Montgomery Manlove McGoogs died in the early hours of this morning in a random and bizarrely incongruous collision with a runaway milk float.
www.guardian.co.uk.
Later in the day Radio 4 ran an obituary for Slasher McGoogs. It was brief and short on hard detail. He had no traceable early life, arriving in the East End with a preformed reputation for dodgy dealing and a shadowy, ephemeral persona.
The KGB, it transpired, believed him to be a double agent who had been turned by British Intelligence.
MI5 reluctantly admitted to his indeed being a double agent, but suspected his allegiance to lie with the KGB.
The CIA thought he was a minor film actor with Mafia connections who had died of a drugs overdose in the late 1960’s.
Various East End Underworld snouts reported that he was definitely in the employ of Special Branch.
Whilst a police file, withheld despite the Freedom of Information Act, but obtained through Wikileaks, listed him as a criminal mastermind.
"And now he's dead."
"Hmm, very conveniently... with no witnesses to the accident and his body identified by two white cats with thick Occitan accents. Perhaps we'll keep looking for a bit."
"But if the BBC..." Phoebles was by nature a little too trusting.
Phoebles, Boz and Ferdy met in the Town of Ramsgate to prepare for yet another nocturnal vigil, sipping milk-pale green fairies and surrounded by society’s jetsam. At closing time they purchased a large bottle of ginger-beer, emerged onto the cobbled street and melted into the shadows. Soon they were alone and as the night wore on the ever resourceful Ferdy took out his pack of sandwiches and thermos flask of Earl Grey. There had been the gentle slap as tide mounted the worn stone stairs and, now, the splash and trickle of the waters receding. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon from the spice warehouses nearby, the sky was starless and overcast, there were distant rumbles of thunder. With dawn approaching and the gloom around beginning to lift, a thin mist crept in from the river. Twice during the night they had heard the gentle knock and creak of rowlocks, the drip of oars, but no-one had landed.
"And now he's dead."
"Hmm, very conveniently... with no witnesses to the accident and his body identified by two white cats with thick Occitan accents. Perhaps we'll keep looking for a bit."
"But if the BBC..." Phoebles was by nature a little too trusting.
Phoebles, Boz and Ferdy met in the Town of Ramsgate to prepare for yet another nocturnal vigil, sipping milk-pale green fairies and surrounded by society’s jetsam. At closing time they purchased a large bottle of ginger-beer, emerged onto the cobbled street and melted into the shadows. Soon they were alone and as the night wore on the ever resourceful Ferdy took out his pack of sandwiches and thermos flask of Earl Grey. There had been the gentle slap as tide mounted the worn stone stairs and, now, the splash and trickle of the waters receding. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon from the spice warehouses nearby, the sky was starless and overcast, there were distant rumbles of thunder. With dawn approaching and the gloom around beginning to lift, a thin mist crept in from the river. Twice during the night they had heard the gentle knock and creak of rowlocks, the drip of oars, but no-one had landed.
Phoebles knocked back the last of the ginger-beer. "Home then... again?"
Boz was just considering the possibility that he might have been wrong about Slasher's survival and wondering if this was the time to admit it to the others when a rope ladder landed in their midst.
"If you could pop up here for a moment, please, Mr Boz. You will be able to rejoin your companions later."
They looked up and, hovering above them, saw a small, cigar shaped, bronze coloured airship; the canopy was banded with aluminium straps, it had a single broad-bladed propeller and a compact gondola from which dangled the precarious ladder. In the open hatchway stood an impossibly tall, slender tortoise-shell in bottle green chauffeur's uniform. She had huge dark eyes, possibly made up to enhance them even further.
"Please... It will be alright."
"I'll see you back at the pad." said Boz, beginning to climb. Dangly pilot ladders are not the easiest things to negotiate for anyone but the most practiced of pilots and Boz didn't really do climbing. However the dirigible had descended as low as it dare and eventually, somewhat puffed, he was allowing himself to be helped aboard by the torti chauffeur. The cabin was fitted out in midnight blue velvet plush edged in gold cording, a large chandelier hung from the deck-head, a panel door with brass fittings led through to the bridge.
"Good morning, so at last I get to meet the famous Mr Boz." A tabby cat wearing a red white and blue rosette sat in a deep tub chair holding a large brandy glass, "I'm sorry, do sit down" he indicated towards a similar, but vacant seat. "I am Larry from Number 10."
Boz sat.
"Barrymore, see to a drink for Mr Boz, would you." The airship had ascended, turned west-nor'westward and was flying above the City.
"Is she driving AND waitressing? Is that safe?"
"Let's not worry about Barrymore, very competent young lady. Let's talk about you. You're still looking for the recently deceased Mr McGoogs." It was not a question and Larry did not seem to be expecting any form of answer. "You appear to suspect that Mr McGoogs is some sort of secret force for good, with a plan. He is not. He is a despicable profiteer and we are better off with him dead."
Boz was feeling very uncomfortable. The cabin was warm, he had not slept, the brandy gently burned in his stomach and this cat was terrifyingly confident. "How do you know all this? Did you have him killed?"
"People tell me things, Mr Boz. And I don't kill... as a rule.
"We are on our way to make a hospital visit. There's something I want you to see. Do agree to come along."
