The Nobody Show

By Jonathan Dunne

The Nobody Show is an accident waiting to happen...

Old Castle (population 666 ... 665 ... 664) is a town ravaged by unemployment. The magic is gone and the economy is in the gutter, but newest dole statistic, Arthur Lawless, has a dream...

Arthur wants to chase down his childhood dream to build his own circus. He makes it his mission to put on The Greatest Show on Earth - Old Castle's slice of Earth, at least...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Dunne
• Release date: Dec 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781393222927

Jonathan Dunne

Admittedly, Jonathan has done things arseways most of his life, from completing a BA in Literature in his thirties to fitting teeth brackets (30's, porcelain). During this general confusion, Jonathan has had various short stories published. Jonathan suffers from photophobia though has a tendency towards fireworks. Originally from Limerick, Ireland, he now lives the reclusive life in Toledo, Spain, as a bearded hermit, with his wife and three daughters. He is known to be found in the local cemetery at the weekend during daylight hours, though for goodness sake, don’t sneak up on him.  

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE NOBODY SHOW

First edition. December 19, 2014.

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Dunne.

ISBN: 978-1393222927

Written by Jonathan Dunne.

The Nobody Show

A Novel

By

Jonathan Dunne

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Dunne.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this work may be stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Table of Contents

Arthur Lawless

B.

The Russian Dolls

Pete Rosenstock

Salvador Chincetti

Chef Connors

Getaway Joan

Domino Don

Pete’s Unicorn...

Angel’s Tits

The Perverted Rat

Three Princesses and an Old Queen

Blind Man’s Buff

Drawer of Forgotten Memories

Marvin’s Driving Lesson

Mouse Talk

Blind Leading the Blind

Chink in the Chain

The Accident waiting to Happen

M.I.A ATM

X Marks the Spot

A&E

Confession

An Offer

Training Ground

From the Mouths of Delinquents

‘The Mayor’

The Shop

An Angel called Slawter (Part 1)

An Angel called Slawter (Part 2)

Turning Point

Big-Top Lawless!

Monkey Business

Practice

Matters of the Heart

Blow-Top Lawless!

Monkey on my Back

Performing Monkeys

The Doddering Ophtamologist

The Ring Master

No Hope...

Monkey Say, Monkey Do (A Failed Intervention)

Not my Circus, not my Monkeys

Show Time!

Epilogue

Not my Circus, not my Monkeys... Polish Proverb

Dedication

To the circus animals of this world.

To my wife, Ruth, who lets me hide in the attic to write.

This is a work of fiction. Some locations exist while others don’t. Actual locations that do exist have been altered by the author for the purposes of fiction and not to be construed as anything other than fiction. Any similarities that exist between locations, locales of any description real or fictional including their time-frames and happenings, are purely coincidental as are any similarities that exist between persons, dead or alive, including the living-dead.

Part 1

The First Accident Waiting to Happen...

Arthur Lawless

‘LAWLESS, WOULD YOU care to translate what Mr. Perez has just said? Lawless?’

It was January and Arthur Lawless was sitting at a meeting-room table somewhere in Dublin’s city centre with a spit stuck up his ass – Mutton-Head Monty Quirke had warned him about slouching: "Slouching’s for sapiens, baboon..." Whatever that meant... Are humans not sapiens?

(An interesting and ironic aside in that Arthur would find himself in close proximity – Big Brother proximity – with a ‘sapien’ in just days from now...)

Just like the meeting, the table where he sat seemed to go on forever in front of him. The table in question was polished to a fine mirror finish and Arthur occasionally caught a glimpse of himself in the mahogany hardwood, or was it walnut, or was it who-gives-a-fuck-wood, really? The real issue here is not the fuck-wood table but that he’s looking at his fuck-wit reflection in this fuck-wood table on Saturday afternoon when he should be at home with his pregnant wife and two little girls. Fuck-wit. He’d fallen out of love with Dublin and his position as translator at Machlo Inc. He’d give his left testicle (and the right one if needs be) to get back to basics and feel part of the community again in his home-town of Old Castle (population 666...665...). Granted, the town was riddled with unemployment and the resulting delinquency, day-time telly, and alcoholism, but at least he’d be part of that eclectic mix. Yes, it was true. Arthur reckoned he’d step down to this low level of desperation if he could just find some non-descriptive work down in Old Castle. After all, it was only the job that kept him here, lonely in the capital. He would settle for a hefty pay-cut just to see his family again without having to look at his watch.

