The Bloodiopeagolsiverub

[MystyrMystyry]

Sprawling repulsively as a gargantuan slug across the disfigured landscape, evil Screed's anarchitectural obscenity, Castle Mouldcrank - rambling assemblage of black lichen-pocked boulders - malshapen monument to all things rotten - shimmering sickeningly amid the swirling veils of greasy sleet - glowing in eerie sympathy with the sacrificial torches smoking the range of its crooked turrets: Mouldcrank.
Each flanked with skypiercing rusty spires, a frequency of bats flutter between the spluttering flames, lending the impression of wise eyes winking acknowledgement of my decision to flee the scheduled bloodshed - and I emphasise mine in particular.
In the bleak earlimorn long before first light, the bitter wind biting my flesh with the ferocity of piranhafish, back and tennisracquets buckling beneath the weight of a knapsack packed with crap, I trudge through the filthy sludge blanketing the dead forest, toward my secret path of platinum, which shall lead and accompany me wherever it goes, whenever we arrive, and above all, away.
With my speed thus impeded, it becomes imperative to rearrange all these damned pans and pots, the clinking clunking clattering clangour of which is beginning to drive me crazy, but of much more concern is the possibility of it disturbing a nightwatch.
It is too late.
Wok in one hand, electric fryer in the other, trying to decide which if either to ditch, when in the distance I spy a blue-green lanternlight lacerating the night. It grows unsteadily, perhaps hesitantly, closer - completely in keeping with the local sentries' legendary lack of application, sobriety, and courage in the face of duty.
Meanwhile a new problem: to retain or discard the baked-beans or spaghetti, creamed-corn or pea-and-ham-soup, artichoke-hearts or asparagus-spears, braised-steak-and-onions or mushrooms-in-buttersauce - or what?
Ammunition is the dual solution, and as he draws clearly into view I ready, aim, and launch a barrage.
My jaw drops to my knees as every one misses its mark, then on to my ankles as he commences gathering up the items, and in short discordant snorts proceeds to read aloud the labels. Pausing for a resonant wheeze, he casts a furtive eye in my direction, snarls These yeur tincans!
Never seen them before, I tell the macabre figure. Besides, I'm homebrand intolerant.
Well, they's gonna make sumb'dy a decent breakfast fur a change - namely me! Heh! Heh!
Heh heh.
A pensive expression slithers slow as an egg over his face, and he belatedly bellows Holt! Hoo gers there!
Nowhere! I squawk. Nothing! No-one!
Wot!
Fine thanks, I gag upon collecting myself. How goes it there with you?
He grunts, boorishly stuffs the articles down his tunic, rubs his hands upon completion, and then reclines, not on anything, but as a mime in an armchair of air.
Now I'm no physicist, nor need I be to discern that this distinctly overbalanced form, supported as it is on but one heel, should collapse on its fat arse.
Excuse me, I venture nervously, but that position you're in... isn't it - impossible?
P'cepshuns is d'cepshuns, he smirks. 'Sall dun wiv mirrers. Mirrers an' wires. Mirrers an' wires an' pulleys. Mirrers an' wires an' pulleys an' wynches. Mirrers an' wires an' pulleys an' wynches an'-
I get the picture, I nod in an effort to move him on to the crux, but in my impatient haste instead silence him without extracting an explanation - a pity because it looks a handy trick, and a comfortable one into the bargain.
Wot pitcher's 'at? he continues to scowl at my interpreted incivility, begins rocking slightly - which greatly increases my edacity - unexpectedly guffaws Yer wanna kner hair ter der it, dern't yer?
Choosing to maintain what little remains of my dignity I tell him No, even though.
Yer's shore?
Positive, I mumble without conviction.
'Ser niftiest a commoderties fur lon' jerneys...
Alright! I spit. Tell me if you must!
Sharn't, he replies with a sickly smug leer.
What! Why not?
'Ser secret.
Then why'd you bother to ask!
Ter tornt yer, he gloats. 'Loozhunists ain't s'posed ter rerveal th' clockworks a their 'loozhuns - 'Ser unritten law...
Not even to other illusionists? With better illusions?
Hoo?
Me, I shrug.
Wot yer got?
I think for a while, elect to go with the only one I know, awkwardly twist my frozen digits into shape.
Yer pulled yeur finger orf! he exclaims.
That's my illusion, I say. Now show me yours.
'Snot a 'loozhun! 'S self abuse!
No, I say, wagging the appendage at him. It's still attached, see?
Oh yairs... Bonzer! Er... Hair'd yer der that?
Like so, I attempt to show him the rudiments. Easy.
His fat hands fumble stupidly, briefly, before giving up.
Wot else yer got?
What do you mean what else! I bark. That's it!
'Snot good 'nuff.
It's better than yours!
Yer reckon? he frowns, glances to the brassard of seven circles within a circle on his arm. I dern't reckon. An' if yer honestly reckon it, wy's yer wanna kner hair ter der mine?
Purely for convenience.
Really? he regards me as though I am something that doesn't belong to his dimension. Bad luck.
But we had an agreement!
'Greement? Wot 'greement?
The agreement to swap illusions!
Yer carn't be serious. I never 'greed ter ner 'greement.
That's beside the point! I wail. You stole my trick!
Yer gave it ter me, he sneers. Alser, I ain't gonna use it, is I?
You say that now but at the first available opportunity you'll incorporate it into your act! And probably won't even give me the credit where it belongs!
Act? I ain't got ner act.
You've got to have an act, I say. Every illusionist has an act. You can't be an illusionist without one.
Wot 'bout a outtawerk 'loozhunist?
Sorry to hear it, I affect empathy.
He falls silent as if in a deep sad reverie, and doesn't speak for the better part of a minute, which should be the ideal time to leave, but I can't until I find out how he is doing whatever it is he is doing.
Sorry ter hear wot? he says at last.
Why did you go quiet just then?
Sumtimes I carn't think wot ter say. Try ter - but nuthin' comes...
Uh huh. Are you going to let me in on the mystery?
Nerpe.
Please!
Carn't - it'd be 'gainst equity.
Well do you have anything else!
Like wot?
Like it!
He adopts a distant expression, snarls ventriloquially W'dn't yer like ter kner?
That wasn't bad, I tell him honestly. I didn't even see your lips move.
'At's prob'ly 'cause me lips didn't move, he says, but in a consummate performance overlaps these words with I's fadin' farst! Herpferly I'll win th' replay...
That was even better! I extol. Er which replay?
I dunner, he shrugs. Wot replay..?
How should I know what replay!
Yer bin drinkin' or wot?
Yes, I say, but that's beside the-…Are you going to show me the bloody secret!
Nerpe, as I's sed.
Then I feel we have nothing else to say to each other, I tell him, and turn to go. Good riddance, sir.
Hang on! he calls after me.
Yes? I ask a touch too eagerly.
Wy wos it yer 'xpressed intrest wen, an' ernly wen, I menshunned lon' jerneys? Where prercisely is yer absquachulatin' ter on ser cold an' ser erly a mornin'?
Not that it's any of your business, I start, but if you must know I'm ah looking for my dog.
Yeur dog? Wotcha dern' wiv a dog?
I was walking it - and it er ran away.
I dern't see ner dog.
That's because it ran away.
Erh. But if yer wos walkin' it, wy'd it run away?
How should I know! When you find it you can ask it yourself!
Wy sh'd I find it? 'Snot my dog...
That's a nice neighbourly attitude, I say. Reminds me why I'm moving from here to the country.
Wot country?
What do you mean Wot country! Iceland for all it matters!
Iceland? Ain't it cold there? Sairnds cold.
So? It's cold here.
Trew, he says, stroking his chin, but ain't it a lon' ways ter ger ter look fur a dog?
Depends on where I lost it.
Trew. Er where did yer?
I don't know! Maybe it was in the Antarctic wastes! Or the Brazillian rainforests!
Brazil? Wot wos yer dern' there?
Thawing out possibly. Listen, would you mind not speaking to me for a while?
Hair lon'?
Try a year for starters. If you do well I might consider an extension-
Ner need ter get sarcastic, he growls. I wos ernly tryin' ter help. Anyways, yer wonted me ter talk more.
No I didn't! I suggested nothing of the kind!
Yer enquired 'bout me 'loozhun...
Yes, and you, bastard, refrained from disclosing any information! Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way-
Wot 'bout yeur dog?
What about it?
Wot if it comes searchin' fur yer?
Then tell it where I've gone.
Where's 'at?
Looking for it!
Right, he says mealily. Hang on...
What now?
Is therse yeur cookin' utensils yonder?
Might be. What's it to you?
I wos thinkin' I c'd use 'em to heat up me tincans...
Well they are as it happens. They're for my ah barbecue.
Eh? Barbercue? Did yer say barbercue?
Yep. I've been suffering from externally imposed insomnia - the sleep deprivation has become a, well, a nightmare really and- do you care?
Nerpe.
Right. So I ah conceived of a barbecue - in the middle of the night of all things!
I thort yer sed yer wos walkin' yeur dog, he squints suspiciously.
Yep. As soon as I finish walking my dog.
But yeur dog ran away?
Yep. As soon as I finish looking for my dog.
Can I join yer?
Sure. It'll be best if we split up - you go that direction and I'll go-
I meant fur th' barbercue!
You could, except I completely forgot to bring the chops, sausages, salad, bread and sauce.
D'yer fry th' unnyuns 'forehand?
Onions? What onions? Oh! Of course! Onions! Of course! Thanks for reminding me! I must get onions as well! Onions onions onions...
Again I turn, and again he says:
Hang on!
Mmmmm? What is it?
Sumthin' else's botherin' me. Wy's yer wearin' ser obvyously folse wig an' beard?

