Razor-wire slashing the Man-Mountain’s jeans to blue ribbons <—> furrows run deep along arms and legs <—> Big red blobs filling the paddling pool of stormwater collecting fast the flat section of roof <—>
Damn.
If only they’d thought of plasters, gloves, something to eat, devil’s black log — oh easy peasy pudding and pie, kick a liberal and make him cry.
Soggy bums plopped on the kitchen skylight ledge, underpants filling with stormwater, Tosa-the-Man-Mountain and Goebbels feast their mince-pies on the paradise of heavenly warmth down in the galley of the good ship Springwood.
And coiling from a kitchen coalition of black boxes, BT’s Flaming June spits like a serpent to torment the frattered senses.
Rocking balls of rainwater roll with the beam of the spotlight and dancing fleas dizzy a death.
Drip-drip, kick-splosh, huddled and downbeat, ribboned jeans ballooned and sodden, Ribbentrop emerges from the barrage of beating rainballs. ‘Hess wants to know herr ... when your bruvver’s gunner be here.’
All the Man-Mountain done for them and this is the thanks they throw back. ‘Have I ever let you down? He’ll be here when the rain dies down I should expect. To throw them off the scent.’
Shrug of abandoned hope, about-turn Ribbentrop, kick-splosh, words lost in the storm, standing guard far right corner of roof.
Goebbels swipes a blooded nose, snuffling, ‘Are you sure your bruvvers will be able to land their choppers in this water? Must be ooof … nine inches deep. Getting worse.’
‘If I say they can land, they can land. This is down to Knees. He got us into this mess. We should’ve snatched bundles of hostages and blasted our way out like I said. But would he listen to me? Would he fuck.’ Tosa-the-Mad-Fighting-Sheep peers over the lip of the ledge into a land of plenty, stomach erupting. The delicacies of the world spread for his personal delectation. The temptations of the mind a stone’s throw from the body. Gladly a soul to sell for a scrap of bread. Birds swoop low and peck at their heads <—> The kingdom of Mary Poppins to perish with the chim-chimminies and slated tops of London houses for half a sixpence. Blood-sirens wail the arterial road. Mercy mercy me. Things ain’t what they used to be. ‘Mark my words. I’m gunner kill Knees if it’s the last thing I do. He’s done this deliberately.’
Uranium rain spearing the skin like infected needles <—>
‘Damn!’ cusses the Man-Mountain miserably.
*****