What a fake, Arthur reflected on his reflection in the fuck-wood table. What a phoney...

‘Lawless, wake up, man...!’ Mutton-Head Monty threatened but Arthur’s mind had wandered off again for the umpteenth time this week. It wasn’t the first time that Arthur had come up with this conclusion of being a fake when he caught a sneak-peek of himself in his suit, tie, and gel-slick coiffure. He may as well have been wearing the same damn lobster outfit he had once worn in a long-forgotten but unforgettable stint as a lobster on Dublin’s O’Connell Street. He was a permanently high lobster, though his pincers did play havoc with his smoking experience but, oh boy, did he build up a smoking-room clam-bait inside that suit. Funny, but Arthur felt that he had more dignity in that lobster suit than in this business suit. But it has to be said that Arthur hadn’t randomly dressed up in the lobster outfit. He had been the lucky candidate to advertise a new seafood restaurant. The restaurant was the first owned by Young Chef of the Year 1998, Chef Connors. Her first name had never sounded important enough so her father and manager had it legally changed to ‘Chef’.

(Another ironic fact was that Arthur was just days away from meeting his old boss, Chef Connors, but under very different circumstances.)

We’ve got to mention the couple of bull-frogs in the stuffy meeting-room today; perhaps not bull-frogs exactly but certainly of a cold-blooded nature. One was sat either side of Arthur; bloated, grunting, and gurgling business terms in Spanish and English and Arthur was acting as intermediary, sitting on the island of Water-Lily. One of them, if not both warty amphibians was screaming out for a quadruple by-pass (and make it private please, cos this cold heart won’t make it on the public service). One of these toads was Arthur’s boss, ‘Mutton-Head’ Monty, and the other was a business-man from Madrid who could be Mutton-Head’s Spanish-speaking obese stunt-double. But thanks to all of this, Arthur’s got a job and a job is a glint of gold on the murky pond floor that is the economy in which we stand. Looks like that Spanish language degree had come in useful after all. Arthur counted himself lucky in a stagnant economy, but relaying other people’s words left him with the mildest fear that some freak, somewhere tomorrow, is going to invent a gadget that spontaneously, and more importantly, correctly, translates every word, expression if it hasn’t already been invented. Worse still, Arthur wakes up one morning spouting other peoples’ lines and seems to have forgotten how to speak for himself.

It’s not surprising then that Arthur Lawless had become disillusioned with his position as translator at Machlo Incorporated and gave about as much of a shit about his job as a lobster would. It hadn’t always been like this though; he enjoyed his job from time to time – his days off (a perk of the job). This job had taken Arthur’s soul and the very essence that made him a Lawless in every sense of the word. There was nothing that he wouldn’t give to be back in his home-town of Old Castle right now, in some steady though dead-end job, without a care in the world and being part of a community again. That was something he longed for, though he never thought he would want to be part of a community when he took this position twelve years ago, twelve...long...years. He was turning forty and reckoned that his pining to feel part of his old home-town was partly manifesting as his mid-life crisis. If only Arthur knew that this was just the beginning; the real mid-life crisis was just around the corner and sometimes it takes many forms, but the form you will see, Reader, is not the usual mid-life crisis sports-car deal.

Saying that, most of his old chums down the country in Old Castle (population 664...663) are watching day-time T.V. ‘round about now; poor fucker-nobodies with outdated eyebrow piercings and Chinese-symbol tattoos behind their collective ear, sitting in studios telling the world about their pathetic lives for money – hard cash for hard love. But the biggest losers are always the audience who watch. The audience... For some reason, Arthur found himself seriously thinking about that audience of nobodies and where their lives had gone wrong. Surely that audience deserved something better? Surely the audience deserved some real entertainment? And guess what? Old Castle probably had the biggest audience because the world had left it behind and the world doesn’t look back. Sure, it comes around again to meet itself but that takes a while...

