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Scríobhneoireacht a trí                              Writing III
 
 

​Two Lakota Sioux have a disagreement

 

Someone put a traffic cone
on top of the wigwam

 

“Look,” remarked Paddling Cub, pointing up at what he’d just done.
“Our wigwam’s having it off with the small wigwam!”

 

“No it isn’t Paddling Cub, you mischievous pot-belly” scolded Flaccid Bicep, tutting twice.
 

“What is it then?” he replied, looking up at Flaccid Bicep.
 

“What it is; is a disgusting symbol of the defilement of modern civilisation and you, you have sullied our
sacred hectare for which I must remove from your nose, your most decorative bone,” said he scathingly.

 

“You daren’t,” said Paddling Cub as he made his eyes slits.
 

“Daren’t I? Take that conical thing down and prepare some cactus tea and in the hole left by this bone of
yours, I insist, you insert the small Ronald McDonald figurine we confiscated, for four days and nights.”

 

“No. Problem.” Paddling Cub said slowly.
 

“OK, also, you cannot watch the sun going down.”
 

“NNNoooooooo!” cried Paddling Cub dropping to the dirt on his knees.
 

“Yes, that’s what the earth says too, when the sun bids goodnight,” then Flaccid Bicep pumped his biceps.

 

 

 

                                                                              ____________________________

with the Dalai Lama

 

Give me just five minutes in a room with the Dalai Lama.
I won’t impose any daft questions upon him,
or string of words ending in a question mark.

 

He’ll be sat there, surrounded by other skinheads.
He will smile and I’ll smile back.

 

I will impart that I’ve looked forward to an audience with him
and the skinheads will quietly stay respectfully quiet.

 

He will give me much longer than the five minutes
although I will have removed my timepiece.

 

And will speak to me amiably,
that he sees I have compassion

 

and is glad to have shared the same air.
 

I will leave then with he knowing my thanks
and let the watch unwind in my pocket

 

 

 

                                                                              ____________________________

​Spot of Fishing

 

“Do try to speak clearly dear boy,” said App. “The moment has truly gone by the time I've attempted deciphering what you've uttered.”
“I've told you on many's the occasion not to refer to me as 'dear boy',” said Peter's son, reaching between his legs to pick the empty crisp packet up off the car floor.
“Don't dare start rustling those crisps again,” said App.
“Ain't no crisps in it.”
“So what are you going doing with it?” said App, looking over at Peter's son's safe-cracking fingers as they slowly began folding the crisp packet in half, quarter...

 

Arriving at the river, App upped the handbrake and got out. Peter's son hopped out too but not before dropping the small cube of a crisp packet back onto the floor where it expanded a couple of folds.
App started unloading the fishing gear from the boot, handing most of it to Peter's son. “I've a bad back,” he said.
“And what's my back then, granite-features?” said Peter's son.
“I've about three decades on you dear boy, and have had the odd disc go off in that time,” said App. “So please, just keep that lot hoisted and follow me up this way along the bank.”
“There's that 'dear boy' again.”
“Apologies so, let us just get going.”

 

“So is this the famous stretch of river you're always spouting on about to my Da?” said Peter's son.
“It sure is, we'll be there in a few minutes, it's wondrous.”
“So why didn't he ever bloody come up here to Tipperary with you?”
“Well. Peter; your father, is convinced that whenever he comes here to Tipp, the clouds realise he's after entering the county and start throwing all sorts of unsettled weather at him,” said App. “I'd say he is being a bit dramatic about the whole thing, but is convinced of a type of cloud curse, as he shook his fist up at a few of them back in the day, before he discarded his anger.”

 

“Ok listen App, whenever you mention my dad Peter, you don't need to add that he's my Da. You can be fairly sure that I'd be copping on to the fact it's my Da you're on about. You dig?”
“Dig what?” said App.
“Don't worry about it,” said Peter's son. “Where is this prime location? These folding chairs are cumbersome.”
“Give over, I worked in Chicago for years doing furniture removal from huge apartment blocks, up and down stairwells. And you're on about carrying two feathers folded up as chairs?” said App. “We're here now anyway.”

