actually finds himself so repugnant that he has subconsciously rejected himself, albeit through the medium of a shoddily printed booklet extolling the virtues of a particular brand of medical wigs. “Ho by God. I’b a bodster. De lowest of de low. Lower dan dat.” He remembers that the only actual living creature to have made any overtures of an intimate nature in many years was Chonsoix de Bon Onsoir, who would cheerfully penetrate a roasting pony. He remembers Bockle’s transcendent mirth at the very idea that his, Bikle’s existence was in any way at all a thing to be endured, let alone valued. “Ho god, I deed a drink!” Remembering Buckle’schange, he goes into his pockets, “Three quid! I cad get two bottles of Special Red for dat!” But there is no money there, frantically he checks all his pockets. No money. Nothing. Dashed, he is for a moment at a complete loss, then has an idea. “De cupboard! Perhaps dere’s sobe of dat white spirit left! Dat always gets de job dode!” Rushing over to the kitchenette, he pulls open the cupboard door, and sure enough there is a whole bottle of Uncle Morris’s Extra Flammable seeming to wink cheekily at him. Mixing a liberal dose with the remains of Buckle’s cola he raises the glass, “Dowd de hatch eh boys!”  and tosses of the oily accelerant. “Hbbbb, dot bad, perhaps a little ibpertidedt, but dothig dat bore of de sabe wod’t cure!” After another couple of neat shots, he begins to wonder if there is anything else in the cupboard which will help get the party started, and begins to rummage about amongst thebin stained oddments. Various sachets of condiments gleaned from the pavements outside late night takeaways are scornfully dismissed, as is a half empty packet of baking soda and some macaroni. Emptying another bean can half full of white spirit he notices a shiny box that he doesn’t remember having seen before, “Ho what’s dis den? Dog worbig tablets? Cad’t hurt cad it? You dod’t see bany biserable doggies do you? Cobe to Bikle you binxes!”Tearing open the box he begins to tip handfuls of the bright pink tablets down his scrawny gullet, washing them down with copious swallows of Extra Flammable. Just as he has finished the lot there is a knock at the newly replaced door.

The scene switches to Morris’s living room, where the man himself is engaged with tinkering with an ancient grandfather clock made of some strange wood, darker than ebony, and chased with designs of blasphemous and unsettling nature. “Morris! What are you doing to the clock? Are you going to make a mess? I’ve got book club tonight remember?” Morris stands back and fashions a roll up. “Book club you say? Well you do don’t you? Look!” And sure enough, there is Yolanda’s book group, Executioner Johnson, Keeper Of The Unreadable Scrolls Of Atlantis Johnson, Mrs Furnisson,  who looks somewhat distracted, Carl the Dentist, who keeps looking around nervously, and Herbert Jackson, who she only let in as a favour to Morris, and keeps wanting them to read Voltaire. She sees that outside the French windows, where a moment ago there shone the bright cheerful sun of a summer’s afternoon, there is now only the dim crepuscular twilight of dusk. “Oh for fuck’s sake Morris, what have you done now?” “A mere slight adjustment to the fabric of time my little Jeep Cherokee Sport, in order to facilitate a certain narrative I have catapulted the entire omniverse forward about six hours.” “Oh for fuck’s sake you massive dickhead, I had a hairdresser’s appointment at half past three.” “Never mind my little parasitic Hagfish, although your hair looks fine to me, Tonsorial Johnson here would be more than happy to give you a swift makeover? Now if you will excuse me I have amusing business to attend to elsewhere.”

The scene shifts once again to a narrow country lane, where hedges long untrimmed, seem to hem one in, and the branches of the trees which grow along the way, interlace and twine amongst each other overhead, shutting out the last fading glow of the setting sun. In the deep shadows is an expensive Mercedes saloon, from the open window of which comes a familiar voice, tinged with an unusual nervous quality. “Wretched vehicle! Out of fuel! Blplplp! No wallet in pyjamas! Blbplplblp, Shanks’s pony! Long way from home!” Slamming the car door behind him, the Turkey begins, with many a look over his shoulder, to plod along the darkened lane. “Blbplplblp! Not fan of this place! Reminiscent of childhood trauma! Poor Pepe! Poor Clancy!” As he walks, his feelings of unease grow more acute, until they almost constitute a solid foreboding of some ill event which is to befall him. Drawing his thin pyjama jacket closer around him in a vain attempt to ward off the gathering chill, he trudges along his fearful way, jumping at every rustle in the hedgerow. From some distance comes a strange high pitched noise, “toooot toooot!” Clancy stops and listens, there it is again, and appreciably closer this time. Despite his best efforts to stay cheerful,  a chill sweat is forming on the back of his neck. “Blplplp! Doubtless an owl!” But in his heart he knows that it is not the cry of any owl that was ever hatched upon this earth, and when the sound comes a third time, louder still, from back down the lane where he left Dr Furnisson’s car, he begins to trot, then jog in the hopes of avoiding that which is inexorably approaching. “Blbplplblp! Huff! Puff! Not liking this much!” Over his own panting, he can now make out a louder, harsher puffing noise, which is growing louder with every moment, and a rattling, clanking, metallic racket, which increases until he can no longer hear his wheezes and snorts, as he runs in terror from this approaching cacophony, not daring to look back, lest he stumble. An eerie light begins to suffuse the hedgerows, throwing a distorted shadow of the Turkey in front of him as if to mock him with it’s ungainly, floundering motions, then, from just behindhim, comes a shrill, ear-splitting “TOOOOT TOOOOT!” Clancy shrieks and throws himself to the ground in terror, and the puffing, clanking THING stops at his very heels”Blplplp! Oh please! Mercy!” He screams, but his blood turns to ice as a voice he recognises only too well replies in a tone dripping with gleeful malice, “Blbplplblp! Not likely! No mercy for you from Mr Sparky! Turn round! Face fate!” Scrabbling in the dust, the prostrate fowl turns, and reels back in horror. There in front of him is the twisted wreckage of Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express, steam billowing from its twisted funnel, and glowing with a horrible eerie luminosity. Peering vengefully from the cab is Mr Sparky himself, he too seems to give off the same unearthly green glow. Shambling forward, his blood smeared, shattered head dangling limply from a broken neck, is Porter Thompson, beckoning with his one unmutilated wing. “Come on now! Blplplp! All aboard! Travel for all eternity in hideous torment!” Clancy abases himself further, pleading, “Blplplplbbb! Rather not! Beg mercy! ForMother’s sake!” Mr Sparky sneers, “Not my mother! You told me that! Too late now for appeals! All aboard the dead man’s train!” “Dead?” whimpers Clancy, “But how?” “Blbplplblp! Plenty of time for explanations later. All the time in the world in fact! Blplplp, but perhaps it will help make things clear if you were to meet your conductor for this journey? Blbplplblp!” From the train carriage steps a tall, graceful figure in a black conductor’s uniform, looking down at Clancy’s dust covered, sweaty pyjama clad form, he slowly grins a wide, sharp toothed grin. “Meow meow, Ticketsss pleasssse!” “Blplplp Blplplp! No ticket! Can’t ride train! Another day perhaps! Toodle oo!” He tries to run but realises that his feet are not touching the ground. He looks round and stares straight into the empty dead eyes of Porter Thompson, whose unbroken wing has him in a grip of steel. “Oh I’m sssure that that won’t be a problem sssir.”smiles the suave figure in black, “In fact I believe that I have your ticket for this journey right here, now let me jussst sssee.” So saying, he draws from his tunic a long, slender dagger, which gleams menacingly in the hateful green light and advances upon his foe. With the strength of desperation, Clancy manages to tear free from Porter Thompson, leaving his torn pyjama jacket in his grasp. Stricken with utter fear he flings himself in supplication at Mr Sparky. “Please Mr Sparky! Please!” he sobs as he takes hold of the other’s wings pleadingly, “I beg you! Blplplp! Don’t want to die! Want to live! Atone for sins! Don’t let the cat man murder me! Oh mercy! Is this the end for little Clancy?” He draws his wings back and wrings them together prayer fashion. As he does so, he sees, that they too have become faintly luminous. “Blplplp! What’s this?” For a moment he is afraid that it is some eldritch contamination, a sign that he is already becoming one with the netherworld of the Damned, then another, somehow more awful fear begins to dawn upon him. Snatching up a piece of his torn jacket, he throws himself upon his glowing double and vigorously rubs at his face. The strange luminescence transfers itself to the rag, leaving Mr Sparky’s grinning face looking perfectly normal. “Blplplp! Took you long enough! Blbplplblplblp! Ashamed to be psychic twin of such juggins!” Clancy’s heart sinks as he hears the familiar laugh from further down the train, and sure enough, there, inevitably, is Morris, wiping a tear from his eye with the sleeve of his denim jacket as he climbs out of the carriage. “Ho ho, oh dear, I think this is one of my favourites so far. Oh dearie me. You fell for that one hook line and monkey didn’t you you turkey bastard? Ho ho, “please please don’t kill me Mr Sparky!” My stars it was a marvellous performance, almost put me off my Hofmeister, Perhaps you should get a cloak and  move in with SB, I hear he’s short a comedy sidekick these days.” “Blbplplblp! Not funny! You bastard Morris! Get you for this!” “Blplplp not likely! Not with that mouse in your ear! And no trousers!” *Whisk!* “Blplplp! Really! But why?”

Morris light a roll up, and takes on something of the air of a detective at the end of a TV show explaining whodunit. “Well my underlying motive was of course my deep dislike of you, you turkey bastard, and concomitant upon that, the huge enjoyment that I derive from seeing you fall apart piteously whenever you land neck deep in the old Brown Windsor as it were, but the main motivation was the two thirty gallon drums of luminous paint that Dennis foisted upon me last Walpurgisnacht. Every time I went into the shed to repair a lawnmower there they were, cluttering up the old place, so I says to meself, “Morris me old cock, there’s a fine escapade here if only you had the wit to see it, then Dave Furnisson here moved in over the strasse, and the rest pretty much wrote itself.” Necromantic Johnson ambles out from the guards van with a Freshways carrier full of cans, and hands them out to Morris Mr Sparky, who takes a long swig and leers at Clancy. “Blplplp! Bumped into Morris outside Furnissons, explained situation, made me off couldn’t refuse! And here we are! Blbplplblp! Most enjoyable evening!” Clancy stamps his foot. “Own psychic twin! Blplplp! Treachery!” He gestures over his shoulder, “Suppose this just Disguised As Cat Man Johnson! Whole charade transparent! Merely going along with it!” Morris shakes his head, Oh no, that’s Dave Furnisson all right, the real deal. As is, I might as well mention, the dagger of Balthazar which he is about to plunge into your feathery spine unless I am very much mistaken, which of course I am not, as I never am…” The rest of this sentence is lost upon Clancy however, as with a leap, he has taken to his heels and departed with a series of pitiful shrieks. Dr Furnisson accepts a can of Hofmeister from Necromantic Johnson, and lights a cheroot. “Meow! Just like old times eh Mr Cutler?” “Indeed Dave, now I’d best be getting along, those dog tablets should just about be kicking in and doing interesting things to whatever is left of poor SB’s gray cells, can we drop you back at your motor?” “That’d be handy aye, best get back and see Ssssandra and the kiddies.” “Hop in then, full steam ahead Mr Sparky!” “Blplplp! Aye aye Skipper! Blbplplblp!”

Back at chez Bikle things don’t look good. The unctuous intoxicant is beginning to work its way into the brain. The door knock creates a kind of double motion. He’s excited at the thought of someone arriving, almost like it is a party, but then simultaneously wracked with a guilt for being caught with his tool in the cookie jar so to speak. Hastily shoving the empty dog worming tablet box and white spirit back in the cupboard he slightly staggers his way over to the door before nervously opening it. He is greeted by a Johnson who suggests he should open the door a bit more with a forceful “Mwaaerk!” Partially addled, Bikle opens the door and in strides the Johnson. This Johnson is wearing a slightly bizarre orange lycra one piece dungaree style outfit and carries a string bag with some bottles in it. Half remembering what he is supposed to be doing Bikle glances between the Johnson and the café before speaking in a kind of mix of Simon and himself “Ho welcobe to Bikle’s frinderdet café, what cad I get you? interdet perhaps?” and then he starts giggling. “Mwaaerk!” says Johnson pointing to one of the computellies “Ho of course sir, adythig for a chub!” The Johnson appears to a certain wry smile to his beak, he eyes Bikle for a second before giving him a flipper to the behind then marches over to the computer and logs on. Bikle feels a little curious at this assault upon his person but in another sense half doesn’t really register it, frankly he’s more sozzled by the second and has no idea what if anything he should be doing or saying to his customer in terms of cost or regulation and tries to sidle surreptitiously back towards the cupboard to retrieve himself another drink.

