We are a specialist soup restaurant.”
“So no girls, then?” he persists.
“As I said, Sir, we don’t service perverts.”
“But I’m not a pervert,” he protests.
“Sir, your current demeanour suggests that you are.”
“But I’m not,” he says indignantly.
“That’s as maybe, Sir,” she growls, “but we don’t serve drunken arsewits either. Now, may I suggest you take your sorry organ out of here and find a place more suited to your needs. I believe the Tommy Tank Palace has a two for one offer for the over-fifties.”
Bactrian is flustered, frantic. His time on Earth is ticking away.
“Please,” he implores, “I don’t have much time! I’m going to die!”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Therese sneers, “I've been through three wars and four husbands. Listen to me: the only fluid exchanged here is soup. Have you got that? Can your little mind contain the thought?”
“Pleeeaase! I’m going to die!” he whines. “Very soon! And I’m so lonely! And it’s such a simple request! A single issue! It’s such a small thing!”
“I’ll bet!” she answers.
“All I want is a little light relief before the reaper calls to collect me. Is it such a big thing? I have funds; plenty of funds!” And he pulls out a substantial wad of God-fearing taxpayer’s money as supporting evidence.
Therese assesses the bundle. A businesswoman, born and bred, she studies the empty restaurant, sighs and snatches the cash.
“You’ll do me…sorry, it? It’s the smart move all round!” says Bactrian brightly.
Therese shakes her head with a condescending smile. She reaches behind the till for a well-thumbed mail order catalogue .
“Take this,” she says sternly. “The storeroom’s through there. Don’t leave a mess. Don’t make any noise. If either I or my customers get even the slightest indication of what you are doing in there, I will call the police. You got that?”
Bactrian nods as graciously as a man about to entertain himself with a catalogue can and bolts through the door, leaving Therese with the impression she’s seen him somewhere before.
The storeroom’s a cosy, pine-planked rectangle, littered with tomato crates and debris from recent renovation. He finds space beneath a long shelf and builds himself a nest of cardboard boxes, enjoying the illicit thrill. Safely ensconced, he locates the firm-control underwear section and sets to work.
It‘s a difficult business and I’ll spare you the exact details. Suffice to say, the concretion numbs sensation and it takes great effort. His elbow slams hard against the wall at regular intervals. The loose planking vibrates and the objects upon the shelf judder closer and closer toward the edge. There’s a clock on the shelf, a monumentally distasteful ornamented lump of heavy mahogany, embellished with crudely carved flowers and varnished, apparently, with hardened treacle. Perched ignominiously upon its top stands the cast metal figure of Justice, trademark sword and scales in hand, fortunately blindfolded to Bactrian’s flagrant self-gratification (Hardly the best advert for human sensuality there’s ever been). As he pounds himself closer to a satisfactory conclusion, Justice draws closer to the edge of the shelf. And, as he reaches his crescendo, she arrives at thin air, plummeting in swift rotations toward the Prime Minister’s skull. She hits hard and heavy; lethally. And Bactrian is dead.
Time flies when you’re having fun.
Chapter Two
The Many And Varied Uses Of The Human Head
The street’s dark, save for the flicker of candles behind broken windowpanes and the dim glow of The Broth Hole’s kerosene lamps. Shadowy buildings crumble in the background. A gas grenade arcs noiselessly through the cold night air and clatters against the cobbles, spewing thick, choking mist. Shadowy people crumple to the pavement. Malmot's operatives, black-clad and wearing respirators, sweep the alleys for witnesses. Pistol
“So no girls, then?” he persists.
“As I said, Sir, we don’t service perverts.”
“But I’m not a pervert,” he protests.
“Sir, your current demeanour suggests that you are.”
“But I’m not,” he says indignantly.
“That’s as maybe, Sir,” she growls, “but we don’t serve drunken arsewits either. Now, may I suggest you take your sorry organ out of here and find a place more suited to your needs. I believe the Tommy Tank Palace has a two for one offer for the over-fifties.”
Bactrian is flustered, frantic. His time on Earth is ticking away.
“Please,” he implores, “I don’t have much time! I’m going to die!”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Therese sneers, “I've been through three wars and four husbands. Listen to me: the only fluid exchanged here is soup. Have you got that? Can your little mind contain the thought?”
“Pleeeaase! I’m going to die!” he whines. “Very soon! And I’m so lonely! And it’s such a simple request! A single issue! It’s such a small thing!”
“I’ll bet!” she answers.
“All I want is a little light relief before the reaper calls to collect me. Is it such a big thing? I have funds; plenty of funds!” And he pulls out a substantial wad of God-fearing taxpayer’s money as supporting evidence.
Therese assesses the bundle. A businesswoman, born and bred, she studies the empty restaurant, sighs and snatches the cash.
“You’ll do me…sorry, it? It’s the smart move all round!” says Bactrian brightly.
Therese shakes her head with a condescending smile. She reaches behind the till for a well-thumbed mail order catalogue .
“Take this,” she says sternly. “The storeroom’s through there. Don’t leave a mess. Don’t make any noise. If either I or my customers get even the slightest indication of what you are doing in there, I will call the police. You got that?”
Bactrian nods as graciously as a man about to entertain himself with a catalogue can and bolts through the door, leaving Therese with the impression she’s seen him somewhere before.
The storeroom’s a cosy, pine-planked rectangle, littered with tomato crates and debris from recent renovation. He finds space beneath a long shelf and builds himself a nest of cardboard boxes, enjoying the illicit thrill. Safely ensconced, he locates the firm-control underwear section and sets to work.
It‘s a difficult business and I’ll spare you the exact details. Suffice to say, the concretion numbs sensation and it takes great effort. His elbow slams hard against the wall at regular intervals. The loose planking vibrates and the objects upon the shelf judder closer and closer toward the edge. There’s a clock on the shelf, a monumentally distasteful ornamented lump of heavy mahogany, embellished with crudely carved flowers and varnished, apparently, with hardened treacle. Perched ignominiously upon its top stands the cast metal figure of Justice, trademark sword and scales in hand, fortunately blindfolded to Bactrian’s flagrant self-gratification (Hardly the best advert for human sensuality there’s ever been). As he pounds himself closer to a satisfactory conclusion, Justice draws closer to the edge of the shelf. And, as he reaches his crescendo, she arrives at thin air, plummeting in swift rotations toward the Prime Minister’s skull. She hits hard and heavy; lethally. And Bactrian is dead.
Time flies when you’re having fun.
Chapter Two
The Many And Varied Uses Of The Human Head
The street’s dark, save for the flicker of candles behind broken windowpanes and the dim glow of The Broth Hole’s kerosene lamps. Shadowy buildings crumble in the background. A gas grenade arcs noiselessly through the cold night air and clatters against the cobbles, spewing thick, choking mist. Shadowy people crumple to the pavement. Malmot's operatives, black-clad and wearing respirators, sweep the alleys for witnesses. Pistol
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