The revolving spotlight hisses the sting of a serpent over their heads. To die. To lie on a proper bed. For an hour or so. To the devil a soul to sell, for an umbrella, a magic beanstalk, no reasonable offer refused.
How heavenly to sink your lips into the juicy rump of a dead bird!
A blue Screw crosses the yard.
The bone.
Over the edge.
Not in range.
Shame.
‘Very soon I should expect.’
Waiting.
Waiting on a friend.
Waiting for a chopper.
To pick you up.
The filth of London hazes into a fuzzy line.
Tumbledown factories chim-chimminy and churn their chumbly fumy breaths.
Pigeons parading the pots of London houses.
Tosa-the-Man-Molehill drops a lost soul into a cosmic Slough of Despondency.
Without mercy the Lard’s black clouds piss buckets on their scalps.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Oh to see England in glorious high summer! The hedgerows and buttercups. The smell of grass. Or strolling down Lower Springwood High Street. Something that normal common people do every day of their Lives.
Your pockets bulging.
The butcher’s. The baker’s. The fried-chicken-maker’s.
‘Good morning, Missus Brown. And how are you?’
‘Mamma’s much better, thank you.’
Home is a land that dips sausages in its milk and honey.
And big red juicy strawberries.
‘Any minute now …’
Waiting.
‘… I should expect.’
Waiting for God-only-knows.
***
‘I’m alive! Oh thank God I’m alive!’
As the cruel rays of the sun inflict flecks of burnt amber on the flying drops of poison, as the blood-lips of the mad Doctor move down his limp carcass with the salivating passion of a vulture, as the floorboards crack somewhere overhead, as the straps tighten, he knows he is about to die. Or worse. Made the victim of a vomitous experiment.
Archie never was one for needles <—> And this one looking very long <—> And very very sharp <—> ‘Oh please don't do that,’ he whimpers between gulps of hot musk. ‘I’ll give you anything ... Money ... Power ...’
‘Oh but you zee,’ laughs the mad Doctor and shaking her white floozie head, knuckles tightening the strap <—> ‘I must. Your soup-peer-rears insist.’
‘Oh God!’
‘Und all you need to know, my honey, iz ...’ she huskily murmurs, hot breath moist with passion and power, ‘... I have hat-tended ze lectures on ze post-Nine-Eleven-interview-tech-nick.’
‘You bitch.’
‘I ham serving ze in-junc-tion.’ <—>
The rasping prick of cold flesh <—> haaaiiiyiii! <—> really does hurt <—> and he succumbs.
To soft waves of a pomegranate sensation.
To drowning in a tub.
Of cold Southern Comfort.
***
Here is the six o’clock news from the Stalinist People’s Republic of the BBC.
El Presidenté Tony Bliar, wanted dead or alive at the Hague International Courts of Justice for high crimes against the permatan, has decreed that as part of the Mad Axis Forces’ festival to celebrate the finding of Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq he is to be made a Fellow of the Woolsack and a Johnny of the Garter. Drilling home a three-hour acceptance speech last night at the annual bash of the Fascist Lecturers’ Association, of which his wife is the patron saint, he bollocked the bastards who lurk amongst us — Big Knobs from the BBC — for their miserable preoccupation with the End of the World weather and the efficient running of government.
Outlook for London: Grim in the North, Grim in the South.
London’s most exclusive party crackles like warm liquid crystal. Like a Dickens’ big log. Like a sing-a-long Christmas. But without your relatives round.
The dance company of dickies chirp and bop their tail-feathers to Huff and Herb’s Feeling Good.
A feathery fanfare to serenade a Game of Springwood Fives.
Louder they chirp to the offloading of the frozen Nazi down the rubbish chute.
To defrost in the skip outside naturally.
The telescreen is mended and hard men await their favourite evening chat-show.
The telephone-umbilical-cord (devil’s instrument) to the Governor’s office ruptured for good.
We uncover the droopy-eyed Professor reasonably compost-mentis today. Dribbling not so bad. Eyes rotate less than the norm. General Chopper disturbing the Professor from his prescribed sleep of eight hours a day (and ten hours at night) with the happy news of the Professor’s democratic election to chair a madcap meeting of party minds down on the Ones.
General Chopper pulls the plonker of the bell to summon the faces. And to the well-drilled pupils of the General, every face is a naughty boy, must sit cross-legged, must raise a hand to speak, or risk a roasting from Chopper’s new toy <—> a propane torch. Medium rare.
And suitably robed at the head of class in mauve smoking jacket and Viking horned hat, the Professor speaks as one whose bird is done, but is happy to party, to pitch battle with the Riot Squad, or to burn down the Block if they like.
The Kray Twins miss the milk of their muvver down the olde Bull & Bush, the verdant pastures of the East End, and vote for the preservation of old-fashioned values.
J G Ballard, doing a ten-stretch for car crimes, claims the way forward is revolution, or failing this, any kind of violence will suffice.
Dale Winton, runner of a supermarket and numbers racket, desiring unity with men.
Arnie Schwitzer-Nadgers calling everyone a commie pinko-girlie.
Jimmy ‘Milky Tray’ Broil wanting to be ghosted north and missing the fresh air and sunshine of the Gorbals.
Bright Spark Electrodes Eddie with a cunning plan to wire the Great Gate to the kitchen generator, so that when the Block opens its arms to the gentle social-work of the Screws, the Ones will burn with the grilling of their extending bully-sticks (and other bits).
Harry the Hamster cowering in the corner.
Hans Blix crying he can’t find the toilet.
Harry Andrews a turn up for the book — and if any of you toilets so much as mention my name, your lives will not be worth a yellow dog.
Community chefs call for a herbal contribution to season the pot with that something extra.
Hard men vote with their feet. The Tower of Babel against the Great Gate — a confusion of chairs, tables, beds, the Professor kindly donating his unread books — falls at High Noon tomorrow. The washing-up done and put away. Those left on board will wait for the gentle social-work of the jack-booted Jerry Men to tickle the wooden cosh <—> A jointing of legs and ribs and backs and heads <—>
<—> A breakfast fit for Beelzebub <—>
All invited to a Last Supper.
An Exercise in Democracy for Her Majesty to be proud of.
***