This is a strange site to behold. Johnson keeps looking up from his computer to glance at Bikle who moves sheepishly between glances. Each time Johnson glances up, Bikle stops, looks back and smiles drunkenly in an attempt to intimate ‘nothing doing here’. But the gross repetition of this phenomena each few seconds looks like the pair are making strange eyes at each other. Eventually he reaches the cupboard and slightly opens it with care. This isn’t going too badly until he misjudges reaching for the bottle and knocks a number of other items over in large crashing sound. The dog worming box, the macaroni, an old hoover part, a large cardboard box and a dusty plastic jug all come tumbling down with the desired beverage. “Bollocks ad fuck!” he shouts, quite forgetting the customer. He is rummaging around on the floor trying to pick the various items up and variously shove them back in when he can feel a shadow over him. “Mwaaerk.” The sound is slightly breathy as the Johnson leans right over his bent form to helpfully pick up the plastic bottle. Johnson lingers in this position maybe a little longer than Bikle is comfortable with, he can feel the orange lycra pressed slighty against his back and rear. Then the Johnson is vertical again and Bikle too rights himself. “Mwaaerk?” says Johnson looking enquiringly at the liquid. “Berr its dothig, just sobe bediced, yes dats right, I’ve got worbs ad dis is de bediced.” “Mwaaerrk!” says Johnson and taps his beak knowingly. Bikle smiles in a paranoid looking manner and watches as Johnson gets an empty coffee and seems to gesture to Bikle that he should pour him a shot. Bikle drunkenly feigns that he wasn’t drinking it recreationally “Oh do do, dat’s dot what I beant, bediced you dow, for de worbs!” but Johnson will not be stayed and grabs the clear bottle and its iniquitous contents off him, expertly opening it and pouring a generous measure “Mwaaerk?” he offers the bottle back to Bikle, who seeing the game is up, pours himself another drink in the bean can. The two strange drinking partners down the shots of white spirit before Johnson, holding the bottle once more flippers to the chillax area of the café suggesting they sit down for the next one. “Ho god, go od ded, it’s dice to have sobe compady you dow really.” “Mwaaerk!” intones Johnson knowingly and the two sit on the sofa together and have another drink. Bikle’s head is nearly swimming by now, he fancies the dog worming tablets are beginning to kick in a bit, all those happy dogs he thinks, dogs are so happy, soon I’ll be a happy dog he thinks only to find he is saying “Fri’ll be a happy dog sood…” in a half dazed manner. At this comment Johnson looks on at him and seems to have that wry beaky smile again, the white spirit bottle emerges once more and a certain darkness takes over proceedings.

Dawn breaks once more over the crap flat. Buckle with something of a spring in his step, makes his way back towards his residence –clearly having been out all night. It’s about 7:30 in the morning, as he climbs the stairs he passes a Johnson hurrying his way out in a curious one piece orange lycra. He thinks nothing of it and reaches the landing where the door is. The door, his new door that he put on is actually open, slightly at least. This is the first thing to catch his attention. “Bikle!” he calls as he puts his head in “Bikle, de doors oped, frar you balright?” Buckle takes one step into the flat, slips and falls straight on his backside “Bohhhhh! What de fuck?!” after picking himself up he tries to understand what’s happened, it doesn’t take him long. “Oil? Od de floor, but where has dat cobe frob?” He picks himself up carefully to avoid slipping again and looks into the café area. And what a sight it is.

Some of the chairs are knocked over and one of the computellies is lying on the floor with a cracked screen. The cupboard in the corner is wide open with various things from it lying on the floor nearby (macaroni, plastic jug, dog worming tablets box etc). He begins to be incensed at his brothers lack of respect for his work, this sense ire reaches new heights as glances to ‘chillax’ area. The bijou sofa and surround seems to be covered in what he presumes is oil whilst an empty plastic bottle and two paper coffee cups lie nearby. Looking down he can see a sleek trail runs from this oily seating area across the floor to where he stands and past him into the bedroom, to which the door is closed. Anger runs through him, his lovely internet café: ruined! “Bikle!” he shouts angily “By god you bastard, what de fuck have you dode?” There is only silence so he makes his way over to the bedroom taking care not to slip. “Bikle you frudbelievable shit head, what have you beed doing?” he shouts as he enters the room. There is still no stirring from his brother, who frankly makes a disturbing site. Naked and half uncovered by the sheets, blatantly smothered (as is the bed) in the same greasy liquid, he lies sleeping soundly. Lying with him, indeed grasped by him is what seems to be a large piece of cardboard. Buckle in horror has a double take at this phenomenon. Also covered in oil it seems to be what was a cardboard box, now squashed flat. On this flattened card in large badly scrawled letters the word ‘leaflet’ can be just about made out. What is worst there seems to be a kind of hole in the cardboard just below the halfway line which Buckle fancies, owing to the darkness of the area is especially covered in lubricant. The whole scene fills him with a thorough disgust but not seeing any merit in chastising his sibling now and aware that the café needs to be up and running soon he closes the door and goes to clean up.

And what happened next gentle reader, will be for another day.

Frole!

 

 

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Published in: on July 28, 2017 at 9:50 am  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 7

Buckle of course, oblivious to this unfortunate heading waves cheerily and the horrified onlookers. The cheery wave though lasts only a moment as finally the train inevitably comes to an undignified halt by crashing into the bins outside the front of Bikle’s flat. The back end flies up in the air and guardsman Thompson is sent hurtling over the front of the crashed train into the rubbish pile only to be followed by the four Somalian computers. The first strikes him a terrible blow to the middle of his back, another lands hard against his left walking appendage, the next crashes hard into a wing and as a coup de grace the last deals a sickening sounding blow to his head. Sadly for Bikle, his brother is largely unscathed and leaps with enthusiasm from the wreckage “Ho dat was barvellous Br sparky, cad we have adother go!?” Dragging his scrawny being from the wreckage whilst keeping an eye on the circling, gathering people Bikle slowly gets up. “Ho by god, dot likely! Dow where are dose computellies?” “Dere under de dead Thombsod dere Br Sparky but I don’t thig you should have dem, dere Bikle’s you see, he’s goig to oped de tiny podey café wid dem!” Seeing the futility of arguing Bikle makes a smart decision “Yes dat’s right, Br Sparky just wants to help Bikle, ad sidce de Thobsod is dead and Bikle has god, we better get de tidy podies, I bean computellies up to de flat?” “Ho good fridea Br Sbarky let’s get deb up dere!” “I thigk we’d better Buckle or it looks a bit like burderous bob will turd up!” Buckle goes pale “Burderous Bob! Ho by god, I don’t like hib Br Sbarky!” “Do deither do I but he can’t hurt you whilst your carryig a computelly, so best to pick ode up quick!” Buckle obeys this instruction with some alacrity and follows ‘Mr Sparky’ up the stairs to the squalid flat with the each gangly individual managing improbably two Somalian machines. Back  outside the flat, some of the onlookers have clearly now called the police and the mood is souring variously amongst them. Once inside Bikle feels little at ease as he notes with some horror that of course the door is splintered off its hinges since the last time ‘Burderous Bob’ came to visit, still huffing and puffing Buckle and he finally manage to get the machines inside. Once piled in the middle of the floor Bikle looks down fondly at tatty looking technology “Look at dat Buckle, de future looks pretty bright frob where I’b standig!” “Ho what is dat Br Sparky? Fractually Br Sbarky, did you dow you sound a lot like by brother Bikle?” “Ho god!” Bikle shouts with the usual exasperation, “Frag od a bidute!” and with that he disappears into the bed room. In here he hoped to find some better clothes but in fact can only see Simon’s old outfit from before, thinking this is better than the frilly ensemble he once more dons the newsagents garb before returning to Buckle. Buckle of course now is completely confused “Sibod? But Bikle said you were rud over by a Tiger?” “It’s dot Sibod it’s be Bikle!” “Ho you are silly Sibod, but I cad play dat too! Look at be I’b Bikle de tidey podey!” and he begins to neigh and cavort around the room, Bikle looks down in despair and then hear official sounding booted feet coming up the stairs. He looks at Buckle, who is still dressed relatively smartly, despite behaving completely mentally. “Quick Buckle, have a gabe of Bikle the de pervert podey wid dese clothes as toys!” and in saying so tosses the frilly underwear at Buckle who gleefully snatches up the items and immediately puts one on his head whilst generally playing with the other items whilst shouting “I’b Bikle de perverg podey neigh neigh!” at this perfectly tibed moment the police burst into the flat. Bikle feigns aghast fear, “Oh frofficer, thag goodness you’ve cobe, dere’s de bad pervert, he’s totally bental as you cad see, take hib to de rubber roob quick!” The officers look at Bikle and the still capering idiot and decide for once that he’s  might be right “Ok sir you’re coming with us!” they say calmly but forcefully as they quickly bind Buckles arms behind his back and lead him away “Ho! Are you gendtlbed goig to play pervergs too?” is the last thing Bikle hears as Buckle is lead away. Bikle stops for a second. Silence. He pushes the broken door as closed as it will go. Still silence. “Ho by god!” he says with excitement “By flat just to byself! Do fridiots! Do Borris! I just deed to rig ode of dese computellies up ad gabes and filbs cad happed!” He stops again, feeling sure some gittage will arrive, but time passes and nothing does. His confidence grows and soon he is tinkering with untangling the computellies and trying them out. This however goes on for some time with poor progress. Indeed after a while Bikle becomes quite disheartened with the matter “Bah Br Cutler probised dat at least two of deb would work but so far dot a sausage o o o! I’ve had edough of dis…” but then his despondency is lifted as he spies a ‘Percival’s Pizzas, 2 for 1’ flyer lying around the flat “Hoho, cobe to be by beauty, you cad be, hmm do dot Percy dats dot sexy, Pridcess Percilla. Cobe with be Percilla, I’ll give you two for ode!” and with that he disappears into his bedroom.

In another part of town, late in the evening a feathery figure is bustling up a cul de sac, looking at the houses one in turn he finally stops and makes his way up the neatly manicured drive, and knocks at the door. “Blblblbp , answer damn you, need  way out of this!” No answer, no movement inside. He tries again, this time spying the doorbell and giving it a long press. Finally movement inside, steps and the door opens. There greeting our feathery friend is the familiar face of Dr Furnisson. Upon seeing this Clancy is shocked! “Bblblbllblp! What’s going on!? Aren’t you following me aetherically? Came to apologize for feeding you to family, terribly sorry, take dagger of Balthazar away, will give prize orchids, fish, whatever you want!” But instead of malevolently lording it over him Dr Furnisson looks equally aghast and exclaims “Blblblp! What are you doing here!? Go away quickly, take Furnisson spirit too, face your doom, off you go blblblblp!” “Who is it dear meow meow?” comes the voice from back in the house, “are you coming back to bed soon?” she purrs. Dr Furnisson answer is perfect voice “No one important dear, I’ll be with you soon!” and the hushedly “Blblbp, leave alone, can’t come in, barred from this space!” “Bllplplpl! What’s going on? Who are you? Let me in, need to make amends! All good friends, free train rides, tea and crumpets, bury bones properly!” “Blblblblp no idiot, your not real Clancy, psychic double,  trick Morris, drag Furnisson spirit away, off you go toodle oo!” “Blblblp not likely, by the way no trousers!” and in a second Dr Furnissons pyjama legs are gone!” “Well really! Trifle on your head!” and a trifle appears on the external Clancy’s bonce. Mrs Furnisson having heard all the kerfuffle has come down to find her husband with no trousers on talking to ‘another’ one of those Turkey’s with a trifle on his head “Dear, is everything ok? Why does he have your trousers?” Whirling round he addresses his wife “Blblbp bad prankster, stole trousers, I mean this Turkey stole my trouser so I threw a trifle at him meow meow?” “Where did  you get that trifle from? What’s going on here?” “Meow meow, I err had the trifle as a surprise for the children.” “Meow but you threw it at this Turkey?” “Blblbp he certainly did, please let in, need to clean up!” “But why is he here meow meow?” she looks bewildered. Dr Furnisson-Clancy looked sympathetically at his wife “He’s come looking for his friend, the one that went missing” He half whispers, and his wife whispers back “maybe we should invite him in too” “Blblblblp what are you saying? All friends here, in I come.” And without a further word in bustles the Clancy-double. Dr Furnisson-Clancy looks in something of a sweat as this Clancy installs himself in the house, dripping trifle on the carpet and tossing the pyjama bottoms back at him as he goes. But of course all is not well for psychic double Clancy either, for now he cannot apologize and try to make amends for murdering Dr Furnisson whilst Dr Furnisson is stood right there. The real Clancy equally  knows he must free himself from the locale of the psychic double and soon before the real Furnisson spirit realises it has been tricked and attaches to himself. “I’ll put the Kettle on shall I?” says Mrs Furnisson “Blblblbp won’t suit you!” quips the Clancy double “Blblblp most amusing!” says Dr Furnisson “I mean meow meow, haha”. Mrs Furnisson eyes the pair of them suspiciously, before heading towards the kitchen, at which point their dialogue resumes “Bllblblp, must leave, quick now, Mrs Furnisson will try to eat you!” “Really!” “Blblp less innuendo, more haste, if Furnisson spirit gets me, both doomed, better you blblblblp!” “Blblbllbp how I do know I’m double, blblblp might be you!” “BLblblp ridiculous, why am I here then, when you’ve been driving spurious Mr Sparky train ride around blblblbp? When Sparky start? Long term business hmm?” “BLblbp it was, blblblp it was, last Tuesday?” “BLblblp, no idea, see not real Clancy!” “Blblblp not real, really!” he says despondently “Blblblp  no not really! Not real, blblblp no more reallys, inappropriate!” At this point Mrs Furnisson reappears with the tea “There we go tea and scones” “Sadly Mr Turkey was just leaving meow meow!” “Blblbp certainly wasn’t, tea and scones, can’t refuse, mother said manners important!” “Meow meow, I really think you should go now!” “Meow meow, nonsense dear if err, what was your name?” “Blblbp Clancy, most kind, extra cream, jam too please!” “How funny we had a Turkey called Clancy visit us just recently, he joined us for dinner didn’t he dear?” and she winks at Dr Furnisson who squirms uncomfortably “Err meow, blblbp yes he did, finished your scones yet Clancy?” “Blblbp not likely fine scone, earl grey.” “Meow, meow, I don’t think you appreciate how much you should meow meow be going Clancy!” “Oh I don’t think Clancy needs to go anywhere, look its late why don’t you stay here tonight?” “Blblblblp most kind, sofa looks comfey, Sky Tv, small nightcap?” and he quickly manages to find a tartan throw and settle himself under it. Dr Furnisson looks a state, glancing hither and thither. “Meow meow, um well if Clancy’s staying here I’d better go and meow, buy some things for breakfast yes, blblbp that’s it.” “Meow meow, dear at this time of night?” “Blbblbp 24 hour freshways! Eggs and bacon. Off I go!” And with that Dr Furnisson is away with the car keys. “Err dear!” “Blblblp meow, what is it, need to go!” “I don’t know what’s got into you, with that silly turkey voice but you might meow meow want to take your trousers with you!” “Meow, good point, dignity to preserve blblp!” and off into the night he goes with no intention of coming back to the wretched cat peoples house. What now? Leave the double? What if she tries to eat him? Maybe he’ll get rid of the rest of the cats before Dr Furnisson’s spirit drains his energy? Another disguise maybe? For now just drive. And so the Furnissons Mercedes disappears into the night.

