I heard, in person, face to face, unequivocally (didn’t think I knew that one, did you?) first hand, that there are two gentlemen who actually read this junk. I mean ‘these literary expositions’. So that they do not lose their respective jobs for their rank bad taste in reading these literary triumphs, they will be forthwith referred to in code as ‘Dave and Marc’. Ooops.
So here is blog of your very own, kind sirs. It’s actually a short story about Dick Big and Barney the Stoat, private dicks. When I get tired of writing this blog bollox, I turn my attentions to……writing some more bollox! What else?
The Dick Big Detective Agency.
For best effect, recite through a mouthful of gravel, preferably in a down-market bar. If the venue is misjudged, the recitation may be improvised through a mouthful of loose teeth.
Dick Big was suspicious. That was o.k. It was Dick’s job be suspicious. And to talk in short sentences.
Sometimes. Very short. Sentences. (Breathe here.)
Barney was his sidekick; but he was starting to show the bruises. Dick would have to kick him with the plimsoll.
It all started on a usual, short sentence. Day. But Dick knew that something big was up. Not enough roughage. Barney scratched a match along the hatch, and catched; sorry, ‘caught’; a cheroot with the side of his mouth. That was side that had a lot of blisters. He needed the practise.
“O.k. Barney, this our big break. We get the lowdown on this trip and we’re fixed-up floosied for good.” Dick didn’t know what any of this meant, but it sounded helluva good. He was going to have to look up ‘helluva good’ in Roget’s Tyrannosaurus.
The dry, dead, sylvan carpet sounded loud as a erm, stoat, in the still night mist of the forest, leaves of the twisted birch rustling their rhythmic salsa underfoot, and the owls owling their percussive pizza. Otherwise all was quiet. Except for the M63 in the background; delicately humming its low harmony; its irritating drone; its intolerable blood-curdling roar, driving the innocent to maim and kill and murder and COMMIT HORRIBLE CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY………
Other than that it was quiet. Too quiet. It must have been because Dick Francis said so somewhere. So did everybody else for that matter.
Dick Big had a clue. It was the first one. He was, generally, clueless. As they walked together towards the ancient chapel, the flicker of a bloodied candle stabbed the forest through a cracked finger-nail. They dived into the ditch at either side of the forest trail as the hooded figure in flowing shawl slunk from the ancient chapel of devil-worshipping hamsters, and writers who put far too many words in a sentence and should be dismally ashamed of themselves; casting hunted glances, the ceremonial axe at its back dripping ceremonial blood, that whipped up in a petulant wind like a erm, stoat. The sleek furry creature followed closely and silently; and moving swift and deadly leapt at the back of the fleeing figure in black, ripping at the cowl like a, erm, stoat. (“Have I done that one already?” “Yes. To death, actually”) There was the sudden wail of a screaming banshee through the catacombs of death. Or Waitrose car park at 2.00 am. The difference is a subtle one.
“I’ve broke my fuckin’ ankle”. It was Barney. He had. It was bad. They were back to short sentences again. Dick was supportive;
“With all those bruises I’m surprised you noticed a broken ankle.” Fortunately for Barney, Dick was no good at first aid. He sympathetically levelled things up by breaking his other ankle.
“That should hold it, till we can get help.” He looked up. Quickly. Very quickly. In fact. The stoat was expanding in a very unstoat-like fashion, standing over the prone figure of the skeleton monk and hacking indiscriminately with the bloodied ceremonial axe.
This was Dick Big’s big chance. He threw his plimsoll in the air.
“O.k. Barney. If the shoe hits the ground, you go take the monster out. If it doesn’t, I go. Fair’s fair.” The shoe floated around at head height. Barney turned around. Dick had gone. Back to short sentences.
“You bastard.” Barney slipped in this short sentence of his own. But Barney was made of stern stuff. He had a well-stuffed stern. Drawing himself up to his full height, he dusted off the dead leaves and stared into the alien’s kneecap.
“Growl!” it said using the first exclamation mark in the whole piece. The axe sang through the night and hacked Barney’s head off.
“Barney!” shouted Dick, extravagantly wasting another exclamation mark. “It wasn’t ‘heads you lose’.
“Growl” said the blood-sucking vampire alien from planet zgrvtrblblet.
“Growl” said the M63.
“There’s only room for one blood-sucking alien in this piece and I’m it, buster” said the blood-sucking alien from planet zgrvtrblblet (which we will, for convenience sake, call Brian), running onto the M63 in a rage and no safety first procedure and was squashed flat by a Virgin; er…Virgin Express, having taken a wrong turn at the Maidenhead junction. And now back to short sentences.
Dick Big was benighted. Barney had a head transplant from a stoat. Everybody lived happy ever after. Except Brian who was dead.
Nearly The End.
Well, there we are. The literary firmament has hit a new low. But only because it hasn’t yet read the continuing saga of Dick Big and Barney the Stoat.
Tea time. And I hope Dave and Marc imbibe also. It might improve the after taste.