Arthur stared at the pale doughy cheeks and capitalist bullfrog flabby necks spilling out over their expensive drab collars. The overlapping fat repulsed him; they’re just a couple of dressed-up Jabbah the Hutts. As he translated from Spanish to English and back again, Arthur figured that these two could be dead or alive; sitting here with a couple of pudgy, off-green, business toad-corpses propped up at this fine who-gives-a-fuck-wood table translating ghost-words.

‘Lawless, how ‘bout shufflin’ in here for the next dance, please? This guy keeps steppin’ on my feet.’ Mutton-Head Monty spoke faster than usual from the corner of his mouth so he wouldn’t be understood by his Spanish counterpart.

Arthur, briefly, came back to the table. ‘Huh?’ ‘Huh’ is his own word and not part of the script. All he’d heard was Lawless and he detested how Mutton-Head called him by his surname. Arthur sometimes envied his medieval forefathers who obviously had been lawless and the name had stuck. If his forefathers were here right now, they’d splay him out on this who-gives-a-fuck-wood table and make burger-meat for their hounds for being so...so nobody. His distant cousins were lawless but he bet they had principles and pride and knew who they were. They had a sense of place and were respected.

‘Translate the fucking words...’ Mutton-Head spoke through a rictus expression and accordingly nods a curt smile to the Spanish businessman who’s none-the-wiser. ‘Your head’s up your ass lately, Lawless. It must stink to high heaven, sweet Jesus above.’ Frozen smile on Jesus. ‘You do realize the importance of this little get-together? This deal decides if your family has turkey or chicken wings next Christmas.’ Mutton-Head repeated his instructions and Arthur translated accordingly.

Two minutes back into somebody else’s conversation, his mind wandered off again, this time to Raquel and the two girls back at home in Old Castle, Limerick...and the baby on the way. Now, that was a surprise. His wife, Raquel, had broken the news to him during the summer and wasn’t that a shock to the system, especially Raquel’s. Arthur still didn’t know how Raquel had gotten pregnant; the logistics, yes, but they had taken all the necessary precautions, even keeping a fire-extinguisher under the bed. It wasn’t part of the plan. They had had their lives mapped out for them. Still, Arthur liked the idea of being a dad again. Raquel, however, had been trying to convince herself that she was happy about the situation: she had a bun in the oven, but Raquel was just an oven. She had confessed to Arthur, through dribble and tears, that she thought she’d put babies to bed, so to speak. She wanted to concentrate on her teaching career and had proudly worked up the toned physique of a 23 yr-old by dancing to the Zumba DVD every night. Raquel was in better shape than ever and Arthur could attest to that. He missed that body, but how can you say no to another bundle of you, right? Only now, with weeks to go, Raquel had warmed up to the idea of being an oven. Now, she saw it as being extremely lucky because she had several friends who had been trying to get pregnant to the point of it becoming a hassle to find the time to come together in the unholy process of copulation. She had friends who had gone all holistic on her, climbing to the tops of mountains to make love behind a boulder...drinking aphrodisiacal ox-tail soup...speaking to love-gurus in California...and the weirdest of all: making love in baby’s cots which involves buying the actual cot, never having had use for one previously, so a vicious circle begins where the adults, in a desperate bid to get pregnant, become babies again, hmm.

Arthur pondered what his little girls were up to right now? Were they thinking of him? He doubted it but that meant they were busy and that was good. Was eight-yr-old Maria still talking about that new boy at school with freckles and glasses? Her own private version of maths class was counting his freckles while he gazed into her green eyes through his coke-bottle specs. Cute, for now. Arthur thought of the little golden bejewelled peacock with a real peacock feather back at the house, in his little office, sitting on the picture frame of a forest landscape Maria had drawn when she was five years-old. He had decided to keep the peacock for himself because it had sentimental value; it was Maria’s first stolen object...and last, hopefully, because Arthur made it very clear to her that she would have to use her own initiative the next time she thought about putting a peacock in her pocket. He asked her why she had stolen the peacock and her response was: ‘I was asleep inside but I was awake outside...’  Brilliant. Full marks for ingenuity. Every kid steals something at some point and Arthur was no different – he got chucked out of Hickey’s supermarket in the square in Old Castle for stealing a giant-size Mars Bar; he wasn’t going to risk it for a normal Mars.