Light creeps slowly down the poverty stricken college road. The new day is here. This same light eventually fights its way through the grimy curtains of Bikle’s flat. After a few hours of light slumber he slowly wakes. “Ho by god! Still just be! Dis is barvellous, hello world and good bordig Percivilla! Ha you’re lookig a bit worse for wear, do I’b sure you loved it!” he holds the creased and stained pizza flyer up for a moment before popping it back on the pillow. “you cad wait dere for de day, I’ll fix you sobe beads od toast before bedtibe!” he puts a special emphasis on this word and looks lasciviously at the leaflet. “Baybe I’ll find a co-op leaflet and we cad have a three sobe! Frole!” and with that he skips out of bed and heads for the kitchen. Of course there is no food in the kitchen and he has blown all his money on broken Somalian technology. This crashing reality deflates him somewhat as he is genuinely hungry. “Ho god, baybe Pete and Paul cad led be a couple of quid, wid dere tools I suppose.” And he laughs to himself. At that exact moment there is a knock on the door. “Ho god, I dew it was to good to be true, here dey are dow!” He goes to open the broken door only to be greeted by two hospital looking types who immediately make their way in “Mr Hensban?” “Yes dat’s be!” “Ah right, it’s about your brother!” “De bentalist!? Is he locked up?” “Well you know, we’ve got some really exciting news for you, for one the police have dropped all the charges and can see the sexual misdemeanour accusation is really just a bad misunderstanding, secondly regarding the somewhat low functioning of your brother, well you know treatments have come on in leaps and bounds since the olden days so frankly we hooked him up to the old computer, stuck a chip in his head and he’s good to go. Buckland, do you want to come up?” Bikle’s face pales “You’ve brought hib back?” “Yes we have and I think you’ll agree he’s a lot better than before! Buckland you brothers waiting!” “Barvellous, thankyou gentlenben!” comes  a familiar voice, that now sounds much less childishly manic. In moments there indeed is Buckle, his hair is long but washed and tied back, he’s wearing a smart sweater with shirt collars showing, some nicely fitting jeans and normal shoes. “Hello Bikle, it’s good to be back!” and he shakes his brothers hand warmly. “Buh buh Buckle?” Bikle stammers “Dat’s be broder bide! Dow I prefer Buckland if you don’t bind. Dow let’s get idside, dese gentlbed don’t want to be standing around here frallday!” “Just sign here sir!” says the official to Bikle. Bikle zombie like scrawls on the paper and the hospital officials are gone and Buckland saunters past him into the flat. “By oh by it’s a bit of a bess id here isn’t it Bikle!” “berr it’s dot too bad!” which is blatantly not true as the flat is a dirty mess strewn with various splinters of wood, tipped over chairs, screwed up fliers and somalian computellies “Hmmb dow den, let’s get dis bess sorted!” says Buckland in an efficient sounding manner “actually Bikle, I’b pretty hugry, pop dowd to de dewsagent ad pick us up a sandwich, cheese” and at this word, he twitches visibly but seems not to notice “or sobething, baybe tuda? Here’s a tedder, get yourself sobethig if you like!” Buckland opens his wallet and hands Bikle the crisp tenner, Bikle stairs in disbelief at it all “Cobe od Bicks! Hop to it! Lots to do here!” “Berr yes Buckle, Buckland, I’ll get de sandwiches and cads of coke?” “Yes Bikle good fridea, I’ll bake a start here!” and so Bikle goes off to one of the newsagents, he thinks he’ll try Simon-Bickles this time rather than classic Simon. Upon entering the newsagent he can hear a female giggle and a ‘O O O’ sound then “bah hag od a bidute!” Bikle takes two sandwiches and cans of coke and stands at the counter, Bickle-Simon appears from below the counter with his shirt half undone, “Ho how cad I help you sir?” then looks down faux sternly says “Just a bidute, leave it just  bidute I’ve got to serve dis saddo!” then looking back at Bikle he says  “Berr dat’ll be £6.88 please.” Bikle hands over the £10 and Bickle runs it through the till. In this time Bikle can’t help but peer over the counter as best as he is able, and can just make out a bare leg. An audible giggle emits from the below as well “sobeode dowd dere O O O ?” Bikle ventures in an all Bikles together type tone, but Bickle is having none of it “dod of your busidess perverd, dow froff you go!” and he chucks the change at him. Bikle manages to get the 3 pound coins but is forced to abandon the rest. Dejectedly he leaves the shop to a “dow where were we you binx!” echoing in the back ground. “bah dat used to be be!” and he trudges back. Bikle walks up the dark stairs to find that the door on the flat seems to fixed, more than fixed it’s a new door! He pushes it open. Inside the whole flat has been transformed. “Ah dere you are Bikle, you took your tibe! By sandwich thags, oh I thought it would be…” and he twitches “tuda and bayo, barvellous!” Looking around Bikle is amazed. The whole flat seems to be spotless and what is more, Buckland has somehow acquired various bits of new furniture and rigged the computellies up. These African imports have frankly never looked better. They are all internet wired in with log in screens waiting to be logged in. A tea and coffee machine is installed at the side and there is  a sofa area in the corner. “I was thinking you see Bikle, you said about de frinterdet café, and I thought lets bake it happed. I’ve put a partition id de bedroob so we’ve got a sbace each, ad we cad rud de café together id de day tibe, what do you thigk to Buckland’s Frinterdet café?” “Ho by god Buckland it’s frantastic! But de dabe is supposed to be Bikle’s frinterdet café!” “Hmmb well dat’s ode idea, but frankly I think your dame isn’t good for busidess and besides who just wired and rejigged does shitty computellies of yours?” Deflated Bikle is forced to accept that Buckle 2.0 is a much more capable creature than himself and gives up the claim of the title. Buckland then shows Bikle how the computers work and how people log on, how much it costs for time etc and how to change the tea and coffee, scarcely any of which goes in as he wasn’t managing to listen and didn’t understand the technical parts. This is all the more unfortunate as Buckland then announces that he’s going out. “H’what?! H’where are you goig? Cad I cobe?” Buckland shakes his head “Well I wouldn’t bind if you did but Bickle said dot to brig you, he’s fridvited be to dat dew bar to have a drigk wid a couple of dose housewives he likes to hag around wid, and I bust say sobe of dem are quite dice, frif you dow what I bean! So fradyway, if you cad rud de café and den close up. Don’t wait up for be O O O! eh Bikle?” and he gives him a friendly wink before shutting the door leaving Bikle in charge of ‘Buckland’s frinterdet café!”

 

 

 

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:43 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 6

 “Yes ad abiga preferably, dere de best kind of computer you dow, dot like dose pc thigs, dey’ll dever catch od!” “Is that right? Is that so? Can’t say I know much about it meself, don’t deal much in the tech line really, too many nonces if you ask me, not that you did but I’m telling you and you fit the bill given what I’ve said wouldn’t you say given all the hoo ha and what not? Now let me think though, let the old Cutler brain have rummage, computer and a telly, computer and a telly. I know sonny just the thing the computelly deluxe, the latest thing in computer and telly combinations it can do over half of what half the both can do together!” “Computelly Br Cutler? Fr’I’ve dever heard of such a thig, is it ad Abiga computelly?” “Is it? Is it eckers! It’s not so much an abeega as an awooga, if you’ll pardon me Craig Charlesism there. Back in Mogadishu these were all the rage, before the war and during it they were flying off the shelves, literally as the bombs reigned down, I had to pick them up, tape them back together to flog them to the locals, still made a bob or two and then got out of there I can tell you. Came by a couple in a charity shop the other day, fixed them up with pens and tape and they’re good to go. What do you say, 100% Somalian made apart from the tape which is from China?” “Berr I don’t dow bister Cutler, it doesn’t look very good, can you turd it od so I cad see it workig?” “See it working? See it working? What do you think this is, an all you can eat buffet? Tell you what if I don’t turn it on you can have the computelly for £100, can’t say fairer than that, make it a £150 and I throw in a bowl of poo, cheers Jackson I owe you a bonio! Then you’ll still have a few bob, left over for Tuesday, get yourself a bowl of beans too, what do you reckon?” Bikle for once feels he can see through Cutler’s schemes and that the ex-Somalian computelly is probably not what he’s after and he resolves to put his foot down. “Do do Br Cutler, I’b dot havig de computelly, it looks like shit, I don’t eved dow if it works.” “I see, I see, I’ve read you wrong these times I have yes Dennis we have. There was me thinking you a half wit with scarce the right to consider your brother, commonly known as an idiot lower than a retard, your inferior, rightly or wrongly I thought you two perverts in a pod, or peas in a pod though I’m sure which you’d prefer. But I see the Cutler mind, once sharp as lace has let me down. But I’m not ashamed to say it, no Dennis I’m not. You’ve seen through me salesman’s ruse and I stand before you an honest engine.”  Bikle looks smug and pleased with his victory. Cutler continues. “Funny thing the world, wouldn’t you say, maybe you wouldn’t given the time you have, wretched you might call it, I couldn’t disagree, I’d of strung meself up long ago if I were you, you could do that now if you like save us all the bother, I’ll set the rope and leave the room and flog dopey on ebay for spare parts? Don’t fancy it? Maybe another day? No funny is as funny does and it’s a truth of things that if you have two options one is bound to be right wouldn’t you say?” “Berr…?” “Take this coin now, if I flip it will it be heads or tails?” “dere’s do way to tell Br Cutler!” “Oh but there is sonny, look you choose tails, as I’m sure you would and I’ll choose heads and watch.” He flips the coin with a spivs adeptness and reveals it to be heads “Look, one of us was right, it proves what I say, if you’ve got two things one of them will be right, you can try it again if you like!” Bikle looks suspicious but submits to another coin flip, sure enough again one of the two of them has the right answer. “dis is bost abazig Br Cutler!” “It’s not amazing sonny at least not in the way you’d like, now the relevance of this being the deal I can offer you with the computelly here. Look I’m a fair man and I do like the fair, the amount of shit I can sell there amazes even meself,  but what I’m saying, what I’m suggesting is that given your concerns and given the law of nature I’ve just shown you if I were to given you two computellys then one of them would definitely be right!” “By god Br Cutler, de logic is flawless, dat’s kind of you, but how buch for de two of dem!?” “We could say £200 and £50 for the poo, that would be a bargain the Somalians would have killed you for.” Bikle is about to concede when he suddenly stops, Buckle tugs at his elbow “Don’t forget de cheese Bikle!” “Hush broder bide, we’re about to get a bargaid out of Cutler here, two computellies ode of which will defidetly work!” “But Bikle, why buy two if odly ode of dem works?” “Hmm baybe you’re right. Cutler! What if I want two workig computellies!” “Hmm well, that’s a tricky one isn’t it, but hang on maybe we can work it out, let me see, given the coin rule that would work if you bought 4 computellies, then you’d be sure of two working ones!” “4 Combutellies?” “That’s right me old china, and I’ll tell you what I’ll throw in the magic poo, some dairy lee triangles and this block of cheddar to keep the retard happy “Oh Bikle, I thought there’d be cheese, cad we get it!” “So how buch for all of dat Br Cutler?” “Hmm 4 computellies, magic poo, cheese, two kinds that’ll be, well blow me down £500, that’s what you’ve got isn’t it, it’s like one of those spooky coincidences, must be set to be as auntie Jess used to say as she poured out the jelly.” “ho dat is fuddy, yes ballright ded, 4 computellies, cheese ad a bowl of bagic poo! Barvellous, dis has gode well hasn’t it Buckle!” Buckle clearly agrees and is bouncing up and down with glee at the purchase. So Bikle hands over the cash and Jackson bring out three more computellies, which as can be imagined are really dodgy looking old monitor computer combinations. “Tip them onto the street Jackson, the gentlemen will take them home from there, you can carry this one ee?? And you goofy take the cheese and the poo, don’t get them muddled mind!”