[MystyrMystyry]

The lummox has me flummoxed. I rummage through my recently plundered storehouse of responses and eventually find one the thieves overlooked.
Erm, I start, taking a dizzy step backwards into a hitherto unnoticed moondial, stumble on it and fall grovelling to the slush. Ah to keep my head warm! Yes! That's it! My head was cold and consequently-
Reckon yer tripped up there, he says ambiguously.
Why can't my head be cold?
Didn't say it c'dn't be. Sed yer tripped up there.
Aah, so I did, I say, scouring the surrounds as though I haven't realised, but actually peeling my eyes for a blunt instrument of some description, perhaps a piece of wood, preferably one with some nine inch nails in it, and failing that at least a decent splinter or two.
I hope my deflection will pass into oblivion like the last echo of a ripple, but he rises from his airchair, lumbers over and stands astride the granite pedestal.
This calculated tactic produces a cold sweat which snapfreezes into thin wafers of ice on my face.
Wot der I der wiv yer? he says, commencing a sort of stompdance around my hands.
Watch it, arsehole! I bark. They're precious to me if not to you!
Merve 'em airt th' way then.
I do as he recommends, but he continues pounding the ground in a fashion now suggestive of searching for a buried footbutton, which is evidently the case, because he stops to lever the gnomon, and a short spurt of water squirts from the spout.
Aah... Ser 'at's hair yer der it! he says with a look approximating glee, and gulps the sparkling globules in mid flight.
He repeats the motion and a long jet streams higher than the first, battling against the squall to describe an indefinite arc which hits me icily in the chest.
That's freezing! I scream. Turn it off!
It 'pears ter be stuck farst.
Then unstick it - fast!
He fiddles madly and ultimately wrenches it clean off, stares at it absently for most of a grim halfminute before even attempting to reattach it, and asks Wy dern't yer just roll erver or sumthin'?
Because I'm frozen brittle as a glacier on an iceberg! I seethe.
To the ogre's credit he grabs my ankles, drags me to his lamp, clumsily adjusts it until it effects a raging industrial furnace, which temporarily allows me to forget my deterioration by illuminating his grotesque features in sharp bassrelief.
Framed by wild steelwool stormclouds and elephant ears flapping in the gale, the topographical survey model of lumpy parched skin, stubbleforest, crevices, craters, red roads and blue rivers, astonishingly realistic, I can almost swear is populated; too high up his dial, beneath an eroded overhang of furrowed forehead, crabapple eyes peek out of deep dark cavesockets; innertube lips set in a perpetual sneer reveal a disused section of bad railway; flaring pigsnout nostrils issue fogrings which combine to form figureights, chainlinks, infinitysymbols and spinning cogs, and for the asynchronous grand finale a pennyfarthing waltzes with a helicopter.
Then there is the matter of his size. This is no ordinary giant I am dealing with, but one that has missed its calling as a piece of military hardware - if a not particularly sophisticated piece.
My only hope will be to ensure the wool over his eyes is glued securely in place.
I recall the leer of superiority he gave when I asked his secret, and of my resultant disappointment. And I continue to recall them until I become so riled I deign to even the score - or better still, win convincingly.
Which I will do as soon as I regain adequate movement.
For the present my options consist of shivering quietly or shivering noisily. I choose the latter.
Oy! I cry. What're you doing?
Rerplacin' th' ah derver...
The diminished flexibility in my neck has also become a major pain in it, but I am sufficiently able to crook it to see him hammer the article home with his fists, stop, blink at me, blink at the gnomon, blink at the pedestal, blink in confused despair, and blink in general.
Could you lend me your gloves? I ask him.
Shore thin', he says, and tosses them to me.
Bloody hell! I bellow. These are the most exceptionally warm examples I've ever had the good fortune to don.
Centrerlly heated, he nods sluggishly.
Indeed they are, and a boon to my recovery. I am soon back on my feet, peering over his shoulder while he studiously considers every angle of placement.
Then it happens: from nowhere I conceive the perfect plan to exact my revenge, and one which should work to my financial advantage as well.
Betcha ten bills ya can't fix it, I say.
Erh ner? Twenny sez I can.
Forty!
Roun' hunnred!
Square thousand!
Cubic million!
A serious stake but the odds are stacked in my favour. Still, his confident upping of the ante to such a preposterous level instils in me a fair share of doubts.
Your cubic million to my original wager, I say.
Gettin' cold feet, is yer?
No. I'm just giving you better than the probability. A hundred thousand million times better in fact.
Erh yair?
He peers with intent at the marble wedge, rotates it that way and this, holds it close and not-so-close, sometimes at armslength, low, high, middling, glowers at it, squints at it, shakes it, squeezes it, strokes its facets for a concealed indentation or protuberance.
Suddenly a heartstopping glint of comprehension in his eye!
In the slowest motion he extends his arm and item, protractedly lowers, in increments guides into position, lets hover for an exasperating eternity of anticipation, and throws me a final triumphant sneer.
Ah hah! he booms.
The glint grows to a glimmer as a crooked grin creeps as a bilious bloodworm across his pugugly mug, and he explodes into a roaring chortle, startling in intensity, gutwrenchingly nauseating in halitosis.
Whaaaaaaa... I faint.
Wot's up? he shakes me back to life, his sewer of a mouth again too near, but this time I don't breathe.
Check this! he releases the article, nudges and wiggles it to ensure stability, and gradually exerts further and further pressure until his entire body is perched upon it.
With a throaty grunt for every grapple, his head glowing purpler than my description of it, he suddenly jumps down, flings his arms into the air, and prances around the pedestal emitting strange little noises. He then clasps his hands together and brings them down with the force of your average fortynine pound sledgehammer.
As if in defiance the stream soars appreciably higher.
Stop, yer barstard! he yells at it, and repeats the action over and over with more and more force and increasingly less success at each stroke.
Once again he throws his hands up and foxtrots around the moondial, but this time, instead of slamming it, falls to his knees and punches and kicks the ground with sufficient power to cause a not inconsequential earthtremor.
I carn't der it! he bawls. Me whole life's a mess an' a waste!
Then you concede defeat? I say.
Waaaauuuuugghhh! he wails.
Cheer up, I say. It isn't that bad.
Yer dern't unnerstand! he cries. I ain't never wun nuthin' in me entire life - nuthin'!
Far from sympathising with him I merely feel contempt. As dog is to God is he to me.
You're admitting you're a complete loser?
Waaaauuuuugghhh!
How'd you like a chance to get double your money back?
Yairs? his ears prick up.
I bet you don't possess the readies to cover your debt.
Waaaauuuuugghhh!
I reach out to jiggle the gnomon, and as expected, the flow ceases.
Hairdyerderthat! he coughs.
Easy, I say. Well I'm off. Endure your life, goob felon.
Holt! Hair der I kner yer's gonna rertern? Yer might abscond on me.
What difference will it make if and when I do?
Yer ain't paid yeur bribe.
Bribe? I yawn. Take it out of the tincans.
But yer sed they wosn't yeurs.
Not now, no, I tell him. I gave them to you.
But I found 'em.
Whatever, I wave to kill the conversation.
Yer ain't bribin' me wiv ner tincans wot's awready me own!
Then take it out of the two cubic million you owe me.
Yer kner I ain't got it, he whines. Evry cent I saved went inter this franchise.
So I gather you have no intention of imbursing me?
Not in the 'mediate fewcher, ner. Not 'less yer wont it in wheezers - up ter nair they's th' ernly bribes I bin able ter get. From nair on I's dermandin' cold hard cash.
Did you say franchise? I ask. Are you saying you have no affiliation with Screed or that mad wizard?
Not a drop. Nor loyalty. Nor rerspect. That's wy I live out here in th' sticks 'way from the glamour an' glitz a Mouldcrank.
What glamour an' glitz he means I cannot imagine.
These cigs, I start. You've tried to sell them?
A corse, he says. But they's goverment issew variety an' nerbody wonts 'em - certainly not since th' trewth in advertisin' bill's bin imposed.
How many are we talking about?
Yer sh'd see me sentrybox - full a Blacklungs an' Badbreaths, Shakyhands an' Sorethroats - by th' busheload!
With names like that you get the idea the parliament's pissing in its own kennel, I agree.
Th' fed'ral cairncil's 'lected by a demercratic majority, an's thusly 'bove suspishun.
And who elects the democratic majority?
Th' fed'ral cairncil - a circliar sitewayshun.
Outrageous!
Th' thin' is, he says, th' thin' is all th' brands taste identicly sim'lar - bloody awful! - though they der result in th' symptums incorperated in th' appellayshuns.
So the legislation is at least heeded by the department of licit drugs? I say. Interesting.
Yairs, an' th' private comp'nies foller th' rools ter. They jus' bend 'em in their faver a bit. Here, have a Ribtickler.