And then there was little three-year-old Colette, obsessing over her new leather hand-me-down boots; such a beautiful and peculiar child, refusing to eat McDonald’s burgers and fries but opting for their salad menu with extra dressing instead. Arthur would give anything now to hop on the next train and thunder back down to Old Castle to see his girls and...

‘Lawless...’

...swallow them in a hug and grab a bar of chocolate or packet of crisps from the ‘sweet cupboard’ (where they weren’t supposed to go) and duck into the pantry and pull the curtain behind them and sit down to scoff the lot in their safe little world that nobody knew about. If only Arthur could live in the pantry, behind the curtain, and occasionally hand out the milk from the fridge, but instead, he was licking salty cold bull-frog ass...

He sighed and spewed out somebody else’s words as was his role but this time Arthur only translated half the truth...

Why?

He would never really know, but this time, Arthur Lawless put his own spin on things (he’d later blame his lawless cousin outlaws)...and spoke, as always, on behalf of his boss, though not necessarily in the same word-order...

Wait, what’s happening? He’d just been in the pantry with his girls and now the Spanish bull-frog’s jaw had just dropped two feet onto the fuck-wood table.

So he is alive! Arthur briefly thought in this eye-in-the-storm; first sign of life in the board-room all morning, all year. But what had caused this burst of splendid colour?

The bulbous Spanish bull-frog exploded in a litany of hardcore Spanish raucous croaks.

Mutton-Head went from green to red, screeching us all to a halt... ‘What the fuck did you say, Lawless?!’ Jowls angry-red and aquiver, Mutton-Head boomed, ‘What the hell did you say??’ He wasn’t speaking from the corner of his mouth anymore. Then, as consequences sank in, ‘What the hell did I say?!’ realizing that Arthur had apparently translated what he’d just said.

Arthur drew a blank while the Spaniard continued with his colourful language for Machlo Inc’s benefit which, fortunately, only Arthur understood, flinching with each F-word.

‘What did you say, you idiot?!’

Arthur was lost for words...Maybe he is forgetting how to speak for himself, after all...

‘Lawless!!!!’

Reluctantly, Arthur repeated what he had relayed to the Spaniard: ‘We, [um,] should kill the owner by offering him a hostile lump...’

Mutton-Head closed his eyes momentarily to contain himself and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sorry,’ apologised Arthur, feeling pathetic for apologising but no regrets for twisting Mutton-Head’s words. ‘I just wandered off for a moment. Can we take a break?’

‘Oh, we can take a break, Lawless. How does an infinite break grab you? My words were, and I quote, We’ll make a killing by offering the owner a lump-sum and make a hostile take-over...

Mutton-Head called time on the meeting and apologised profusely. ‘Lawless, a moment...’ Mutton-Head grunted to get to his feet and led Arthur from the board-room, closing the door behind them, leaving the fuming Spaniard at the fuck-wood table. In the hallway, Mutton-Head paused before speaking as if making sure he was doing the right thing. He spoke softly into Arthur’s ear so the secretary could only half-hear and spread the word.

Arthur thought that offering an excuse at this point would probably be a good idea. ‘Sorry, my mind wandered off... My wife’s about to have a baby...’

‘Congratulations, Lawless, but this is business, not pleasure.’ He paused and drew a breath. ‘You’ve lost your passion, Lawless – in the workplace, at least. There’s been one too many slip-ups lately and I cannot be seen as an amateur. You’re a liability...’

‘No, but I...’

‘You’ll get your pay up till Friday and I’ll throw in enough holiday pay for a weekend for you and your family at Mosney Holiday Centre. But as of,’ checking his pocket-watch, ‘11.34am, you’re regrettably fired.’

It was the most surreal moment that Arthur had lived, more so than speaking to people as a lobster on O’Connell Street, being there all alone in that never-ending, alien hallway that he walked every day, to and from his office. He was a kid again and had just been thrown out of class for talking. He remembered how strange and unfamiliar that school hallway was when he shouldn’t have been there. It was as if the hall itself was unhappy with his behaviour and was frowning at him. He’d never been so lonesome in all his life and wanted the world to swallow him down and regurgitate him into the pantry. And he’d lost his passion... whatever that meant. Did he have a passion to start with? He still wasn’t sure if he had re-invented Mutton-Head’s words out of spite or if it had been a genuine mistake where he’d only picked up on the sound-bytes of Mutton-Head’s proposal and jumbled them up. But he was sure of one thing; there was no negotiating with Mutton-Head Monty – he only negotiated at the fuck-wood table.