 “Ho Jacksod, careful with dose frexpenive sobaliad computellies!” Bikle shouts as he notes Jackson has just loaded them into a wheel barrow and is loping his way towards the exit. Needless to say Jackon pays little attention and uses the wheel barrow to push the door open, this takes several attempts during which time the computellies are badly bashed around in the barrow. At last he gains the pavement and the door swings shut behind him. The pursuing Bikle can just hear a kind of crash as Jackson upends the barrow onto the pavement. “By computellies!” cries Bikle rushing after him. He is just about to escape the shop carrying the last computelly when he crashes into the returning Jackson and wheel barrow. “Bohhhh!” he goes as he is sent flying forwards over the Jackson and barrow and crashes into the other computellies, which lie in a dejected pile in on the pavement. Just seconds later Buckle appears, “Bikle Bikle! Where are you?” “Dowd here!” comes the cry from pile of useless computer “Dowd where?” says Buckle looking towards his feet “Dot dowd dere, dowd here!” “Ho dis is gettig spooky! Where are you Bikle?” Finally untangling himself from the flimsy keyboards and such Bikle rights himself. “Ho there you are Bikle, I heard a fuddy voice a bidute ago sayig ‘dowd here’ and I got quite frighted. I think it bight have beed a pookah!” “A pookah, I don’t dow where you get such dodsedse frob, it was just be od de floor!” “How why were you beig a pookah ded?” “I wasn’t beig a pookah, I was od de floor!” “Ho what were you doig dowd dere? Did you see  de pookah? I’b sure dat’s where he was!” “What is all dis pookah frubbish? What are you talkig about, we deed to get dese barvellous computellies hobe, how I cad set up a sball detwork wid dese beauties!” “A detwork of pookahs?” “Do do computellies! Dot pookahs! Forget de sodding Pookahs!” “Bikle…” says Buckle thoughtfully after a couple of moments  whilst Bikle tries to organise the computellies into some kind of manner that they can be carried home. “Yes Buckle,” “Do you thigk pookahs and bagick poo are coddected? I was thinkig dat because dey both start wid poo.” “How de fuck would I dow?” “Ho well your de ode always playig wid poo, eved though I’ve told you dot to!” Bikle can scarcely control himself “fucks sake, do you thigk I want poo od by face! Fradbittedly dere was dat tibe back id de dewsagent, but I felt a bit fuddy den.” “Ho I see, so why have we bought bore bagic poo den?” “We bought bore bagick poo because…” Bikle’s face struggles as he realises he doesn’t really know why he allowed Cutler to rack up the price for bowl of dogshit. “…because, you wanted it Buckle, and I like to buy you dice thigs!”  is all he can come up with “Ho dats very kind of you Bikle, but I’ve dot two kinds of cheese here, so you cad have de poo!” Bikle wants to say he doesn’t want the poo, but struggles with this, he has after all just paid nearly £100 for it (if you deduct the cheese costs). His face snarled in a grimace at the ungratitude “Fine, I’ll have de bagic poo den we’ll see who’s de pookah round here!” “Dere’s a pookah round here!?” “Do do, it was just ad expressiod based od de previous cobbentary dat I should have dowd better dan to try, but dever bind, look help be by carryig od of dese computellies.”

“What’s a cobputelly Bikle? Is it like a sort of tiny horsey?” “What? Dat does’dt bake ady sedse, ever for you.” “Oh I wish dat I was a tidy horsey Bikle, I could gallop along de street ad all de people would give be toffee ad pat be od de head.” “Ho for god’s sake. De bedtal hobe it is den. Just as sood as we get dese little miracles back to de flat it’s de rubber roob for you dis tibe.” “But how are we goig to bove deb Bikle? Dey look awfully heavy, ad by hads are full wid dis stuff. I wonder what it is? Oh! Oh! Bikle! Look! Looook! Cheese! Ho, dat is abazig! Because you see, earlier today, I thought to byself, Buckle, I said, because I dow by dabe, it’s writted I’d by gloves, do you wadt to see? Adyway, Buckle I said, do you dow, I have a certaid suspiciod, dat dere will be cheese, ad look Bikle! Look! Dere is cheese! How bysterious! Ho how cad dat of happened? I cad’t wait to tell Pete ad Paul ad de Toad bad whed dey cobe round for de bodopoly gabe!” Bikle can do little but stare in horror. “Ho god, ho by God, I had forgotted how dauseatig dis is. What de debil have I dode? Baybe it’s be dat’s bedtal.” He shakes his head, “Do, do, codcedtrate dere Bikle, dod’t let hib get to you, here you are wid a codsigdbedt of top quality Sobaliad berchadise, od de verge of de big break dat I have beed waitig for all by life, bust dot lose by focus. Edough of your dodsedse Buckle! We deed to get dese cobputellies back to de flat prodto! I’ve had a barvellous fridea! I’b goig to oped ad fridterdet cafe! Bickle’s Fridterdet Cafe I will call it, ad de geeks ad de derds will cobe flockig! I’b ad absolute gedius! Dow all dat rebaids is to get dis little lot safely back to de flat, wire deb up ad wait for de bodey to roll id!” A thought strikes him. “Ho, ad I cad do sobe advertisig! I cad bake posters ad, ad, ad sobe leaflets! Berrr, do, perhaps dot leaflets, but defiditely sobe frexcelledt fradvertisig!” “Ho, what’s fradvertisig Bickle? Is it a nice of jelly? I love jelly. Ad ice creab. Cad I have ad ice creab Bikle?” “Baybe later Buckle, baybe dey’ll give you sobe I’d de bedtal ward. Dow what I deed is sobe kide of sball trolley or sobethig, where cad I fide ode of dose?” Buckle has his hand in the air, “Ho, ho, Bikle, Bikle, I dow! I dow!” “I just dow dat I’b goig to regret dis, but go od ded, where’s dat?” “You do dat old Scottish Gedtlebad dat lives I’d de block dext door to us? Dat always walks very slowly? He told be dat he had a little trolley.” “Do do Buckle, he’s got a weak heart. Frodestly, I should dow better dad to pay ady frattedtiod to your fridiculous frambligs, ad I’b do dearer to gettig by beauties back to de cafe.” “Ho why dod’t we take deb od de choo choo Bikle?” “De choo choo? What fresh badness is dis? De choo choo indeed, what are you babblig about? For a start, we dod’t have ady bodey left, ad de train statiod is bloody biles away, ad de train is dot goig to stop at our flat dow is it? Bodestly, I despair of you sobetibes.” “But de tidy choo choo does stop at de flat Bickle, look!” Bikle is about to retort angrily, but instead nearly jumps out of his skin as an ear piercing “toot toot!” sounds from behind him. He whirls, and is confronted by a garishly painted miniature steam engine and open carriages, which running on rubber tyres, has crept up quietly behind him. “Ho Jesus fuckig christ, you scared de shit out of be!” The train, which is emblazoned with the words “Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express! A really thrilling show for your kids! My fare is only a few pennies!” A familiar face, crowned by ahumourous Casey Jones style engine driver’s hat peers from the cab. “Blplplp! Hop aboard! Mr Sparky here! Blbplplblp miniature locomotive! Jolly fun! Waive fare for old friends! Porter Thompson! Help with Luggage! Blplplp!” “Ho look Bikle, isd’t dat codvediedt! Cad we ride od de choo choo? I love de choo choo!” “Blplplp! Certainly can! Hop aboard! Here Buckle, toffee for you, extra sticky!” Bikle pauses for a moment, this seems too good to be true, but then, how else will he get his computellies back to the flat, er cafe? “Berr, do you go adywhere dear by place by ady chadce Bister Sparky?” “Certainly do! Check destination board!” Sure enough there is a noticeboard displays a timetable and route details right next to him. “Fuddy, I didn’t dotice dat dotice! Just by little joke dere, what does it say? Departig frob de village green every hour, stoppig at Br Cutler’s shop od dat street, you dow, de ode wid  de two dewsagedts saved Sibod, ad terbidatig outside dat Bikle’s squalid flat. Ho better dot look a gift horse id de bouth I suppose, every bobedt dat dese techdological barvels lie here is costig be bodey! All aboard de choo choo Buckle!” “Ho I lub ge croo croo Biggle!” “Blplplp! Sounds like you love the “chew chew” too Buckle! Blplplp! Fine joke! All amused! Ding ding! Off we go!”  Thompson having stowed the battered and cracked electronic rubbish in a miniature Guard’s van, Mr Sparky gives a couple of toots on the whistle and the train lumbers off along the streets. Bikle is a bit nervous at first, but after a while begins to quote enjoy trundling though the streets, with people smiling and waving. Buckle of course is having a whale of a time, chewing extra sticky toffee and waving frantically back at people, occasionally emitting a noise which Bikle can only assume is supposed to resemble a train whistle. The train passes the two newsagents and turns at the Baker’s Arms, heading towards the town centre. Thoroughly relaxed by now Bikle chuckles when he sees Buckle waving his bag of toffee to some invisible friend. “Ho, who are you sharig your sweeties wid Buckle? Has Bister Giraffe cobe to say hello?” “Beyow beyow! Do Biggle, it’s de cag bag agaig, woulg you lige a toffee Bister Puggy Cag?” “Blplplp! What’s that? Cat man nonsense again? Not on my train! Hush now! Such talk against rules! No cat man here!” “Bub dere ig Bister Spargy! De big cag bag behind you dere, wig de big sharb dife!” Clancy looks terrified, “Sharp Knife! Cat Man! Blplplp! Dagger of Balthazar! Stealing Life force!” Grabbing the hat from his head, he crams it onto Bikle’s, before putting a leg over the side of the cab. “Blbplplblp! This is my stop! Cheerio! You Mr Sparky now! Blplplp! Escaping!” So saying, before Bikle can protest, he vaults over the side, hits the ground with a frightened grunt and a roll, before leaping to his feet and waddling off down the street as fast as he can go. Bikle is horrified, but Buckle doesn’t turn a hair. “Bye bye Bister Spargy! Bye bye puggy gad!” He shouts at the retreating figure. Bikle looks wildly about, the controls of the train look very complicated. Without the skilled guiding wing of the Turkey at the controls, the train starts to lurch and veer alarmingly. Bikle grabs the steering wheel and tries to at least keep the thing in a semblance of a straight line, occupied as he is he forgets to look ahead, and when he finally does he is greeted by the appalling sight of a sturdy brick wall which seems to be rushing towards him at quite a speed. With a frantic wrench of the wheel he manages to turn with scant inches to spare and the miniature locomotive heads off rattling along a new tangent. He barely has time to emit a heartfelt “Phew!” of relief before a new danger presents itself in the shape of a wooden fence. Unable to check the forward movement of the train, he ducks down as it crashes through the fence, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. Beyond the fence is a row of gardens, which the runaway conveyance proceeds to plough through, before emerging once again into the streets. Despite his evasive measures the splinters of wood have ripped and torn most of Bikle’s clothes from his body, but all is not lost, for as the train smashed through the row of gardens, it must have cut a washing line full of lady’s laundry, as in true comedic fashion Bikle now finds himself clad in a lacy brassiere and a pair of frilly pink bloomers, the train driver’s hat still incongruously perched on top. “Ho dat’s a fuggy outfig Bister Spargy! You loog lige a lagy!” “I’b dot Bister Sparky you blitherig fridiot! It’s be, Bikle!” “Dog’t be silly Bister Spargy, you cad’t be Biggle, you are wearig Bister Spargy’s hat, ad you are drivig de traig. Biggle does’dt dow how to drive a traig!” “Give be stredth! I dow I dod’t! Dat’s de bloody probleb!” Indeed it is a problem, as the out of control locomotive continues its headlong career through the streets, sending pedestriansscattering before it, Bikle sweating and swearing as he grapples with the steering wheel. Narrowly avoiding a markets stall laden with live lobsters he instead sends the locomotive racing towards an automated carwash. “Ho god do! Dot de carwaggle blaggle blaggle!” Comes the cry as he is deluged with soapy water, then a shriek as he receives a generous spray of scalding hot wax. Buckle, who stooped to retrieve a dropped toffee at the opportune moment looks at him quizzically, then joins in yelling, “Wheeeeee! It’s like beig od a roller goaster isd’t it Bister Spargy?” Ignoring him, Bickle is snatching at levers and handles in an orgy of panic, desperately trying to halt the wildly careering machine, or at least slow it down. His efforts however have rather the opposite effect, as the note of the engine goes up a pitch and the little train gathers speed, hurtling down the high street, causing cars and vans to swerve, and sending people flying to avoid it. Passersby stop and stare open mouthed at the rushing monster, seemingly piloted by some gangly maniac transvestite, as it races past them in a cloud of steam and smoke. To add to the spectacle, the dousing in the car wash appears to have had an adverse effect on the adhesive qualities of the lettering along the side of the train, causing a number of them to come unstuck and fall off so that instead of reading “Mr Sparky’s Super Overland Train Express! A really thrilling show for your kids! My fare is only a few pennies!” it now reads,  somewhat disjointedly, but perfectly legibly, and in gaudy, foot high letters, “park pervert express! ill show your kids my penis!”