I'd prefer a cigar if you've got one, I say, waving away the proffered packet.
Can der, he says, turning his back secretively and almost immediately producing an article which only vaguely resembles my request.
It's perfectly obvious that that's simply a Ribtickler with the paper cylinder peeled off, I say.
Ah but th' myst'ry lies in hair th' terbaccer rerfewses ter flake.
Something added at the chemical stage?
Nerpe, but I ain't at lib'ty ter disclerse th' merchanics cos they's clersely aligned wiv th' airchair an' werk on th' selfsame similar princerple. Light?
Damn, because it seems an amazing ah... thanks...
Gettin' back ter th' subject a terannercal rool, he says, der yer yeurself have any affilyayshun wiv th' king, or loyalty etcetra?
I consider my answer carefully, for though he has given his opinion of authority it is quite possible that the opposite is the case.
He has my full support, say I.
But wy? He singlehannedly derstroyed th' 'conomy.
I take issue with that. All politicians do it.
Reaching deep into his collar, he pulls out a medallion with a design of seven spheres embedded in a sphere, says Stole Th' Bloodiopeagolsilverub.
Though I don't know what that is, I'm certain it's nothing but mischievous rumour and gossip with no basis in fact.
Ner?
No.
He's d'rectly rerspons'ble for evrythin' an' evrythin's d'rectly his folt.
Wrong. The blame rests squarely on that insane wizard's shoulders.
I say th' man's mis'ry an' corrupchun p'sonified wiv a stinky finger in evry porkpie.
You don't honestly believe that.
I honestly der, he says. He ain't nuthin' more'n a spunj wot sh'da bin 'xpunged yonks ago.
I have it from a reliable source that he is not.
Hoo?
Can't say.
Dern't berlieve yer.
So?
Name him - or is it a bullsturd a a confabulayshun?
Shan't. And it isn't.
Yer made it up, yer lier.
Your taunts won't persuade me to reveal that which I've sworn to secrecy not to disclose.
I'll tell yer hair th' nonseat werks.
Promises are likewise useless, I say.
Rotter.
Cretin.
Either way, is yer venturin' ter his derfenerstrayshun?
So they seriously intend to go through with it? I say. And that's how they intend to go through with it. Which window are they throwing him from?
Th' winder a a Boein' 777.
He raises his gaze to the hazy heavens, giving a brief breath of relief for us both, then lowers his head slowly as if tracing the fall of a plummetting monarch.
Whooaahh! I grimace.
Has it occurred to you to alter the labels on the cartons? I ask to shift the unwholesome topic.
Wot, an' prertend they's lawnmowers or sumsuch?
No, still smokes, but let the punters believe they're a quality brand.
Wot a noshun! he roars. Hairever, wot'd be th' corse a akchun wen th' embertip burns ter th' butt and th' cheeper insignya's luminated under th' golden glow. W'dn't th' jig be up lest we oltered each'n'evry unit?
So that's what we do.
I find folt on th' point a th' clients' tastebuds, he says. Upon discernin' th' flavour ter be unrightfully disgustin' they might dermand their rightful refunds.
Don't give them any.
But w'dn't that constertewt a bad bisness practise?
What! I spit. The entire scheme constitutes a fraudulent scam. Who cares about the morality - or immorality - of it!
Wot I meant wos th' proverbyal dictum that th' happy custermer's a rerternin' custermer, an' that th' custermer's always in th' right.
Firstly there are no such creatures as happy customers - all customers think they're ripped off customers. That is unless they're very dim customers-
They'll be th' target clienterle! Dim custermers!
Exactly, I say. And secondly, if the customers receive refunds then they can't be customers, can they?
Either eggs or chooks...
Correct, I say, again observing the seven rings within a larger ring on his sleeve, reminiscent of his medallion. Incidentally, what does that brassard signify?
Th' ensign a th' Bountyhunters' C'llective, he explains boastfully.
Aaah. So you're actually out for yourself?
Yairp, he draws on his Ribtickler cigar.
You were about to tell me how you do that, I prompt.
This c'd be a good partnership, he winks and prevaricates in a sneakily confidential tone. Wiv th' oustin' a th' king a new age shall 'merge!
The age of shonky enterprises?
Hoh! Hoh!
Of prevalent criminal activity?
Hoh! Hoh! Hoh!
Of wealth and riches and high returns and enormous profit margins and no taxes and large mansions, security guards and big black dogs and alligators, crocodiles and sharks in boundless moats and bottomless snakepits and hairtrigger traps and quicksand and electricfences and blank cheques to politicians and year-round holidays on tropical islands in crystal oceans drinking colourful beverages from straws on sunbaked beaches exclusively adorned with beautiful women?
Hoh! Hoh! Hoh! Hoh!
Can you imagine the lush warm climes and luxurious conditions? No sterile officeblocks for us even when we attain corporate status! And we can retire at thirtyfive!
Fiffyfive.
Yes, fiftyfive in your case, thirtyfive in mine. And you can bid farewell to your ****house of a sentrybox, and say hullo to the golden life!
Mmmm. Wun thin' 'sturbs me though. Wot'f we's cort?
Then we... Then we... We won't be! Only the stupid ones get caught.
I aksept yeur 'shurance, but sumthin' else bothers me.
And that is?
Hoo der yer berlieve'll win th' compertishun?
Which competition?
Wy, th' wun ter serlect a new king a corse.
I don't know, I say. Who's contending?
Th' bloke wiv big ears versus th'uvver bloke wiv big ears.
Tough choice. What're their policies like?
They both a 'em has filfy pol'cies on merst ishers - 'ticul'y crime.
Do they just? I say contemplatively.
Dern't yer watch th' news? he asks as if I should.
The news? I say. Do you know who won the footy?
Nerpe…
Oh, I say. Only the weather on occasion. Sometimes if I'm feeling masochistic the happy snippet afterwards.
Happy snippet?
The article they introduce with a bad pun of the order: Here's a fishy tale! and you soon learn it has nothing to do with fish at all, but rather a school of dolphins-
Ain't seen that wun...
-doing whatever it is dolphins do...
Laughin' at th' 'sembled thron' a corp'lent bodies?
Whatever.
Yer's th' wun wot's tellin' th' story.
Laughing at corpulent bodies then.
Hoh! Hoh! Corp'lent bodies! Hoh! Hoh!
But on bad days the caper's even worse, with a lead-in like: Now for a papery story. Papery, for Chrissake!
Pap'ry?
The word doesn't have a single solitary meaning, so how the Hell-
Dern't it mean like paper?
It may well, but that's beside the point-
Flimsy, an' p'raps fickle? Not ta menshun loose?
Sure, but as I-
I think yer's gettin' carried away.
I think you're right, I agree. How far is this dunny you call home?
He indicates it isn't far at all, says Seven blumstrun's ernly - jus' th' uvver side a th' 'xplodin' mudflats an' th' mountains a human skulls yonder. Yairp - seven blumstrun's or ther'bouts.
How much?
Mmmm, he nods evasively gravely. D'yer s'pose th' happy snippets's there as a breakwater ter permit sumbody like yeurself ter tern th' box orf berfore th' newscasters recapicherlate th' headlines, th' main points again? Not ter menchun th' current affairs shows?
A distinct possibility because that's what I generally do.
We walk for some time with he chattering to himself in a trance inducing drone while I spasmodically grunt, when I become aware of a change of tone: a singsong drone:
I-just-had-a-brainstorm!
Hmmm?
Wy dern't we manufakshur cigars an' sell 'em at a obscene markup - then we'd really rake in th' profits.
You'll have to expose the secret of the invisible chair, I say. If you want me to help you, that is.
Pr'orities, mate, he winks. Pr'orities.
Excellent! I enthuse. We'll need a marketing strategy.
There's a old sign alon' th' ways we c'd paint erver, he suggests, pointing.
We'll need a catchy slogan, something snappy-
Hair 'bout CHEAP WHEEZERS! SEVEN BLUMSTRUN'S ERNLY! An' a arrer!
He holds his hands out to shape the form, manoeuvres them into diagonals for impact, extreme diagonals for extreme impact.
That sounds good, I encourage him. In black and yellow to catch the eye!
Wiv flashin' lights! Neons! Jingles on th' radyo fur folks ter hum!
Brilliant!
I got a battered sammidgebord yer c'd wear!
No, you've got a battered sandwichboard you could wear.
Wiv a rerdund'ncy a exclamashunmarks all erver it!
Under the pretense of a distant sound I conjure that he shut his mouth. Thankfully he obliges.
Do you have any paint? I ask.
Ernly red an' wite, I's 'fraid.
That's no good. The pair make the most unsavoury of all colourschemes, especially when the red fades to anaemic pink. It would serve only to repel the potential patrons.
We c'd use it as a temp'ry meashur, like a undercoat, an' repaint it at a later date.
Where is it?
Right berhind yer, he gestures to a monstrous billboard exactly where described. It must be that yeur powers a obs'vashun's impaired by yeur sunglasses. Er, by th' ways wy's yer wearin' 'em in th' middle a th' night?
Ah snowblindness.
Hmmmm... That can be a diff'culty an' a newsance, an' alser a royalpainintharse by th' same token. But is yer certain that it ain't signblindness at th' heart a yeur afflikshun?
A possible diagnosis that goes a long way to explain why I didn't detect it at such close proximity, but in my personal estimation, highly doubtful.
I brush my sleeve at the film of oily gunge covering the frontface, and read:

PUBLIC TELEPHONE

SEVEN

BLUMSTRUNGS

ONLY

Green and orange, I say. The one thing worse than red and white.
We c'd use sum a th' letters an' th' arrer ter enhance are 'vailable palette.
Or not! That'd be even more obnoxious to the eye.
But th' 'xterior daycor a me sentrybox is in therse exact cullers...
Uh huh, I say. I've got an idea. If I bedaub the words CHEAP WHEEZERS! over PUBLIC - still a temporary measure you must recognise - we could also offer a phone service. You do have one?
I der, but I 'spect th' prevyus erner failed ter pay th' bill.
Great! We'll increase our turnover with a little plan I've just hatched.
Ger on...
It incorporates a couple of empty tincans and a piece of string-
Har! Har! I get th' pitcher! Har! Har! We'll take th' calls areselfs! Har! Har!
But first to vandalise the opposition...
Render it inop'rative, yairs?
Yep, I say. Lead the way.
Ter where?
To the phonebooth.
Well, he starts, it's a curious conundrum - I's tried till I's perple in th' head, but as yet met wiv ner luck in findin' th' oggum's where'bouts.
And you've followed the arrow on the sign?
It points ernly ter me sentrybox.
And how far is that? I ask, peeping over my shades in the direction of the article, an article all but completely obscured by a sprawling mountain of cigarette cartons.
'Bout seven blumstrun's ernly.
And how much did you pay for it?
All a me savin's. Is this gern' anywheres?
It is all I can manage to restrain myself from a giggling fit - the same giggling fit I imagine the previous shyster had when he saw this moron coming.
And how long have you lived there?
'Proximately seven yonks.
On the outskirts of the castle?
Mouldcrank, yairs...
Yet Mouldcrank isn't seven years old?
Wot 'xactly's yer gettin' at? Th' outskirts a bin here fur a lot longer'n th' carstle.
Not as the outskirts though.
Obvyously not, he frowns. Please let me in on-
It's just that your stockpile of ah merchandise, in theory at least, is ah-
It's bin 'cumerlated erver a 'xtensive period, yairs.
It suddenly becomes difficult, nay, impossible to focus my thoughts, to formulate the questions I so desperately need to ask him. And as the fog thickens around us like an enveloping miasma, it seems to permeate every pore, into the core of my being and the nucleus of my mind, sapping the life and blood from my veins, sucking it out like countless proboscistraws, digging deeper and deeper, constricting, tightening, asphyxiating, twisting and wrenching my insides this way, that way, and ways I wasn't aware existed.
But then, as suddenly as it fell, the incapacitating veil lifts, and I hear the atrocious individual ranting at me, entirely oblivious to my condition.
Well! Wot's yeur point! Is yer tryin' ter imply sumthin'! Airt wiv it!
What? I grog, only newly able to swallow. Forget it. It isn't important.
Gimme me gloves back! he barks, ripping them from my hands and holding them selfishly tight to his chest.
As far as I'm concerned this is an act of unconscionable bastardy and one I won't stand for - mainly because my state degenerates so rapidly without them that I am unable to, and promptly drop like a truckload.
Yer wont 'em? he growls nastily. Tell me wot yer's on 'bout an' yer can have 'em back.
I stare at his ghastly visage, and am struck by fear due to an allpervading eidetic deja vu, but much further reaching than typical, a deja vu of a deja vu, as though two mirrors are reflecting on, on, on, infinitely rebounding inside my skull.
I could tell you, I splutter, but I don't think you'd understand. And that, I'm afraid, would only serve to make you angry through frustration, which is the last thing I need right now.
Try me, he grumbles.
It's hard to describe-... Do I look familiar to you?
Nerpe.
You do to me, I gag. This entire situation does.
Nons'nse.
No. Seriously.
Ner. Really? Like yer been here an' dun it all berfore?
Absolutely! You know what I'm saying?
Crap.
Take it or lump it - that's what it is.
Pritty lame cummin' from yer, he says. I'da thort a intell'gent char'cter such's yeurself'd have better thin's gern' threr his mind.
The mind is a complex object.
I thort it wos a figment, sep'rate ta th' solidity a yeur brain.
Separate from the solidity of your brain maybe, I mutter. Hey! You're capable of recognising the duality involved! Wow! I'm almost impressed!
Just wun a th' thin's yer start ter con'mplate wen yer's got 's much time on yeur hands as I has. Like th' micrercosm bein' th' key ter unnerstandin' th' macrercosm, I berlieve th' key ter unnerstandin' th' unerverse is threr 'maginashun. I berlieve this but I dern't necessarily hold it ter be trew.
Then why say it?
'Cause it might be.
I've heard it before somewhere...
Sklitstphogsd maybe? he nods happily.
You've read Sklitstphogsd! I enthuse.
Nerpe, he shakes his head.
Gimme the bloody gloves! I shout.
Shore, shore, he says, returning them, jamming my fingers into all the wrong holes.
Thanks, I jeer.
I climb to my feet and resume walking, trebling my pace in ostensible eagerness to investigate his cubby.
He keeps step with me like a marionette connected by invisible wires to both of my legs.
Would you mind keeping your distance a bit? I say. I feel like I'm being hounded by a lapdog.
That ain't a very nice thin' ter say.
I'm not in a nice mood. I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm tired. And I have, for some reason that is completely unclear to me, agreed to enter into a commercial venture doomed to failure with a product that no-one in their right mind could possibly want with an idiot out of an abandoned phonebox he squandered his life savings on-
Eh? Fonebox? Where?
There! I snap. There! Where do you think!
But that's me sentrybox...
It's a bloody telephone! A dead blindman at moonless midnight with his eyes shut in a dark dungeon on the other side of the world facing the wrong way could see that! It sticks out as unavoidably as a forest of sorethumbs!
I start to run toward it, at least as best I am able in the sludge with a pair of tennisracquets on, pull open the door and throw the cigarette cartons out to create some standing room.
He runs after them, sometimes catching, but most often fumbling and losing the few he'd caught.
Does this mean th' end a are collaberayshun? he asks.
Though I'm plagued with reservations, I say, not necessarily so.
Ner?
Having cleared sufficient floorspace I step in to facilitate my endeavour. But then, beneath the next pile, a scuffmark from a size seven rubbersole - not perhaps a particularly rivetting theme for another deja vu, but this time the mirror effect is turbocharged and in overdrive.
How do I know that they were size sevens? Things are beginning to crystallize when it hits me like a shovel.
His in fact.

[MystyrMystyry]

Double post

[MystyrMystyry]