Mournfully, Arthur collected his things from his desk (BIC pen), didn’t bother saying good-bye, and left. He only had time for one work colleague, Salvador Chincetti, and he had left months ago to do what he did best: cocktailing, in every sense of the word.

ARTHUR GOT ON THE DUBLIN-Limerick train at Connolly Station. He had never been on a return train so early in the day and it felt just like his childhood hallway-syndrome. He decided to have a slap-up meal of dry biscuits and a polystyrene cup of polystyrene coffee from the trolley – a last meal for a grave man who was now officially on work-death-row; that’s how much he dreaded telling Raquel the bad news, and now, with a baby on the way... As he sat there, gawping out at the zooming green and wet countryside, he thought about how he would break the news to his wife. He’d get straight home and spew it all out, that’d probably best.

So, what was he going to do now? They say one should be careful for what one wishes for and didn’t this pertain to Arthur’s case? Just a few minutes ago he had been in the board-room wishing that he could live his life in Old Castle. But now, with the cold light coming through his train-carriage window, Arthur admitted that there was nothing in Old Castle (662...661...662 as of now) for him, except his family; a dead-grey ghost-town full of zombies watching day-time telly and most of those are unemployed friends and friends of on-the-dole friends...and that’s not counting the few wasters who don’t want to work. For some reason, Arthur thought about his old childhood neighbour, Willy Moone, who had done his own thing and had taken to the roads of Europe with a beautiful Romani gypsy, by all accounts. He had never known Willy because they were almost a generation-gap apart, but his eloping had been the talk of the town for years and still came up in conversation in cosy pub corners. There was even a book written about it, Living Dead Lovers, which he’d probably have time to read now, unfortunately. Tragic how Willy Moone’s daughter had taken her own life, but she spoke with the dead so she must’ve known what she was missing out on so she had that going for her...

‘More power to you, Willy Moone,’ said Arthur, toasting thin air and gulping down cold coffee dregs.

Now that Arthur thought about it, hadn’t there been another book called Balloon Animals written by another native of Old Castle, Jonny Rowe? He was another individual who had decided to break the shackles of Old Castle and do things his way. A major publisher had offered to publish Jonny’s diary which detailed his extraordinary trip from Ireland to the USA with his grandfather’s ashes in a birthday balloon, no less. Jonny was offered a six-figure sum and a feature film was adapted from the diary. Funnily enough, Jonny Rowe no longer lives in Old Castle, but his wastrel of a father is still knocking about as Ronald McDonald in McDonald’s, only now he’s an illegal clown because McDonald’s don’t seem to do the clown thing anymore. Funny where Desperation Street can lead us...

This was another book that Arthur now had time for. He wondered if there ever would be a book written about him. Not at the rate he was going, he figured.

Arthur seriously began to regret ever mentioning killing some anonymous business-owner by offering him something as simple as a lump. But the irony is that lumps do kill and Arthur knew that only too well after watching his beautiful, dignified mother waste away for two years before finally succumbing to the mother of all body-snatchers – cancer. She was taken in her prime and Arthur would probably go to her now and ask her for advice before speaking to his wife. Arthur’s father wasn’t exactly an understanding man and was best left to his woodwork.

BEFORE ARTHUR LAWLESS realized it, his train was squealing to a stop at Colbert Station, Limerick City. He felt the flutter of panic; he just couldn’t face Raquel, not yet. He needed advice and there was only one person he knew who happened to be living in the city that had lived most of what life had to throw.

Arthur Lawless had a dream; he just didn’t know it yet.

B.

‘ANCONA; ANDALUSIAN; Appenzell Bearded; Araucana; Aseel; Australorp; Bandara; Baheij; Brahma; Barnevelder; Buckeye; Buttercup; Campine; Catalana; Chantecler; Cochin; Cornish; Crevecoeur; Cubalaya; Delaware; Dominique; Dorking; Dutch Mantam; Faverolle; Chicken Licken...’