 

 

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:41 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 5

 

Reeling from the blow, Bikle is still petrified that the mob have been let in “Ho god Buckle, de bob are cobig! Shut de door quickly!” “De bob Biggle? Is dat lige burderous bob?” “Yes yes dat’s de ode, close de fuckig door!” “I’b too scared Bikle!” says Buckle looking genuinely petrified at the thought of murderous bob’s return. “Fuck’s sake!”  shouts our protagonist and launches himself towards the door, slamming it shut just before a banging crash of bodies thumps into it. Murderous bob can now clearly be heard, hammering at the door. “Ho god we’re doobed!” cries Bikle, he begins to wonder if he could pass Buckle off as himself. He quickly tears the badly glued on hair off his head for a start, takes cloak off. “Berr Buckle, put dis bagic cloak od quickly, it will help protect you frob burderous Bob!” brightening up suddenly Buckle takes the black cloak with glee. “Ho a bagig cloag! Barvellous! Dow  burderous Bob can’t touch be and I’b like Bikle!” he flaps and capers around the flap oblivious to the awful noise cobig from the door. Bikle thinks this is going well “Dat’s right, you’re Bikle, I like it whed you play dat gabe, baybe you could bix it wid de pervert gabe frob earlier!” “Ho barvellous fridea Biggle, loog at be I’b a disgustig perverg called Bikle!” he gets socks on his ears and his hands and flaps around the room in the strangest manner “Perverg! Perverg! I’b Bikle de perverg!” There is suddenly an awful splintering sound from the door and Bikle is gripped by and sickening fear. He looks at the cloak flapping, sock covered idiot and finds it hard to believe they will actually be fooled, if that’s supposed to be Bikle, then who is he? Buckle? Simon? Or maybe just hide. Hiding seems the best plan, as the door splinters again. “Hide and seek tibe Buckle! You’re de perverd ad I’b de hider! Count as high as you cad!” and with that Bikle launches himself behind the sofa and pulls a fortuitously left dirty towel over himself in the hope he looks like a pile of dirty laundry. In the room Buckle can be heard “Ode, two, three, four, Bikle! Bikle! Whad cobes after four?!” Bikle studiously ignores the request as the sound of the door crashing open fills him with an awful dread. “Ho who are all dese people?! Are dey here to play hide ad seek too Bikle! Booohhh!” the clamouring awful noise that is anger on mass fills the room and Buckle’s voice disappears after that last utterance. Cold sweating with terror Bikle scrunches himself up tight as the crashes and bangs reverberate around the small flat, it can be only moments now. The icey fear of a brutal lynching, beating or whatever is so great that our the poor character hidden behind the sofa urinates all over himself and starts crying. “Don’t hurd be! Don’t hurd!” he whimpers as the sofa is pulled away by brutal arms. “don’t hurd be! don’t hurd be!” he continues from his foetal position. This plaintive cry continues for several more seconds before his frozen terrified mind realises that no angry arms have grabbed him, no punches have been landed. “Please don’t hurd be.” He says again with a slightly less pathetic intonation, before opening half an eye. The sofa has been pulled aside so he now can see the contents of the room. This viewing reveals, Buckle sat in Bikle’s chair in his cloak, eating a bag of candy floss. Johnson, and Morris (smoking a roll-up), who are both  laughing “Ho ho there you are shit bean, ho that was marvellous, I see you’ve soiled yourself ‘again’. Getting to be a habit that isn’t it. Have you met does-a-fantastic-impression-of-an-angry-mob-Johnson!” “Mwaaerk!” laughs Johnson loudly and they both point and jeer. “H’what! You bastard Borris!” “Can it bean boy, you’ve got what you wanted haven’t you? Dopey, the flat, the soiled trousers…” he pauses to continue the list “That’s about it mind, but can’t have everything can you now, except I could if I wanted to, though I don’t owing to certain logical contradictions that are entailed by the notion of having everything and the definition of everything, axioms must be set up before such an eventuality can occur, to wit are we  to define a thing purely by its extensional qualities or do more abstract notions also count and if the former am I not also a thing or should I not be reduced to my physicality?” Bikle looks confused “Berr dat’s all very well Borris, but dow I’ve god literally dothig but several bags of sticky toffee and one small cad of beads, cad I borrow a fiver til giro day baybe?” “Borrow a fiver? You hear that Johnson, he wants to borrow money off us.” “Very well shit can, and may I ask why once again you have shit all over you? Violent extortionate loan shark Johnson will lend you a fiver, well he has lent you a fiver, indeed in the excitement of seeing money on offer you have borrowed £500 from him, I would fill in all the ensuing awful consequences of this action but somehow I feel that will not be necessary and time will disclose the correct unfolding.” Sure enough, a sharp dressed, mean looking Johnson is now holding a signed contract, Bikle is holding a similar document and has £500 of notes in his hands. “Oh by god Buckle! Look at dis, we’ve got bodey! Led’s go ad ged sobe dew thigs!” Morris and the Johnsons vanish leaving Bikle and Buckle clutching the foolishly gotten gains. “£500 sbacker, Buckle cobe ode, lets buy you sobe cheese!” “Ho barvellous! I thought dere’d be cheese, did I bendtiod dat biggle! Id fact whilst we were playing de bodopoly I thoughd dat dere would be a cheese counder like de hat.” Buckle continues to ramble on, Bikle cannot be arsed or is not even listening enough to point out that Buckle didn’t even play any of the game. “Cobe od get your togs od Buckle, we’re goig!” “Ho where are we going!” “To de dewsagent frof course!” So the gangly misfits march down the stairs of from their squalid abode and out into the evening air. Walking down the road to where the newsagent should be they can see that there is not just one newsagent but in fact two. “Dis is bost freculiar Buckle, just yesterday dere was by old dewsagent and dow dere’s adother ode, let’s take a closer look!” “A closer loog at what Bikle?” “De dewsagent you dibwit!” “But dere’s two dewsagets Bikle which ode do you bead?” “De ode dat’s dot our old dewsagent, de ode with de other Bickle id it!” “Other Bickle?” Buckle looks profoundly confused “De ode with burderous bob id it ded!” “Ho I don’t want to go id dat ode, we’ll be eated up like cousid lawredce!” “Dat’s what I’b sayig broder bide, lets check de oder ode out!” and so they enter the other newsagent, which as they go through the door chimes a ‘ding’ in a peculiarly irritating manner. This noise is quickly followed up by the sound of a familiar voice “Ho hello h’there h’sir, h’what can I do for you, a dewspaper perhaps!” “Sibod!” Bikle shouts in genuine surprise “What the fuck are you doig alive?” “Ho h’I don’t h’know what you h’talking h’about, though I do have a h‘question for you.” “Ho god what is it?” “Ho well, I was just h’wondering, and I thought h’maybe that tall man h’might know, so I thought I’d h’ask seeing as you’re here…” “ho get to de point will you” “H’I was just wondering why it is that tools fall in love! Frole!” A chill of some awful déjà vu runs through Bikle and he freezes momentarily in his tracks.

“Dis is just, well just stradge. I thought you had beed eated by a tiger?” Simon shakes his head, “H’oh don’t be h’ridiculous Bikle, I was merely, merely…” he stoops behind the counter and picks up a piece of card. Putting on a pair of glasses, he peers at it before continuing, “I was beaten by a Tigra.” Both he and Bikle look at each other confusedly. A second, larger piece of card seems to fall from the ceiling, picking it up Simon goes on. “A Vauxhall Tigra. In a road race. On the way to the zoo. It’s a type of car you pair of cocklords.” There is a pause. Simon smiles vacantly. Bikle shrugs, “Ho, a road race you say? In cars? Od de way to de zoo? Well dat explaids everythig den. Dow what was it we cabe id here for agaid?” Buckle is jumping up and down. “Ho, ho ho, Bikle! I dow what it was! I dow!” “Ho god, frof course. Very well den, Sibod, bay we please have sobe cheese please?” Simon looksnonplussed. “H’cheese h’sir? I’m afraid that this is a h’newsagents, there’s no cheese for sale here. I’m awfully sorry.” “De sigd says Dewsagent ad Codvediedce Store. Dewspapers, bagazides, sweets, cold drigks, tobacco ad groceries. Dat’s id de window. Cheese is a grocery iteb is it dot? Derefore, brig be a large piece of your dicest ad bost frexpedsive cheese ibbediately.” “Ho dat’s h’flawed h’logic Bikle, I mean, to say, h’larks tongues in h’aspic are h’technichally a h’grocery h’item, but you don’t surely h’expect a small convenience store to sell those, heeeey?” “Baybe dot, but whed said Codvediedce Store has a sigd dext to de coudter readig “H’say h’cheese! Dow stockig ad excitig range of dobestic ad idterdatiodal cheeses, check out our dedicated cheese chiller id de cheese aisle, for all your cheese deeds”, ded I thigk dat I ab well widid by rights id requestig sobe bloody cheese. Dow edough ofyou dodsedse ad brig be by cheese!” “Ho, and what cheese would dat be? I dod’t see h’any h’cheese h’sir.” “Do do do do ad do! I’b dot havig dis. I cad see ad extedsive array of cheese just over dere, id de dab cheese aisle, which is de largest, O,O,O,O, frexcuse be, de largest aisle id de whole shop, it’s sibply bribbig wid cheese, a bad cad barely bove id here for cheese for god’s sake, it’s piled high! You are wearig a probotiodal t shirt ebblazoded wid a picture of sobe Swiss cheese od it ad de slogan “Cheeses H Christ! Dat’s sobe quality cheese dey sell dowd at Sibod’s!” ad as if dat wasd’t eduff you have, perched od your head at a jaudty adgle, a dovelty hat id de shape of a wedge of cheese, sportig de phrase “I’b crackers about cheese!” Dot to bedtiod your badge which reads “Here to help, ask be about our cheese festival!” Dow cobe across wid de cheese prodto, ad do bore bessig about!” Simon Sentsmiles sweetly. “Ho, I see Bikle, you are having a joke. Very h’amusing I’m h’sure. Now what can I h’get you h’today?” Bikle knows all to well what is happening, but can’t help himself, “Cheese! Cheese! Ad a third tibe, cheese you blitherig buffood  of a babblig bastard! Give be sobe bloody cheese! De whole place is swibbig id it! It’s lyig idpiles ad heaps ad accubulatiods, de shelves groad beneath de weight of it, de windows are crabbed to bursting wid de stuff! It is festooned about de very walls of de shop, I’ve dever seed so buch cheese id ode place id all by life! Dere’s soddig cheese as far as de eye cad see you fuckig git! Hand it over, just a sliver, ad idfiditisbal fraction of dis bental aboudt of cheese, just a bit dab you, I dod’t wadt a whole edab, or a wheel of cheddar or a bastard truckle of wedsleydale, just a borsel of cheese for de love of God bad, ad dod’t give be dat “Ho you bustbead de h’allegeged h’cheese dodsedse, just dod’t, I couldn’t stand it, I used to do dis to people you dow, whed I was you, I dow how it works, it holds do bysteries for be, dow Sibod, give be de botherfuckig cheese you git.” Simon shrugs regretfully. “Ho I ha’m h’sorry h’sir, but I am unable to meet your requirements for said h’dairy h’produce, we simply don’t have a crumb of it in the shop. There’s no demand for it round here. Dow if you’ll h’excuse me a moment, I’ll just serve these other gentlemen…” “Ho do you dod’t! Dis is where all de rest of de gits cobe id ad are like, ‘uh huh huh cad we have sobe cheese please Sibod, wid our tools, ad you are all ho yes h’sir, here is de cheese, adythig for a chub’, well I’b dot havig it you hear be! Give be de bloody cheese or by gub, I’ll cripple you, you see if I dod’t!” Sure enough, a queue has formed, there is, as Bikle predicted, Pete and Paul, clutching shopping baskets full of cheese, an old, scruffy man with brown trousers and a t shirt with the logo “Cheese Please Louise!” across the front, Fond Of The Old Fromage Johnson, “Red” Lester, the ginger haired man from the corner sandwich shop, the Duc d’Camembert, Old Cheddar George,  and so on. “Bi was here first, ad I’b dot leavig udtil I get sobe cheese!” “Ho is dat so h’sir?” “Dab right it is sudshide! I’b dot puttig up wid dis so called cobedy frubiliatiod ady bore! Where’s by bloody cheese? I have bodey, I deband dat you give be cheese!” Simon shakes his head resignedly, “Ho very h’well h’sir, I’ll h’attempt to h’locate some of the h’commodity that you have h’requested. Perhaps there is some wrapped up here, in TOMORROW’S NEWSPAPER!” With a flourish he whips out the dreaded journal, “Ho, h’what this h’sir? “Park Pervert Arrested After Fracas In Newsagency? Suspect Badly Injured By Mob After CheeseRow?” Now what was it you h’wanted h’again h’sir?” Bikle pales, “Berrr, dothig, dothig, best be od by way, cad see dat you are busy, dice to have you back dere, adother tibe perhaps, bust be goig, cheerio ad all dat, Cobe od Buckle!” So saying, he bustles his brother out of the shop and away down the street.   As he does so, he hears with painful clarity, “Uh huh huh huh, and some larks tongues in aspic to go with our cheese please, with our tools.” And the inevitable answering cry, “H’certainly h’sir! H’anything for a chum!” Cursing under his breath he hurries Buckle along, catching sight of Bockle/Simon chatting to a couple of attractive housewives over the counter of his shop, and for a moment wonders how people will react to there suddenly being two newsagents called Simon where earlier there was only one, but then realises that as far as they are concerned, there will always have been two newsagents called Simon on the street, “Oh you know, turn off just before the Baker’s Arms and go straight down that road, you know the one, the one with the two newsagents called Simon…” they would say, and the other would nod, “Oh yes, the two newsagents called Simon, everyone knows where that is…” He was roused from this train of thought, by Buckle muttering to himself. “Dow what is it Buckle?” Buckle looks glum, “Ho, you dow Bikle, it’s just dat earlier today, well It’s just dat you see, I thought dat dere would be cheese.” White hot rage floods him for a moment, and he feels a dreadful urge to strangle his idiot sibling and silence his yammering once and for all, but the feeling subsides and is replaced by resignation. “Yes yes Buckle, be too, dever bind, I’b sure we’ll find sobe cheese at sobe poidt during de day. Dow he’s a few shop, I wonder what dey sell id dere? Shall we go id ad have a look?” myThey open the door to the shop, which is badly lit and gloomy. Racks and racks and shelf upon shelf disappear into the murky interior, the shop is clearly much bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street. Off in one corner Bikle can just make out a counter, complete with an old fashioned cash register. He pushes the door open a bit wider, causing a bell to clang mournfully, and the two walk in. The shelves are stocked with brown paper packages differentiated only by size and by a number printed in red ink. Bikle wanders around a bit and picks up a parcel at random and shakes it. This dislodges a small cloud of dust which makes him sneeze. He goes to blow his nose on his cloak, but remembers that Buckle is wearing it, so he has to sniff loudly. Still there is no sign of any member of staff or shopkeeper to be seen. By the till is a small and very dusty bell with an adjacent sign reading “please