Upon regaining consciousness I find myself in chains, and not your conventional tinny alloy efforts, either. These are dropforged wroughtiron, solid and very heavy - chromeplated to boot.
What's to be construed by this? I ask of the kicking obnoxion floating overhead.
Wot's ter be constrered by this! he replies, rattling a lifesize wantedposter with a likeness of yours truly plastered on it.
Are you suggesting that that drawing's a representation of me?
I is.
Ridiculous.
'Bserve clersely th' culprit's bovinity.
It bears no resemblance to myself, I say. For one thing I'm taller.
That's's mightbe, but notice it's clothed in not dissim'lar wig, beard, an' a m'starsh a th' arterfishal v'riety.
The hirsute gentleman depicted shares none of the qualities of my appearance. And I take exception to the implication.
That's wivin yeur rights. I c'n read yer th' rest a 'em if yer ser dersires.
No thanks. Where did you acquire the absurd caricature?
From th' courier wot came wilst yer wos derzin'. But he alser derlivered this!
Eh? What's that?
He holds up a badly framed diploma that from a hundred paces any fool could have told was from a mailorder catalogue for bogus degrees. It explains that he had at some or other spurious university completed his course in bountyhunting with flying colours.
And how much money did you waste on that? I need to ask. I emphasise waste.
All a sevenotes, he says, impervious to my retort.
Then you are truly a droob.
Not in th' least. It gives me th' 'bility ter operate in me chersen capac'ty wivairt fear a int'venshun from th' relervant gover'mental 'thorities.
When did they last pay you a friendly visit?
They never. Not frien'ly nor uvverwise. But sum day they may, an' this's me 'nshurance pol'cy 'gainst their hassles.
What of our projected tobacconists?
Yer's already expressed yeur disint'rest, an' I nair kner wot a misderected amalgermayshun it'd a made. Yer mustn't erpen a store wiv a prerven criminal lest they steal th' cashregister an' day's takin's.
I am not a proven criminal! I protest.
Erh ner? he sneers. Wot der yer reckon this is then?
He shakes the poster roughly, making it rumble like thunder.
It's a pieco****.
Will yer cease th' funniosity! he blasts. A ser'ous circumjacence's needed here if we's ter get ter th' root a th' delimma. If yer ain't th' villain featured on th' item, then hoo?
I peek again at the poster, try to think.
You've sketched in that craniofacial hair, and the sunnies also, with a nylontip. And still it is no portrait.
Yairs?
Credit where it's due, I say. With the lights out, from a great distance, a dead blindman-
I's heard this spiel! he snarls. In the absence a a identijigsaw puzzle apperartus I supplermented me artistic talents ter contrive a impreshun.
Why didn't you simply remove my disguise?
A matter a discreshun. There wos a charnce yer wore it ter hide a hidyous disfig'ment ter yeur physyognermy.
You've displayed unusual decency. Could you extend it to the loosening of these demonic bracelets before I contract frostbite in my extremities?
Nerpe, cos yer's gonna der sumthin' devyous like tensin' yeur ankles an' 'rists, an' then slip airt at th' earlyest fav'rable oppertewnerty.
I promise not to.
Sorry.
But I need to tie my shoelaces.
I took th' prercaushun a their conferscayshun.
What for!
Part a th' gen'ral procedyer. Th' manewal recermmends it.
Could you please return them? It is not only distracting but also excruciatingly uncomfortable.
Well... I carn't see wot harm it'd der... But on th' other hand offen th' unfaseen's th' elerment yer wish yer'd prerdicted retrerspect'vely in hindsight arfter th' 'vent but berfore it's occerred, lookin' back on it from parst 'xper'ence...
The cold air is getting in, I say.
Hairever yer must be given ter unnerstand me sitewayshun...
So you won't assist?
On th' contrairy, I will, prervided yer refrain from ferther denial an' confess yeur guilt, an' poss'bly yeur crime, if not yeur 'denterty...
My feet are sliding around inside which is how corns and blisters arise.
An' alser stop manufakshurin' 'scuses!
I nod agreement, lower my head in mockshame.
That's wot I like ter see, he says, pulling the keys from his pocket, briefly dangling them just beyond reach before retracting and loosely tying them to the laces and resuming the dangle. After a minute of this he again retracts, unties, deposits first the laces then the keys in separate of his pockets.
Would you make up your mind! I snarl at this mime variation on the goodcop/badcop routine.
Conversely yer might try ter 'scape...
Why would I want to do that, buddy?
Dunner, he says. Jus' dern't trust yer...
Give me the articles! I scream, growing incensed. Give them to me or... or...
Or wot? he says derisively.
Or I'll dissolve the partnership!
I reckon I c'd live wiv that. Hoo needs yer?
But it was and remains my idea.
Ser? It's my merchandise. Like I sed - hoo needs yer?
But I hold the patent.
Evrybody kners patents get waved wen yer's in th' dungeons.
That's not fair!
Welcum ter th' real werld an' freedom, he sneers with apparent irony.
Freedom?
From Screedom.
Then who issued the warrant?
Good questyun, he scans both sides of the poster for a clue. A very good questyun, but wun I's not obliged ter arnswer.
Surely there's a returning address...
Sh'd be, eh?
My oath, I say, suddenly finding myself wondering what the hell I am saying.
Praps they's gonna send it on? his inflexion rises, and falls.
Am I your first victim by any chance?
Yer may be...
Then that explains it.
Wot does?
You're merely going through the textbook of arsehology.