Just as Arthur Lawless was being told that his passion was gone, 21 year-old Bobby ‘Buckeye’ Beasley or simply B., had just turned blue while listing the planet’s poultry in one fowl breath. Smoking his father’s Major cigarettes didn’t work anymore and now he had turned to alphabetically reaming off every chicken breed under the sun he could think of just to cool down and get some perspective on this dire cash-cow/mother-cow situation because his mother was his cash-cow but being more of a cow about it these days and with less cash. Mrs. Beasley had refused to give her eldest son anymore cash-subs until he went out and found a job or found something, anything, constructive besides sitting in the chicken shed all day with Marvin the village hip-hop cripple, teaching the chickens how to do tricks – and B. had built up quite the repertoire with his avian friends. B.’s mother had warned him that she wouldn’t give him another penny until he at least stopped robbing his father’s cancer-sticks that he’d bought with his own sweat ‘n tears – poultry farming isn’t what it used to be, now that the country’s in crisis. Not even the damn chickens want to cluck any more! was Mrs. Beasley’s take on the whole thing and un-clucking chickens put the entire mess into perspective.

Not even B.’s best layabout buddy Eight Mile wannabe Marvin’s beat-box routine could placate B. today. ‘Yo, B., relax, kid,’ said Marvin in his Detroit slang. ‘How ‘bout some beat-box to get your mind off that ole slag?’ Marvin was severely deluded as a result of too many gangster movies. Having a useless leg gave one lots of time to watch telly and not get hassled for it. Better still, Marvin’s sick-benefit gave him an excuse to be here in the Beasley’s chicken-shed.

B. continued his tirade on the world’s chickens, speaking with his father’s Major sticking from his lips while fondling one of the main stars of his upcoming show – a chicken called Hope: ‘...Friesland; Frizzle; Gallus Inauris; Gimmizah; Golden Montazah; Hamburgs; Holland; Houdan; Java; Jersey Giant; Jungle Fowl; Green Gray; La Fleche; Lakenvelder; Lamona; Langshan; Leghorn; Malay; Matrouh; Minorca; Modern Game; Naked Neck; New Hampshire Red; Old English Game; Orpington; Plymouth Rock; Polish; Red Cap; Rhode Island Red; Silkie Bantam; Silver Montazah; Styrian; Sultan; Sumatra; Sussex; Swiss Hen; White-Faced Black Spanish... And P.S., watch yer mouth, Marv, Mrs. Beasley’s a bitch, but she’s no slag, yo.’

‘Yo, B., you’re right, apologies sent your way, bro – she is a bitch but, if you don’t mind my saying...a beee-u-tiful bitch. That body... If only my leg was working...’

‘Marv, having Mrs. Beasley’s anatomy – my mother’s tits – open for discussion doesn’t sit right with me; she’s still my ole’ lady. What you do in your own head should stay there when it comes to the cash-cow, got it? We spoke about this last week. And, no, before you ask again, I don’t remember how it was to be breast-fed by Mrs. Beasley, Jesus. BTW, don’t live your life blaming your leg for everything that you could’ve or should’ve done. Look at Stephen Hawking – he’s the mother of all cripples and the man’s up there with the stars. Ya’ don’t need legs to get a head, get it?’ B. fondled his chicken called Hope. Every now and again, B. broke out with his one-minute inspiration pep-talk for Marvin’s benefit who was prone to depression if he ever stopped to think...but he’d never stop to think if his best friend could help it. It was true that B. looked on Marvin like the brother he never had. ‘Always reach up, kid, no matter how twisted and fucked up you are.’ B. took a long drag on his father’s Major while Marvin looked himself up and down with a bemused expression because all he picked up on was, how twisted and fucked up you are...

‘I suggest you start by taking off that,’ air-commas, ‘"Pullin’ ‘n Draggin’ around Old Castle..." as your Twitter handle. Yes, pullin’ and draggin’ does mean the general daily toil but, kid, don’t draw unwanted attention to yourself. You can be funny but not in that way... You’re drawing attention to the leg. Y’know what, I bet you wouldn’t like it if you had a good leg cos you’d have nothing to blame your bad luck on...and nobody would feel sorry for you.’