ring for service.” Accordingly Bikle gives the bell a sharp tap, in response to which it emits a dull clack. “Ooh ee, like ringing bells you do don’t you sonny?” Comes a voice from behind him, “That’s two now, and you can’t of been here more than thirty seconds, man in a hurry are we? Places to go, people to repel? What brings you here then? And I don’t mean some kind of specially adapted minibus, we’ll take that as a given shall we? No I mean why are you here? Early closing at the Hopeless Loser Café

Is it? Anyway, what’s it to be, business or pleasure? Although it’s apparent to the most uninterested observer, in which class I unashamedly place myself, that the pair of you are singularly Ill fitted for either pursuit, still what can we do for you? Out of magic poo are we? Say no more, Jackson! Do us a favour, nip round the back and fill this bowl will you?” “Do, do do! Do bagic poo today Bister Cutler.” “Oh is that so? Fair enough, fair enough,  in fact, upon closer inspection it appears that you are still sporting a not insignificant amount of faecal matter on your old dial there, an inferior brand by the look of it, you can tell by the uneven formation of the crusting. Cheap shit is as cheap shit does mind you, but if you’re happy with dung smeared all over your physog, then we’ll it’s be churlish of me to cavil about it, as it is I don’t suppose you have much to be happy about, so far be it from meto snatch these small joys from you, now if it’s not a poop top up that you’re after, what’s it to be? How about a nice disguise for you and your retard? We’ve had some jolly times kitting you out with disguised in the past haven’t we? Got a pantomime horse costume here, factory second, slight defect in that its got no head, but two arse ends, perfect for you and your brother, no need to labour the symbolism Dennis, sure the gentleman is fully cognisant of the fact that you consider him and that collection of failed cells he hangs around with to be a couple of pointless arseholes who don’t know whether they’re coming or going, but then again, can’t hurt to mention it eeh? There’s no secrets between man an merchant, as my sainted Uncle Izzy used to say before the cough finished him. No? What about this then? We’ll kit you out as the gent as everybody’s talking about, what you reckon to this then?” Cutlerholds up a pair of black jeans, pair of pixie boots, frilly shirt and cloak. “But dey’re by clothes! Again!” “I should coco bug eyes, sourced from a reputable supplier these, got a standing order for items like these, scouring the landfill night and day is old Frosty, searching for just such gems as these, came up lucky today, whole bin full he came back with, he’ll eat well tonight, well I say well, more something, anyway, what you reckon? All the rage these, flying off the shelves, “fancy dress party? At a loss as to what to wear? Why not go as the region’s most hated sexual offender?” That’s what I says to them, well I say them, of course I mean you. So then you massive freak, is it a deal? Give me twenty quid and I won’t call the rozzers. Well I’ll give you time to get away at least, not enough time of course, but time enough to hand over the money and get out of my shop so as not to sullythe Cutler name by associating it in the public mind with a degenerate like you. Tell you what, make it thirty and I won’t hit you with this chair leg.” *THWACK* “Youch! By shoulder!” “Again. I meant I wouldn’t hit you again. Unless I really feel like it.” *THWACK* “Which I do. Call it forty for cash. Plus a tenner for my time.” *THWACK* “Sixty altogether, and I’ll throw in some toffee for the gibbon.”  “Frouch! Stop it Bister Cutler, Stop it! I deed a few cobputer ad a telly! I’ve got £500 of real boney!” “Ooh eeh? Well now that does make a difference doesn’t it?” *THWACK* “Not that much of a difference mind, but still. Now a computer and a telly you say?”

 

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 4

 

With much trepidation and trying to ignore the sound of the clamouring mob Clancy throws the dice. They roll and clatter across the board and land as a clearly marked double six, this auspicious number would see Clancy land on Go. “Bllblbp lucky me, extra go and £400!” “Ho h’I think you’ll find that that h’double rule h’is h’apocryphal h’sir!” “Blblblblp, certainly not always played it! Hand over cash!” “Nein Herr Turkey es ist nicht wahr, du kannst nur die £200 haben!” “Blblblp, nicht fair! What mother taught me!” “Mwaaerk!” says Johnson indicating Clancy should quit carping. “Bllblbp really, terrible game, rules not understood!” “Ho quit ‘whinig Clance and h’move your cat!” “Bllblblbp some mistake, not cat counter, was boat!” But now clear as anything the board now features a small pewter cat. With visible cold sweats Clancy moves the feline figure the spaces and takes the £200. “Und now my turn, ach 7, und I moof ein, zwei, drei…” Ziggy lands square onto Johnson’s hotel in Mayfair “Mwaaaerk!” says Johnson “But Ich habe nur die water works und £128!” “Ho then h’appear to be h’out sir, off to the h’corner with you!” and Sigmund shuffles out of the play area over to the corner with the other muttering contingent. Time has passed though now and frankly all this paper money is getting a bit much for Simon. He tries to say as convincingly as he can that he needs the toilet. Clancy eyes him suspiciously “BLblblp at least take turn first, then me and Johnson can carry on!” “H’very well sir!” and he throws the dice “5 h’o do! Cobbudity chest agaid!” Hand trembling he reaches for the card and reads in a curious flat tone “The aetheric form of the angry mob will be waiting for you in bathroom should you carry on with these unclean desires, indeed the feeble solidity you perceive around you is entirely under my command I suggest you finish the game.” “H’o I don’t know what it could h’mean!” he tries to bluster “But h’strangely h’I don’t feel the need for the toilet any h’more” he swallows hard, your go Johnson. Another expert throw from Johnson sees one of the last pieces of property purchased, Leicester square to be precise, this completes his control of that set and renders over 90% of the board hostile to the other players. Clancy and Simon exchange glances of futility. “Blblblblbp pointless game! You win! Didn’t play by proper rules though, so will claim moral victory!” “Ho dere’s do point’ playig h’any longer, it’s true, you wid h’Johnsod!” At this point of victory suddenly Buckle wakes up “Ho what happed? I had a dreab about a pogo stick Bickle and dere was Johnsod and a ghost and den de bagic poo cabe flyig through de air and scooped us up ad we…?” he looks around “Who are all dese people Bickle, why are dey id de flat? Are you goig to bake dat phode call dow, we’re playing bodopoly later rebember!” Bickle gets up out of the corner “Ho god dot likely, de bodopoly gabe fidished, it’s derely tibe for bed, I’ve had edough of today!” The various characters begin to mill out of the flat, except for Simon who shuffles around uneasily “Cobe od Sibod tibe to go!” “Ho well h’I would but de h’angry mob h’is still out dere and dey h’might h’lynch me over dat receipt h’misdemeanour. Cad I stay here?” “Ho of course!” pipes up Buckle “Hady thig for a chub, you cad have Bickle’s bed!” “H’what! Do he can’t!” but too later and Simon has already mysteriously managed to get into Bickles room and shut the door. “What de fuck is goig od!?” shouts Bickle “Ho what do you bead? Cobe od Bickle, leds play bodopoly! Look de board is all set up! I’ve still got by hat and astro Bikle cad play too can’t you astro-Bikle!” and he mouths to animate the nearby astro-Bikle figure “Yes I’b de best at bodopoly, I’ll blast you wid by zapper!” “ho look here’s Bikle probably he’ll play too!” Now emerging from the room comes what was a moment ago ‘Simon’ but now that he’s wrapped a black cloak around himself it seems this enough to confuse Buckle. “Ho barvellous Bikle, we’re playing bodopoly, do you want to be de toad bad!” “Ho dat sound’s h’nice Buckle, cobe od Bickle pull up a pew, your broder’s beed lookig forward to dis gabe and wid dat bob out dere I’b dot goig h’adywhere.” “Dat’s what you think!” says Bickle and makes a dive for the broom. But Simon-Bikle has a quick thought “Buckle, oh doh de evil witch is tryig to get de bagic broob stop hib!” and in a flash Buckle has leaped onto Bickle and entangled him in a gangle of cloaks and limbs. “Fr’I’ll be havig h’dat!” says Simon-B picking up the broom. “Dow Buckle, he’s de h’baddy so we’ve got to h’tie hib up!” “Ho barvellous!” says the enthused Buckle “Get dis dibwit off be!” shouts Bickle, but to short avail as Simon-B brings a saucepan down on his head rendering him unconscious. “Help be put hib id de h’computer chair!” and so the two conspirators prop unconscious Bickle up in a cheap office chair before binding him to said chair with an old sheet. “Whed are we playig de bodopoly Bikle?” “Ho, h’in a bobent Buckle, keep your hair on, we’ve got this h’baddy to deal with h’rebember!” “Ho by god your right Bikle, it’s dat witch dat was trying to steal de bagic broob, what shall we do with her?” “Ho that was no witch Buckle, it was in fact Johnson!” and somehow now Simon-B has added an elastic band to the back of the toadmans hat and made it into a kind of beak, this he then straps to the front of the unconscious Bickle’s head. “Ho by god Bikle! It is Johnsod, will he play too?” “What’s dat h’johdsod you want to play h’bodopoly?” animating the floppy headed character he speaks the word “H’mwaaerk!” “Ho h’look Buckle, he wants to play, so with h’astro-Bikle too we’ve heasily got enough for another h’game!” “Barvellous, you’ll help be wid bodey won’t you Bikle?!” “Ho yes Buckle, h’adythig for a chub!”  