Yer ain't rerferrin' ter me bountyhunters' manewal?
You said it. Er, what's the reward for the renegade?
'Cordin' ter this yer ain't werth nuthin'.
Me! Not me! I'm not the individual under consideration!
Ter late. Yer's awready confessed.
What! When!
I inferred it in yeur attertude prior ta th' deal.
That was prior to your renegging on the deal!
Sh'd'na made wun if that's yeur attertude.
I was, if you'll pardon the expression, roped into it.
Wy sh'd I pardon it?
Because, dickhead, you-... these-... ah stuff it; a dungeon's probably warmer and more accomodating than you'll ever be able to comprehend.
Not me problem ter have ter comprerhend.
Not yet, no, I realise that.
Eh?
I am getting nowhere with him, but then something unplanned rejuvenates my flagging spirit. I will have to suffer this humiliating indignity no more!
Quick, you repugnant sack of **** without the sack! Unlock the shackles! My back itches in a place I can't get to with these tinkling diabolicals on!
Be nice…
I apologise about the sack. Hurry!
'Pology 'cepted, he says. Yer's in luck - I wos a prerfesh'nal backscratcher in wun a me prevyous vocayshuns.
Good. Release me so I can prove my innocence.
An' wot's in it fur me?
You get to scratch my back in return.
Sairnds fair, he contemptuously throws me the keys - strange considering whom is being contemptuous of whom.
Thanks, I smirk.
But I sh'd worn yer - I's a bit out a practise.
I try to fathom his meaning but come only to a dizzy conclusion.
What are you talking about? I ask him. What are you actually out of practise of exactly?
Backscratchin', he nods.
Aaaahh, I sigh. Actual backscratching.
Natchurly akchual. Wot else?
I don't reply, just hastily undo the cuffs, massage my wrists and ankles, and pull him down by the leg.
The complicated mechanisms that had held him suspended, aforeto invisible, inadvertantly crash around our ears.
I climb out from the mess of wires, pulleys, wynches and shattered mirrors, demand my laces, which are offered feebly, step back to contemplate the destruction.
So that's what it is, I say. How does it work?
Ahh! he smugs. It makes complete sense ter therse in th' field, but th' thin' is hair yer make unnoticeableness. That's th' real pumpkin!
Interesting. Is it difficult to learn?
'Ticuly ser. Long yonks a late nights's rerquired an' still th' results carn't be guaranteed. But wunce marstered it's like fallin' orf yeur bicycle.
In what regard?
Yer never f'get hair ter, it herts, an' yer find yeurself dern' it irrerspective a whevver yer wont ter or not.
It sounds very useful indeed, but I recognise how it could be a nuisance at times.
Yer ain't 'rong.
I never am.
Wot? Shorely sum a th' time? Evryb'dy's 'rong on occazhun.
Except me.
I dern't berlieve it.
I don't care.
Yer pos'tive certain?
As certain as three threes are-
I kner 'at wun! Thirtythree!
Uh huh. Well, I've got to be going if I'm going to get where I'm going.
Ter where? I might need ter contact yer.
It's no concern of yours and I'd prefer it if you didn't.
Wot 'bout yeur predawn barbercue?
Too late for that now. You've delayed me until the day is nearly upon us. And I have many things to do.
Wen'll yer rertern? 'Sarfternoon? Termorrer?
Not at all. Not the day after. Not the day after that.
Nex' week? he blinks. Hey! Wot 'bout yeur dog?
Not next month, not next year. What dog?
The dog yer wos walkin' wot ran away...
I don't recollect any dog. You invented it to trick me.
Yer told me yer wos lookin' fur yeur dog.
I haven't got a dog. I have never had a dog. I will never have a dog. I detest dogs. The last item on my agenda is to look for a dog.
C'n I cum wiv yer? he asks, grasping my shoulder.
No way! I want nothing more to do with you!
Wy's 'at?
Because you make me sick! Now release your slimy paw and leave me to my devices.
Hold it! he rumbles, removing his hand but drawing his sword and brandishing it at me, causing me to step back and fall into the cartons.
What is it you want my good man? I attempt to humour the psychopath.
Yer kner wot I dern't unnerstand?
What?
Oranges.
Oranges?
Yairs. Nerb'dy ever tells yer if th' name cums from th' culler, or conversely. If th' latter's th' case, wy ain't carrots called oranges?
That's a curious and challenging thought, I say. Like whether diseases are named after the doctors who discover them or the patients who contract them.
Like I got a itchy rash on me bum wot won't go away?
Tell me about it..
Eh? he shakes his head in confusion. Ner, that ain't wot-
I check my watch, say Is that the time! I'll be late for my appointment! Have a peasant day, fiend!
Hold it!
Yes?
Yer ain't told me hoo yer is.
That's presumably due to the blow your spade inflicted to my head - but not necessarily. As a consequence I think I am now suffering partially selective amnesia.
Ter bad.
Yes it is.
Yer w'dn't be Fred Bloggs by any charnce?
Couldn't tell you.
Hmmm...
Also I have one black helluvan incipient migraine.
Merst unforchernate.
I guess that rather than displaying any genuine concern he is merely going through the formal motions of sympathy as best he is able, but I am not about to lose any sleep over it.
This eclipse a yeur brain - wot does it mean yer carn't rermember?
In theory it means that I'm unable to recall who I am, but also that I'm unable to recall that I'm unable to recall it.
'Dyer like another whack on yeur noggin ter rerstore yeur mem'ry?
No. That would only escalate the throbbing which is already pounding like a blacksmith at an anvil. What now?
I didn't say nuthin', he says.
I was just getting ready.