They were crossing above the seeming random tangle of railway lines into Euston Station and soon began a descent into a tight courtyard outside the entrance to an apparently abandoned hospital. Larry took Boz by the arm and led him into the building whilst Barrymore tethered the craft, above the entrance decorative brickwork spelled out 'London Temperance Hospital'. The entrance hall was deserted, fallen plaster littered the marble floor, but along a corridor things began to bustle. Nurses came out of doors striding efficiently in starched pinafores and black stockings, hurried past or plunged through other portals. There was businesslike chatter.
Larry opened a door and encouraged Boz into a long Nightingale ward with two rows of identical, cream, iron beds. On the edge of almost every bed sat, motionless, a cat in striped winsiette pyjamas; most stared vacantly beyond their inner space into the vacuum of eternity, some shook. In the centre of one bed was a bulge under the bedclothes which twitched uncontrolably. Another cat stood to attention at the bottom of his bed. Larry ushered Boz towards him, but they were waylaid by a ward sister. Boz could not take his eyes off her chest, where she had pinned a wonderful little upside down watch.
"Best leave him. He will settle eventually."
Larry turned to Boz, "These are all here because of your Mr McGoogs. All they needed to help them cope with the stresses of catlife was a little catnip at the right moment, something to layback the troubled soul, hush the cacophony. And what did they get? Krapola. Honestly, that's what it sells as, Krapola Katnip, and it's rubbish. It's force grown under artificial lights in vast sheds in Milton Keynes, it's thin and weedy with virtually no psychedelic properties, and it's not even cheap He's flooded supermarkets and pet shop chains with the stuff and it affords no relief. All these cats needed was a little break from reality and McGoogs denied it to them - for profit."
The nurse kissed Boz lightly on the forehead, "The monster is dead, and good riddance. Go home and forget about him."
"Please... It will be alright."
"I'll see you back at the pad." said Boz, beginning to climb. Dangly pilot ladders are not the easiest things to negotiate for anyone but the most practiced of pilots and Boz didn't really do climbing. However the dirigible had descended as low as it dare and eventually, somewhat puffed, he was allowing himself to be helped aboard by the torti chauffeur. The cabin was fitted out in midnight blue velvet plush edged in gold cording, a large chandelier hung from the deck-head, a panel door with brass fittings led through to the bridge.
"Good morning, so at last I get to meet the famous Mr Boz." A tabby cat wearing a red white and blue rosette sat in a deep tub chair holding a large brandy glass, "I'm sorry, do sit down" he indicated towards a similar, but vacant seat. "I am Larry from Number 10."
Boz sat.
"Barrymore, see to a drink for Mr Boz, would you." The airship had ascended, turned west-nor'westward and was flying above the City.
"Is she driving AND waitressing? Is that safe?"
"Let's not worry about Barrymore, very competent young lady. Let's talk about you. You're still looking for the recently deceased Mr McGoogs." It was not a question and Larry did not seem to be expecting any form of answer. "You appear to suspect that Mr McGoogs is some sort of secret force for good, with a plan. He is not. He is a despicable profiteer and we are better off with him dead."
Boz was feeling very uncomfortable. The cabin was warm, he had not slept, the brandy gently burned in his stomach and this cat was terrifyingly confident. "How do you know all this? Did you have him killed?"
"People tell me things, Mr Boz. And I don't kill... as a rule.
"We are on our way to make a hospital visit. There's something I want you to see. Do agree to come along."
They were crossing above the seeming random tangle of railway lines into Euston Station and soon began a descent into a tight courtyard outside the entrance to an apparently abandoned hospital. Larry took Boz by the arm and led him into the building whilst Barrymore tethered the craft, above the entrance decorative brickwork spelled out 'London Temperance Hospital'. The entrance hall was deserted, fallen plaster littered the marble floor, but along a corridor things began to bustle. Nurses came out of doors striding efficiently in starched pinafores and black stockings, hurried past or plunged through other portals. There was businesslike chatter.
Larry opened a door and encouraged Boz into a long Nightingale ward with two rows of identical, cream, iron beds. On the edge of almost every bed sat, motionless, a cat in striped winsiette pyjamas; most stared vacantly beyond their inner space into the vacuum of eternity, some shook. In the centre of one bed was a bulge under the bedclothes which twitched uncontrolably. Another cat stood to attention at the bottom of his bed. Larry ushered Boz towards him, but they were waylaid by a ward sister. Boz could not take his eyes off her chest, where she had pinned a wonderful little upside down watch.
"Best leave him. He will settle eventually."
Larry turned to Boz, "These are all here because of your Mr McGoogs. All they needed to help them cope with the stresses of catlife was a little catnip at the right moment, something to layback the troubled soul, hush the cacophony. And what did they get? Krapola. Honestly, that's what it sells as, Krapola Katnip, and it's rubbish. It's force grown under artificial lights in vast sheds in Milton Keynes, it's thin and weedy with virtually no psychedelic properties, and it's not even cheap He's flooded supermarkets and pet shop chains with the stuff and it affords no relief. All these cats needed was a little break from reality and McGoogs denied it to them - for profit."
The nurse kissed Boz lightly on the forehead, "The monster is dead, and good riddance. Go home and forget about him."
"A LITTERATE IRON
No comments:
Post a Comment