Marvin nodded his agreement, turned his peak-cap backwards, and then grabbed hold of his crotch and the gold-plated medallion hanging from his neck to show his appreciation. ‘Get your drums on this, yo.’ Marvin the cripple, sitting on a bale of hay with his redundant braced leg resting on a bucket, broke into a rasping whooping robotic beat-box with his mouth hidden in his cupped hands.

B. took this as his cue to start up the worst impromptu rap in chicken-shed history:

‘Yo, my Mo-Fo Marv, that ole’ cow...that ole moo-moo cow...that cash-cow’s dried up...up...up...mother-fuckin’ up...I say Marve, she ain’t no slag but the big ole world don’t know that, Whoop! Whoop! Let’s go milk that cash-cow...Let’s go pull on those ole teats big time, yo! 1 – 9 to the muddfuckin’ copy!’

All this was going on in a middle-of-nowhere chicken-shed, caked in chicken-shit in a town called Old Castle (population 662...661), ravaged by dole queues and delinquency.

Marvin didn’t know what B. had up his sleeve but he understood the last line, as not extracting money from B.’s mom the cash-cow, but he’d be first in queue to milk B.’s mom if required: a buxom beauty hidden away on a chicken farm; it was the stuff of retro porn and Marvin knew his porn – the ladies weren’t exactly clawing at his door in Old Castle. The nearest he got to females was the chicken-shed.

‘That ole bitch won’t gimme pocket-money then I’ll get my own pocket money at her expense. It’s her fault. I’m not doing this out of spite; she knows I need that money to get my show up ‘n running. It’s not as if I’m spending it on mari-joanna or drink. I told her that I wanted to get this business working but she shoots down my dreams every time. She doesn’t recognize the entrepreneur in her son, but only sees the unemployed delinquent layabout – just another statistic in Old Castle. Well now, Mrs. Beasley’s gonna pay the price in more ways than one and she’s got nobody to blame but herself.’ B. winked at Marvin and checked his iPhone (an iPhone which he’d funded by selling bogus celebrity autographs on E-bay), even going so far as to provide a certificate of authenticity signed by B., as in, yes, the photographs are authentically signed by B. He whipped the butt of another Major out of his green bomber-jacket pocket, sparked up, and sucked heartily. ‘It’s too early for my master plan. She doesn’t take a shower until about 7...’

Like a dog that had suddenly heard something rustling in the bushes, Marvin sat up on hearing this. ‘Shower? Mrs. Beasley, yo?’

‘It’ll take just a second to set up the phone.’

Marvin nodded his approval. ‘I like the sound of this... One question: why don’t you ask your dad for the money?’

‘Cos he’s got no money – he doesn’t know what money is. Dad’s a scarecrow and money’s his belly stuffing. The other day he tried to buy a pound of sausages with a dry chicken-turd ‘n fluff. What, you think Mrs. Beasley’s gonna be my business-angel with dad’s money? She sells shitloads of her home-made chutney. Mother’s chutney is keeping this place afloat.’

‘I bet it does,’ responded Marvin cryptically. ‘So, yo, what’s the, like, blue-print for this master-plan?’

‘All I gotta do is hide the phone in the perfect spot and let Mama walk onto the red carpet...’ A devious grin spread across B.’s face. ‘She’s gonna be the star of her own show. You see, she won’t give me my own show but I’ll give her HER own. I’m gonna film Mrs. Beasley in the shower and sell it online. The world’s full o’ freaks, kid, 24/7.’

‘There’s nothin’ freakish about likin’ Mrs. Beasley.’ Marvin grew defensive and was drooling as B.’s mystery plan began to play out in his head. ‘I can hide in the laundry basket... I’m able to twist my bad leg up underneath me like this Indian holy-man I once saw on Discovery.’

B. spotted Marvin’s dreamy gaze; he’s there right now, hidden among the Beasley’s dirty laundry, possibly smuggling a pair of Mrs. Beasley’s knickers into his pocket for later: purely medicinal, of course. ‘Jesus, kid, what’s wrong with you?! Pull yourself together, man. This is about money – the money we need if we’re going to take this shit to the next level. Business ‘n pleasure...’

‘...don’t mix, yo.’

B. had extorted a vast quantity of money from Mrs. Beasley but had never