[MystyrMystyry]

Erh, he muses. Hold it! 'Dyer mind puttin' yeur autergrarph ter this?
And what might that be?
A confeshun slip, he says, waving the tattered yellowed sheet aloft, snorting and grunting, and pulls me out of the heap by my lapels.
I snatch it from his hand, find it to be covered in illegible scribble, and the more I look the worse it becomes. It resembles at first Arabic; then futhorc; knitting instructions; heiroglyphics; rows of elongated barcodes; an orchestral score; randomly set forme; crayon rubbings; animal tracks.
It's an indecipherable arsewipe, I tell him. I won't endorse anything the language of which I'm unfamiliar with.
Without warning he thrusts his steel sabre into my navel.
Ouch! I yelp.
Tern it upsidairn! he scowls accusingly, as if my ignorance is an act.
Inverting the page only to find myself in more trouble than before, I squint at the symbols and squiggles of horizontal Japanese; thin strips of walnut veneer; organ keyboards; the dots and dashes of morsecode; hypothetical algebraic equations with diagrams and graphs.
I couldn't read this garbled galimatious garbage if my life depended on it, I say courageously.
At this the dipstick prods thrice, snatches it back from me, and begins to give a recitation - or rather an insufferable muffled muttering - that bears no relationship to what is written; not that I know what is, but his eyes dart up, down, across, in spirals, zigzags, all manner of complex geometrical shapes, and from there deteriorate into absolute chaos.
Is yer follerin' it? he says suddenly.
I neither heard nor understood a word you said, and I'm not signing the absurd nonsense.
Wot it sez is a not ser much importance as wot it intends ter say. Jus' mark it wiv yeur X ser we can get on wiv are lifes.
I refuse to put my signature to anything of such dire vagueness, I say, snatch the paper back, promptly rip it to shreds, and with panache sprinkle the resulting snowflakes over his head. I am getting on with my life right this instant, I add. With the farce you pass as your own you can do what you want.
The ponce's responses are to raise the blade to my nose, frown intensely, grumble, visibly start to shake, turn brightest purple yet, drop to his knees, and with his freehand scrape together the myriad fragments of the tangram and attempt to reconstruct the document, crying through streaming tears Yer sh'dna orta dun that!
Done what?
Quick! Fetch th' stickytape!
Stickytape?
Yairs! This's th' ernly copy I got!
You should've had it xeroxed.
Well I didn't! Stickytape!
Where is it?
Inside! Hangin' on th' nail! Yer carn't miss it!
I walk into the booth, locate the commodity, yell Got it! and wonder why I am assisting him.
It's ner use! he wails. I carn't der it! Wait a minute - Yairs I cairn!
I toss the tape to him, seize the opportunity to take my leave, but he takes the opportunity to seize my sleeve.
Hold it! Hold it right there!
With one deft movement he transfers from his sword seven bits of sticky along my leg. I realise that this is no ordinary talent I am dealing with, but a highly skilled artiste the like of which you simply don't see anymore, and am I jealous!
But it is no time to admire his swordsmanship - he is armed and I am not - so for now I have still to play his stupid game.
I demand that you unclasp your hand and remove the stickybits, I say.
Wot!
Please.
He emits a long low growl, then scrapes a single piece off and places it on the reassembled, nay, mishmashed, mix'n'match.
Shouldn't that corner be up there? I suggest. Nearer the centre?
Erh, yairs, he says, takes another slice and presses it down.
And doesn't that part there form some of the side?
Erh, yairs, and peels off another.
And what of that section - wouldn't it be better placed over here?
Erh, yairs...
I instruct him until it is completed, unfurl his fingers, bid him farewell.
Hold it! he says at last. Wot a this!
He holds a quite sizeable spare chunk for my witness.
There's always a doohicky left over when you repair something, I say. That must be the one in this case.
But it's huge - bigger'n a relertive cobble in th' street.
Read the finished product and see if it differs from the original, I tell him. It could only be more coherent.
He begins, slowly at first, but is soon in the swing of a verbose frenzy. The many consonants seem in proportion to the many vowels, though the meaning is still anyone's guess. Again his eyes dance, but this time independently of each other.
It doesn't bear analysis, I say.
Yairs, he gutturally utters. It makes more sense nair. Not as erpen ter misinterpretayshun.
Anything to help a pill. What language is it?
Th' 'ticuly prercise language a th' dreaded Shucker Mantlies.
And what language was it in before?
The 'ticuly imprecise language a th' equally dreaded Maltadorian Diteldiers - hang on - that's wot I is...
It is like no language I have ever heard and I have heard them all. How am I expected to understand it?
Yer's not 'xpected ter - ernly ter sign it.
And if I do you'll allow me to be on my way at last? No further Halts! Hang ons! or Hold its!?
Unc'ndishunly.
With my gluggy biro I scratch an X, but contrive it to look like a Y.
He glares at it, raises the razorsharp edge of his weapon to my throat.
A Z, he says. Very 'musin' fur a traiter.
What's this crap! I bark. You promised to stop hassling me!
I lied. Nair I got wot I wonted, yer's unner 'rest.
On what charge!
Many trumped up wuns.
You can shove them up your arse!
He leers at me, launches into an alliterative litany: ludicrous allegations of illegalities intertwine with intimidations of imprisonment, interspersed with atonal abuse and punctuated by a hiccupping fit.
He draws a final shallow breath and resumes: Yeur impendin' punishment might be lessened, even postponed indef'nitely, if ernly yer'd name yeur source. Hic!
You're back on that, eh? I say. Well, I like Tabasco, am quite partial to Worcestershire-
Wot 'bout good ol' Red'n'runny? Hic!
Nope.
Excerllent on ratpies. Hic!
There you go.
Hair 'bout H.P.? Derlishus on chips. Hic!
Too many ingredients, I say. I've got a mint sauce of my own invention, which is both tasty and a boon for headaches, stress, and ah hiccups.
Hiccups? Yer gotta gimme th' recerpee. Hic!
Certainly. Take three tablespoons of fermented mint and put it aside-
Wait a sec! Let me 'rite it dairn! Hic!
He searches his person for a pen and paper, but comes up emptyhanded.
Er, yer ain't got ah..? he charades. Hic!
I lend him my biro, point to the leftover scrap in his hand, continue:
Take two parts of gin, half a part of tonic water, add a slice of lime, bitters if you've got any handy, and an oodle of carrot juice-
Wot's a oodle? Hic!
I don't know. And you stir it with a little umbrella.
'Cept fur th' carrot juice it sounds like a dry martini heh heh. Hic!
Heh heh.
An' wot der yer der wiv th' mint? Hic!
Contemplate it.
Cont'mplate it? Hic!
Uh huh. While you're sipping it under the shady fronds of a palmtree.
Parmtree? he doubleblinks. Wy, yer... Hic!
He recommences prodding the tip of his sword into my stomach, causing me to again fall into the cartons and scramble out.
You should do something about your temper, I tell him. It is, in accord with your personality, a thorough bore.
He embarks on a tidalwave tirade, a reboant babbling obloquy accompanied by a storm of spittle hailstones.
Hey! I interject. Your hiccups!
Me hiccups? Wot 'bout 'em?
They're gone! I must've gotten rid of them!
Hey yer's right!