Morris peers interestedly at the crystal ball. The mystical effect is somewhat spoiled by the surround sound speakers which serve to relay every nuance of conversation in the squalid flat. “Hmmm, this is interesting Johnson. Seems old Shit Boy has more to him than we gave him credit for. Also, however he is more of an idiot than I imagined, so in cosmic terms, it all balances out, and once again my judgement is entirely vindicated, as I am sure you will agree, well you do agree don’t you Nodding Vehemently In Agreement Whilst Wearing An Eminently Flammable Jumpsuit Johnson? Marvellous. This wholly unsolicited testimonial to my unearthly sagacity is much appreciated, here please accept this voucher for a pampering day at an agreeable country house spa and conference centre.” He settles himself comfortably in his armchair, “But before you go, fetch me another four pack of Hofmeister and some chicken springrolls. Hearken unto my words winged servitor, and do not forget the sweet chilli dipping sauce or it will be all the worse for you. Now let’s see what Shitty, Dopey, and Unconscious are getting up to.” Back in the flat, S/B is pondering his next move. “Hbbb, dow what is by dext bove?” “Ho, we have’dt started playig yet Biggle.” “Do do, dot dat kide of bove you ditwit, I bead by dext bove I’d frescapig frob de burderous bob.” Buckle looks frightened. “Burderous Bob? Is dat de witch’s dabe? Is he goig to murder us ad ded eat us up like Cousid Lauredce? I wish dat Bikle was here to save be!” S/B pats him on the shoulder. “Here I ab brother, dow let’s get rid of er, Burderous Bob de bodster, ad ded we cad have sobe dice beads ad get to bed.” “Ho Bikle! An I glad to see you! I was so scared of de bodster. I thigk it ate Sibod, cause ode bidute he was here ded he disappeared! I thigk he got gobbled up by datlarge banticore!” “Er, yeeees, dat’s right Buckle, I foud de poor devil’s shoes id de bedroob. Burderous Bob here bust have bunched hib up boxes ad all. Very sad bobedt.” Buckle pulls a sad face. But Bikle, why are you wearig Sibod’s shoes?” “Be? Oh, er, as a tribute to his bebory, yes, a bovig hobage to a dearly missed chub. Dow enuff of dat dodsedse, help be get dese dice pixie boots off de bodster.” Buckle joins in tugging at Bickle’s boots, “But why are we takig de bodster’s boots Bikle?” “Oh for heaveds sake, I forgotted how addoyig dis is, still better dis dan beig bassacred by a belligeredt bob of brutal, bloodthirsty burghers. De boots? Oh because dey are bagic boots Buckle, will dat do?” Buckle looks impressed. “Bagic boots! How frexcitig! Cad I have a go wid deb?” “Certaidly dot! Dey’re bide dow! Dere, dat’s got deb off! Hag od a bidute, by dose itches, I’ll just scratch it a bobedt, bohhh!  What’s dat frappallig aroba? It sbells like shit!” “It’s de bagic Bikle! De bagic poo frob de bagic boots! Just like by dreab! Ad it’s all over your face ad hads! You lucky thig!” “H’what? Oh for fuck’s sake. Dever bide, do tibe to worry about dat dow, I ab reclaibig by destidy! Ad dis tibe I’b dot goig to bake de sabe bistakes! I’b goig to bake a real go of it, goig to be a big shot! Look out world! Bikle’s back!” Buckle has taken a handful of extra sticky toffee and stuffed it into his mouth. “Oh hello Biggle! You’re bag are you? Gid you hag a dice tige? Hag you bet Gousid Lauregce? He’s a bogster you dow.” “Christ. First thig de dew Bikle is goig to do is have you put I’d a bedtal hobe, but first I deed your help to get dis monster dowd de stairs.” “Hang on a minute Shitlord, haven’t you overlooked something?” Bickle’s mouth moves in sync with the words, but the voice, whilst familiar, is clearly not his. Bikle doesn’t seem to be paying attention though, as he rifles through Bickle’s pockets. “What do you bead Buckle, ad dod’t call be dat.” “The hair Jizzmop, the hair. He’s got the long badly dyed do, and you are as bald as a rhino’s ballsack, capeesh?” “Ho dat’s right! Good thigkig Buckle! Baybe you’ll avoid de bedtal ward yet! Where are by scissors ad de glue frob your judior craft set? Ah dere we go, give be a bidute, barvellous! Dow dobody will be able to guess dat I’b dot be! De fidal touch to by basterplad!” So saying he places his shoes onto Bickle’s unconscious feet, and stands up, brushing back strands of haphazardly glued on hair from his faecal matter smeared visage. “I’b a gedius! Cobe od Buckle, help me get dis bodster to de stairs!” Between them, the spindly duo manage to trundle the chair and it’s recumbent occupant to the dimly lit landing. The motion and noise involved in this operation wakes Bickle from his stupor. “Bohhh. Where ab I? What’s happedig?” “Ho, dothig to worry about Bickle, or should I say, Sibod?” Bikle chortles spitefully, “Dat’s right! I’b takig back by life! Ad you cad have by old life!” He pauses, trying to work something out. “I bead dot by old old life, dat’s de ode dat I ab takig back, I bead by dew old life, de ode dat was actually Sibod’s. Real Sibod I bead. Dot fake Sibod. By which I bead be, dot you, because you are fake Sibod dow. Or fake fake Sibod perhaps. Adyway, adylast words before I propel you precipitously pell bell dowd de stairs into de hads of de vedgeful vigiladtes?” Bickle shakes his head. “By God do you bead it? You’d actually steal back your previous existedce? The flat, Buckle, everything?” Bikle sneers triumphantly. “Ho you bet dat I will! You just watch be!” To his surprise, and rather to his disappointment, as he was enjoying playing the role of villain for once, Bickle convulses in spasms of hopeless laughter. Eventually, after several minutes, the giggles and guffaws gradually stop, and pinioned as he is, he tries to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Ho  ho, sorry, ho dear. You poor poor sad bastard Bikle. Dat’s de sidgle bost tragic thig dat I have ever heard. Oh by gooddess, you sad old bad. Ibadgide dat. Ho it’s too fuddy for words. But also so fuckig pathetic dat it almost bakes be wadt to cry.” He giggles again. “I’d fact I would cry if I wasd’tlaughing so buch.” Bikle bridles, his moment of triumph crumbling around him. He attempts to rally. “Ho is dat so? Well at least I’b dot goig to by lydched by a furious crowd who think dat I ab a sex offender!” Bickle smiles serenely. “Ho let be assure you, dat holds do horrors for be. A violedt ad shabeful death is still idfiditely better dan codtiduig od livig your life. I stole a trade sized box of de extra strog dog worbig bedicide frob de back of de vet’s car de other day, I was pladdig od dowdig de lot todight ad endig it adyway, so you are savig be de bother you poor sad bastard.” Bikle doesn’t quite know what to say to this. Bickle’s sincerity is so obvious, and his just the prospect of release so unmistakable, that he struggles to come up with a rejoinder. Bickle smiles at him. “Go on Shit Bikle, give us a push eh? There’s a good boy.” Reluctantly, Bikle does so and Bickle disappears down thestairs with a tremendous clattering and trundling which almost drown out his happy cry of “Wheeeee!” Bikle hears him smash through the front door and a roar go up from the crowd. Thoroughly deflated, he glumly returns to his flat and slumps down against a wall. He looks around him, taking stock of his kingdom. Cooker, fridge, both encrusted with filth, floor ditto. Few bean cans, broken TV, pile of random and soiled household items that look as though they have been scavenged from a dustbin, old computer and monitor. Not much really. And everything beige or grey or shit brown. The crowd are still roaring and cheering outside, and he brightens momentarily, they must be really going to town on poor “Simon”… He hears a brass band strike up “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and the crowd enthusiastically join in. “Dat’s dot very appropriate music to accompady a savage act of collective frobicide!” Curious, heis about to venture across to the window and risk a peep, when a noise from the front door makes him jump nervously. “Ho Bikle, de dewspaper is here!” “Hi dod’t care, H’ive had edough of dewspapers to last be a lifetibe! Hi dod’t wadt to set eyes of adother soddig h’dewspaper, I bead dewspaper, ever agaid!” “Ho you should look at dis ode Bikle, it’s got a picture of you od it!” Heart sinking, Bikle grabs the newspaper from his brother’s hand. Sure enough, there on the front is a huge photograph of himself, clearly taken moments before, in this very room. “Ho by God, wake up, I bust be dreabig!” For there in bold headlines are the words “REAL PARK PERVERT found.” Followed by “Local Police have released this photo of the notorious Park Pervert, also known as the Arboretum Onanist. Identified by local sources as “Bummer Hensman” this twisted individual became internationally notorious last year following therelease of a sick internet video…” His insides twisted into a knot, he reads the rest of the story, which brutally lays bate pretty much every awful thing he has ever done or has had done to him, all in breathless, sensational journalese. He reads of his “sickening romp in a bath of custard with Chonsoix de Bonne Onsoir,” his disastrous appearance on “Ready Steady Mwaeerk!” and a whole litany of failures and indignities, all given the worst possible interpretation. Reeling, his eye wanders to the story below. There, to his horror, is a picture of Bickle / Simon being carried aloft by a cheering crowd of locals, beneath a headline reading: “Innocent Newsagent becomes local hero” the story goes on to say that after being wrongfully accused Simon has been totally vindicated after the real Park Pervert was identified, he has been ceremonially stricken from the Sex Offenders Register, given the FreedomOf The City, and that a Just Giving page to replace his burned out newsagency has already reached £250,000. Bikle curses long and loud. Naive idiot that he is, by now even he can recognise the signs of one of Bikle’s regular massive humiliations. “Does dis bead dat we have to stay idside wid de curtaids closed ad watch you play if de computer agaid Bikle?” Before Bikle can reply, the front door opens and Morris saunters in carrying a hockey stick. “Evenin’ Shitlord. Here you are Dopey, have some toffee, glad you mentioned the computer, slipped my mind innit? Thought I’d take care of this one meself, personal touch see? Can’t abide loose ends.” So saying he sets about the aged Amiga with the hockey stick, reducing it to sparking wreckage, which he then throws through the remaining window pane. Sticking his head out, he yells “He’s in here boys!” Turns nods amiably to Buckle, pats him on the head, takes apool ball from his pocket, throws it accurately and painfully at Bikle’s head and walks off whistling cheerfully.

 

 