As always. I've fixed them for you!
I carn't berlieve it! Wun minute Hic! an' th' next - ner Hic!
I cured your hiccups!
There I wos, hiccuppin' away, an' then there I wos, not hiccuppin' away!
All part of my unique system. I get you really angry, and then in a fingersnap, they vanish.
'Mazin'. Yoozh'ly wen I contract 'em they larst fur hours. I wonder hair I dispelled 'em.
Forget it, I say. Just forget it.
F'get wot? Wot'd yer say? Tell me!
Could you please forget stabbing me in my bellybutton!
Ner, it wosn't that. It wos sumthin' else... 'bout a cure...
Oh - my as yet to be copyrighted remedy for hiccups? What of it?
We's in a prime posishun ter make lots a munny. Threrout th' ages that wicked 'flikchun's bin th' cataclasis a health-
You know my position on partnerships-
-strikin' fear at th' very menshun a its name-
Did you hear me?
-an' it's th' signal a th' dryin' up a th' lifepool-
Shutup!
Hoo der yer think yer is ter tell me ter shutup! I's th' captor, yer's merely th' captee. Shutup yeurself shutup!
Listen. You can sell an oral cure, but not a wordomouth one.
Wot's th' diff'rence?
One is taken, the other is given.
Then sell th' suckers a bottle a tapwater. Wen they realise it dern't werk, they's gonna get really pissed orf, an' evrybody's gonna be dancin'.
Wouldn't it defeat the purpose? You need to consider the cost of the bottles.
I'll use th' nonrefundable kind from 'nother comp'ny.
But aren't they expensive collectors items these days?
Cos a th' 'viromental awareness currently in vogue?
Yep. And then there's the cost of the waterbills which can be quite high.
Erh, yairs...
Don't forget the lawsuits from irate clients.
But I w'd a cured 'em...
I was referring to the diseases contracted from contaminants in the polluted watersupply.
Yer's right again.
Of course. So I recommend you flush any notions of making a quick handful, because you're a big useless dullard.
Wot's yer insinuatin'! Rermember hoo's in command here! Yer ain't 'xactly Xmas yeurself, yer knair!
I was but stating a fact. Even you must recognise the qualities - or lack thereof - in your personality-
This is evidently the straw that flattened the camel's hump and got up his nose, for he once more commences the all too familiar routine of jabbing, jibing and gibbering. I am pleased to note that his hiccups have returned.
This time there is nothing for it but to run inside and get his blunderbuss.
I see th' other glove's on th' other foot, he says. Hic!
That makes no sense, not in any context.
Th' other shoe's on th' other hand? Hic?
Nor that.
Does an unlerded gun? Hic!
You don't mean this one?
Th' same, an' alser it's got a folty trigger mechanism wot results in misfires, backfires, an' nofires. An' alser upfires, downfires, an' sidef-
I lunge bodily at the blithering carbuncle. An abrupt eruption of uppercuts cuts him short, shuts him up, and sends him reeling.
He corrects his balance and comes at me squawking like a mad magpie with smoke billowing from his ears, catches me in the midst of unprepared surprise, and tackles me hard to the ground.
Hoisting up his great bulk he starts kicking me around the sentrybox, but I am too well insulated to feel any pain.
I grab one of the offending legs and sink my teeth into his neverwashed sock as if it is my last meal. This causes the rebarbative bastard to hop dangerously about in agony clutching the wound and shouting profanities.
I swing the butt of the blunderbuss at him until I am finally able to plant it in his nether regions, whence, stunned, he falls to his knees as I rise to mine.
In the ensuing scuffle I manage to relieve him of his sword, and with one sharp hack manage to relieve him of his head.
That'll teach you to detain me and retard my departure, you dingo's donger, you reptilian rapscallion, you turd of a toad, you slimy snailslug, you, you-...
Can you, my friends, conceive of the confused fright/delight I feel at the sight of these rich jugular fountainstreams soaring high into the sky, splattering and shattering upon impact with the sludge?
Perhaps you can, but are you able to comprehend the condition of my kidneys as said severed head spins like a top on its axis, stops, shrieks Hold it!
What now? I ask with nervous but controlled aplomb.
Look wot yer's dun!
You brought it on yourself.
Maybe yairs, but not ter this extreme, shorely? I mean yer chopped me orf!
Would you have preferred to have been lanced?
If that's gonna be the level a wit I might's well not talk ter yer, it snarls. Anyways th' real ishew here's that yer dern't appear ter be at all p'terbed by th' prezence a a supranatch'ral entity.
I yawn.
I dern't berlieve it - yer musta gotten a scare!
Not in the least.
It reacts by baring its teeth, emitting a piercing squeal, spinning freneticly, and jumping up in the air.
That musta given yer th' shakes ter sum dergree!
No, I lie, vibrating across the sludge like an insecure washingmachine.
Then take this! it screeches, and makes a feeble whiny noise.
You do realise you're being a complete arsehole, don't you? I say. I mean you must.
Yairs, but is I any good at it?
As arseholes go you're certainly among the most practised I've ever encountered.
Gee, thanks, it says. Admit derfeat!
Never.
The bonce bounces, pounces, and bounds after me, to the mists rising from the ravine which I find spanned by an immense bridge - a rotting wooden construction reminiscent of a gigantic grasshopper locked in mortal combat with an equivalently gigantic mantis, and seems to have been set alight in its recent history.
I stumble over the warped, creaking, rare planks until the very last, which splinters beneath the combined strain of myself and rucksack, whence I drop to the steep slope and literally snowball down. As for the expected alluvial alleviation - the damned river is frozen over!
Like a demented bowlingball I vacillate up and down the sides of the gorge, skittling a snowman but not the ninepins - projections of rocky outcrops at the waterfall end - which instead skittle me.
Airborn above the vapour, rolling along the rainbows, hours seem to pass before the swirling maelstrom finally comes up to greet me - and greet me it does: the hard casing I'd acquired cracks like an egg, and I circle round, round, helpless as a newly hatched chick in the same predicament.
I philosophically view it as the new beginning I've for so long so desperately sought.
That is, I view it thus only until I am sucked down the whirlpool's gurgler.


I can't move and all is black, or I think all is black, or at least I dream all is black, because I come around and all is still black, or all is black again. And now I come out of that blackness into further blackness - and do so again and again and again.
Whole black days are spent coming around out of this still, silent, dread blackness, at the end of which I fall asleep into - what?
It is unto falling asleep and the next second waking, without - and I mean not at all - sleeping. Nor dreaming - unless it is but one long tedious dream.
Do I dream I am awake? Or do dream and wake alternate? Perhaps I am dreaming that I am dreaming. Throughout this ordeal I am certainly conscious that I am conscious.
Whatever it is, the thrill of opening my eyes to at last experience pure artificial light is more than mere words can describe.

[hillwalker]

I'm gobsmacked at the efforts you have gone to here - but it's all too much to take in.

H

[bortleman]

I agree, it hurts my eyes to glance at this.