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 3

Simon however, has downloaded a Monopoly app onto his phone. “Ho I’ll h’show deb. Who deeds deb adyway?” So as Bickle shouts after him, he responds smugly, “Ho, h’dot  h’likely! I buch prefer playig wid byself out here od de h’stairs!” Much hilarity and disgust from the others, “Ho dat souds about right, eh boys?” “Mein Gott, zer sheer flagrancy of zer mann! Haff he keine shame?” “Blbplplblp! Told you! Disgusting pervert! Ought to be birched!” Simon overhears all this and responds, “Do, do, dot playig wid byself! I bead I’b h’playing h’modopobly! Od by bobile! Ad if we’re talkig h’about perverts, den I, ad I hate to h’breach de codfidedtiality of de dewsagents code, but h’your dew issue of “Greasy Geezers” h’arrived h’yesterday Bister Butterball, ad as for you Ziggy, H’I rebebber dat h’extedsive collectiod h’of frutterly disgustig h’ibages dat you keep in h’your h’office!” “Ach der lieiber Gott youdummkopf, dat is zer inkblot tests!” “Ho well it looked like h’pordography to be!” Freud rolls whatever is left of his eyes. “Teufel! Vot a case study made you vould haf!” Bickle ushers Simon back into the flat, “Cobe along dow, all chubs here, frimportadt job for you, dicely dicely, ad so forth.” As they enter the room they are greeted by the sight of Buckle, socks on his hands and a damp, slimy paper tricorn hat perched on his head, gambolling around merrily. “Ho look Biggle! Look Sigog! I’b a gisgustig perverg!” “Stop dat Buckle! Stop dat at odce! Dat’s dot a dice gabe!” But Buckle is caught up in his new frolic, “Perverg! Perverg!” He yodels, dancing on the spot and waving his  besocked hands in Bikle’s face, “If you’re gisgustig ad you do it clab your hads! Clab clab!” “Ho god, stop it Buckle, dat’s bodstrous!” Ignoring him, Buckle carries on with his dance, which now consists of an awkward hopping motion, coupled with a leg movement somewhere between a can can and a goose step. He circles the group flapping his hands about like a demented chorus girl, “Clab clab!” until Johnson, tired of waiting for his go lands him one round the back of the head with Bickle’s frying pan. There is a resounding “Clannngg!” and Buckle subsides wordlessly onto the stained great carpet. “Barvellous! Dice work Johdsod!” “Dow ded, let’s get down to dis gabe. I’ll go first, freleved! Ode, two, three, four, five, six, seved, eight, dide, ted, freleved! Cobbudity chest! Dow let’s see, “You are a gagly fuckid freakboy. You have beed burned to death. Your fradvedture ends here. Do dot pass go.” What? Dat’s dot fair!” “Blplplp! Cards don’t lie! You’re out! Sit in corner!” “But, but dat’s rubbish! It’s by flat ad by gabe ad it’s do fud just sittig I’d de corder!” “Blplplp! Hard cheese Bickle! Luck of the game! Into corner with you!” “Ja ja! Der corner for you! Zer rules ist rules!” “Uh huh huh huh, get in the corner Bickle, with your tool!” “Ribbit!” “Mwaeerk!” Simon, seeing his enemy discomfited chimes in, “Ho Dat’s h’right h’Bickle! I am de h’badker rebebber? Ad by decisiod is fidal! Id to de corder wid you!” “Dot likely! I wadt adother go!” “Blbplplblp! Bad loser! Poor show! No sportsman! Eh boys?” Simon snatches up the broom, “Ho h’off you h’go h’Bickle, heeeey? Broob! Broob!” Bickle protests but is powerless to resist the broom and is forced to sit in the corner whilst the others play. He makes the occasional hesitant sortie, but is driven back by a few vigorous strokes of his bristly nemesis. “Cad I at least have sobe cord sdacks ded?” “Blplplp! Certainly not! Corn snacks for monopoly players only! Category for which you do not qualify!” Clancy grabs a handful of cheese curls and stuffs them messily into his beak. “Yum yum! Corn snacks! Most delicious! Your go Toady!” The game continues, Johnson clearly outclasses the others in terms of skill, and some of them, notably Clancy and Simon, are growing irritated by his success. Paul rolls a five and lands on Chance. He picks up a card. “Uh huh huh huh you have had a nasty accident involving a lawnmower, uh huh huh with your tool.” “Uh huh huh huh, bad luck Paul.” “Uh huh huhhuh, there is more writing, “You have haemorrhaged to death on your own lawn. Uh huh huh huh, get into the corner with Gonky there, and take that chortling git of a brother with you.” “Uh huh huh huh, that’s not fair.” “Blplplp! Fair or not, those are rules! Broom!” The pace of the game hots up, Toadman is the next to receive a chance card, he peers at it then throws it down. With an angry ribbit he claps a newspaper fedora onto his head and hops into the corner, leaving only Clancy, Simon and Johnson still in play. The board fairly bristles with Johnson’s Hotels, whereas Simon has nothing much to show and Clancy has a measly house on Old Kent Road. Clancy lands on the Community Chest, and with considerable trepidation picks up a card and reads the message inscribed thereupon. “Blplplp! What’s this? 2nd place in beauty contest! Win £10! Marvellous! Pay up Mr Banker! Hang on, Blplplp! More writing.” Clancy puts on his pince nez and scrutinises the card. “Also, be warned. The cat creature is slowly draining you of your life essence. There is nothing you can do with your puny magics to prevent this. Eventually a point will be reached where he will once again assumeCorporeal form and wreak an awful vengeance upon your enervated person. In the meantime, the thing about the beauty contest was a misprint. There is a dreadful gas explosion on the Old Kent Road and your shit house is destroyed.” There is a loud bang and all that remains of Clancy’s property empire is a scorch mark and a pool of melted green plastic. “Blbplplblp! Do not like this game. Remembered important business appointment. Must fly. Been lovely seeing you. Toodle oo.” So saying Clancy jumps to his feet and rushes to the door. Pulling it open he darts through it, only to find himself walking into the room he has just left. “Blplplp! What’s this? Leaving now!” Turning, he walks back through the door, only to emerge back into Bickle’s living room. “Blbplplblp! Alarmed now! Eldritch sorcery at work!” “Ho h’unlucky h’sir! Looks like you dod’t get out of dis dat h’easily! Your go Johdsod!” Clancy reluctantly sits back down at the monopoly board, with many an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Johnson rolls nine and extends his portfolio by the acquisition of Marylebone Station, meaning he now has the full set. Simon rolls a two and lands on a space which he doesn’t remember having seen before. “Ho h’what is dis dodsedse? Take a hubiliatiod card? Dere’s do such card!” Johnson gestures at a pile of cards which Simon could swear were not there a moment ago. “Hi dod’t like de h’look of h’dis.”  “Your likes undt dislikes haff keine importance dummkopf! Take zer card!” Dubiously Simon takes a humiliation card. “Ho god, h’whats dis? “You have beed caught by de police pleasurig yourself I’d de bushes dear a h’pribary school wid a h’pabphlet about de local bidiature steab railway dat you foud id de park. Go directly to Jail, do dot pass go, do dot h’collect £200. I’d additiod you bust sigd de h’sex h’offenders h’register for de next twenty years. Furious locals will burn down your h’dewsagedt ad follow you aroud id ad agry bob.” H’what? I’b glad dat dis is only a gabe!” From outside they hear the sound of fire engines hurtling past. A newspaper is posted through the letterbox. It falls to the floor with the front-page uppermost. Clearly legible is the headline “Local Newsagent is Disgusting Pervert.” atop a picture of Simon in his shop. A brick smashes through the window and breaks Bickle’s television screen. Through the shattered glass can be heard a hubbub of threatening voices, amongst which the words “Nonce” “Sick” “Beast” and Fucking hang him” can be discerned repeatedly. “Blplplp! Looks as though you’re not leaving either! Blbplplblp my turn!”

 

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:31 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bodopoly pt 2

 

Bickle glares at him resentfully. “Dod’t you fuckig start “Sibod”, I’b fed up of beed lubbered wid de god h’awful frexistedse dat you so deatly  frescaped! Dis bad is ad idiot!” Simon smiles serenely. “Ho, h’I dod’t dow h’what h’you’re h’talkig h’about h’Bickle. Dod’t be a h’grump, h’I brought sobe out of date cord sdacks for de boys, ad a big bag of dis h’extra sticky h’toffee for your broder Buckle!” His smile widens as he puts a noticeable emphasis on the “your” of “your broder”. Bickle looks round and Buckle is already chewing away, “Egstra stiggy! By fabouride!” He turns back and glowers at Simon. “You sbug cudt, I’ll cripple you for dis, you see if I dod’t!” Before Simon can respond, Pete and Paul interrupt. “Uh huh huh, we’ve set up the monopoly board, uh huh huh. With our tools.” “Cad I be ge gog bleeg Biggle?” Enquires Buckle eagerly. “How bady bloody tibes! Do, do do do do do do do! Do you bay dot be de dog! You can be de soddig irod. I’b havig de top hat because it’s by gabe, dow who is goig to be de boot?” “Blplplp Blplplp! Certainly not! I’ll be the yacht!” *Whisk*. “Undt I vill be ze automobile zat goes ze grosser schnell.” Bickle surveys the box, although there are a number of players still sitting expectantly awaiting to be assigned a counter, there are none left in the box. Bickle rummages about in the pile of belongings which he had retrieved from the bin. “Dow let’s see, what have we got here den? Ah dis will do for you Toady, it’s ad ebpty bidiature bottle of ouzo dat I found I’d de bus stop. Pete, you cad be dis clothes peg, Paul, dis bagic tree is you, hbbb, dere does’dt seen to be adythig else dere, let be have a rubbage I’d by pockets, ho, dis’ll do dicely for you Johdsod, a dudgeods ad dragods figuride of a bodster wid de tedtacles, dere I thigk dat’s everybody, we cad get od widde gabe.” Simon raises his hand, “Ho h’excuse be h’sir, hi thigk dat you have forgotten be!” “Ho chadce’d be a fide thig!” He scrats about in his pockets some more, finally drawing out a crumpled piece of card. A cruel smile spreads across his face, “Ho barvellous! This is a piece of jolly good luck, dis will be de perfect coudter for you Sibod! Here you go, h’adythig for a chub hey?” So saying he hands over the scrap of card to the lanky newsagent. “Ho, h’whats dis? Ho. Ho dearie be.” “Dat’s right! A dice coupod for a free wax polish at de Tesco car wash. A very dice coupod, a little bit tattered adbittedly…” he leers at Simon, “A bit grubby perhaps, a bit of de sball side I gradt you, ode bight albost say dat it was a dirty little coupod…” A number of emotions struggle for mastery on Simon’s face, anger, shame and lust foremost amongst them. Bickle sniggers as he watches the other try and controlhimself. “A… dirty… little… ho god.” His willpower is clearly no match for his unclean cravings, as he jumps to his feet. “Ho, frexcuse be a bobedt, hi deed to… berr, just powder by dose for a bidute…” So saying, he bolts into the bathroom and slams the door. Bickle looks round the room smugly. “Uh huh huh, but that means the boot is still left, uh huh huh, with it’s tool.” “Ho, I thought dat de cat bad was de boot.” “De cad bag Biggle? Whad cad bag?” Bickle looks confused. “Why, de cat bad. I bead, I’b sure dat he was dere a bobedt ago. How stradge.” Clancy looks disturbed. “Blbplplblp! What’s this nonsense? What cat man?” “Dis is bost udusal, I could have sword dat dere was a cat man type cobidatiod here just dow.” “Blplplp! No such thing! Imagining things! Hurry up! On with game!”

 “ho den where did de cad bad go Biggle?” “Blblblp desist in this no Cat man, talking nonsense “Who’s talgig dodsedse? Baybe de cad bad would lige sobe bilg?” and excitedly he rushes off to the fridge to fetch some. This adventure has a familiar end “Biggle Biggle, cobe ad see! Dere’s jeese id de frijj, I thougd dere be jeese! Do cads lige jeese?” “I dodn’t dow what de fuck your sagig ady bore Buckle, dat toffee has jabbed your bouth up!” and then aside to himself “fractually baybe I should by hib eved bore stickier toffee!” “By said I though dere’d be jeese!” he hollers, brandishing a block of value cheddar with triumphant return. Such a return though has only one possible outcome. Buckle trips badly on the outstretched leg of Sigmund Freud’s living remains and crashes violently into the mix of characters, knocking the newly set up board and all asunder. “Bohhhhhhh!” *crash* goes the general scene. “Buckle! You fridiot! You docked everything over!” “Uhuhuh not to worry, we’ll soon sort this mess out, with our tools!” “Ja wir can all pitch in nichtwar!” And somehow under Ziggy’s and Clancy’s supervisory guidance the board gets put back together and soon they are ready to play. Just before the game can commence the bathroom door unlocks and a slightly sweaty looking Simon emerges. “Ho h’if you just hag od a bidute, H’I’ll joid you!” “Ho, where’s your counter Sibod?” Simon goes bright red “Ho I bust h’ov left it id the h’lavatory. Dever mind h’is there something else I can play with with ehhh?”  But before Bickle can do more Sigmund –who has taken control largely of the situation- pipes up “Ja you can the boot sein, und sit here und behave, no more of zese unclean cravinks!” So Simon perches next to Freud with Toady to his left. “Blblblblblp taking too long, roll for who goes first!” So the characters take turns at rolling and eventually Johnson wins with a double six. Bickle raises his eye at this, but Johnson just acts nonchalantly. “Uhuhuh that means Johnson goes first with his tool!” “Ho why is dad?” “Ribbet?” and another round of infuriating inanities occurs before Bickle can stand it no more “Just get od wid de fuckig gabe will you all! By god! By life! Wake be up I bust be dreabig!” at which Simon pipes up “Ho h’I used to say that! Eh boys!” “Uhuhuh yes it was like a catchphrase uhuhuh with your tool!” “Ho bost abusig boys ehhh!?” “Und vat is zis about abusig boys?” “Ho do, h’dot abusig boys! Abusig boys!” “Blblblblblp distasteful participant, pervert, expel him!” “Ho dow wait od a h’minute, H’I think you’ll find…” but the plaintive cry is not heeded and Bickle brings out a giant broom with which he begins to expertly herd Simon towards the exit “Ho get off be you broob!” he yells, but the mood has turned against him and soon he’s out on the landing where he raps and scratches pitifully at the door. “Blblblp atmosphere much improved, eager to begin, hotel on Mayfair, tea at the Ritz, out of jail free!” “Yes dat’s right puss a saucer of creab for you fri I expect o o o!” “Blblblbp at it again, no cat-person here, all fed to their own family blblblblp! I mean lots of families are fed up, no good game to play, on with the game!” Frall right Cladce I was odly jokig I dodn’t dow what Buckle is frittering od about!” “Ho the cat person again, here kitty kitty!” Shouts Buckle waving the cheese around. “Put dat dowd, dow who’s dext!” Johnson is with Pete and Paul to his right so it is Pete’s turn. Suddenly Ziggy shouts “Mein gott, zere is no banker! Ohne der Banker konnen wir nicht spielen!” “Ho I think we put de ‘banker’ out de door!” quips Bickle” but no one really knows what he means and look at him quizzically “You mean ve should let ze pervert back in to be ze banker!” “Blblblp curious suggestion, might steal the money!” But then Bickle looks at the very small and leaflet like, almost coupon like nature of the monopoly money and thinks this may in fact be a very good idea. “Sibod!” he hollers, racing out the flat and down the stairs, “Sibod you can cobe back!”

 

Published in: on July 7, 2017 at 3:29 pm  Leave a Comment