 

As they came around a bend to the right, Peter's son liked the look of the large pool that was created in the river by a crossable rock dam.
“Who built that?” said Peter's son.
“Tipp's previous hurling manager, Nicky English, a man fond of afternoons like this, had his hurlers build it as a form of breaking up the monotony of the usual training sessions,” said App. “And Nicky's a good friend.”
“You like hurling?” said Peter's son.
“I don't mind it, ah sure leave them at it, beating the skin off each other but I'd know Nicky through our wives,” said App. “They climb mountains together, for weeks on end.”
“I've been thinking about taking up hurling again,” said Peter's son. “Haven't played since I was twelve though, so I'm not sure if fearlessness in the instinct would come back to me.”
App is a bit thrown by Peter's son showing the tiniest bit of self-depreciation for the first time.
“You wouldn't have any worries there, sure you're as wiry as you were then and tougher still now,” said App. “First thing you do to get yourself ready before you train with any local lads, is to head down to the pitches at the swamp and whack a sliotar around for a while. And bring lots of sliotars!”
“Why bring lots?” asked Peter's son.
“So as you're not pucking one up the field, running up before pucking the same one down again. With a good few of them you can practice hitting points from across the pitch and not interrupt concentration.” said App.
Peter's son takes this procedure in, frowns at it a moment, pushes his bottom lip up, nods his head slowly and asks “Are we right to fish?”
“We are,” said App, “here will do nicely.”

 

 

 

                                                                              ____________________________

​Drawing of a Gangplank

 

By the time they'd stopped arguing, the capsule was protruding from her arsehole. Through even her gyrating nerves she felt it funny, but not as severe as the inkling to get away from this wretched man. Not only had he arrested her headway but her halting had unmoored the capsule within that rigid capacity. Only option for immediate cover to rectify the capsule's out-jut, was to make for the passport photo-booth inside the shopping centre's entrance.


    On exiting it, as Sulphi drew back the lino curtain from the left side with her right hand, the eyes on her deflect off a biro'd number 86 1241959 on the wall. Without any baby-wipes in her bag, all she can now do after reinstalling the titanium capsule back up her pipe, is put her right glove on, which'll later need a scrub. Of pressing urgency, was the funneling of focus and of composure's regain, but she turned back the few paces, back to the booth. Yes, that is her birthdate, with an o2 prefix on it's scabby plastic wall. Nothing else was written anywhere near it so she grabbed out her phone and took a 1600x1200 picture, which can be pondered while the glove's in a washing machine, later.


    With most shutters already down or unraveling along the centre's shopfronts, she nearly had the place to herself, but had to get her skates on. Normally she wouldn't have paid any heed to the man who had just now delayed her with his petty crap, but these were not normal times, well not in her head anyway, best put it behind her for now, it too could be mulled over later. Deciding to depart by way of the centre's south entrance, Sulphi strode across the plaza. From the direction she was intending to take, a vocalising man, twirling car keys came towards her, she kept on:


    – I'm going the extra mile and I bet you smile cos my texture's wild.

She doesn't like the sound of that, then he cuts short his repeat of it as his left shoulder passes hers, and she's reminded of stonehenge. Tupac and stonehenge. Though she has her doubts about it being one of Tupac's.


    Once outside, clouds clash and branches spasm. She makes for her bicycle, chained to a tree-guard beside the fountain. Having paid through the nose for her Mountfemme Raleigh, she's glad now to have gone for the step-through frame. She eases through.
                                                                

                                                                                                     *
 

    At lights, she stands, but with the left foot on the pedal. It's one of the more irksome junctions around, and a speakerphone event takes place in the car beside her. The slick tells his lay,


    – I know it's iconic! I know it's gripping.. but there is no hope Ever, of using the word 'Hitler' as a brand in itself for anything..  legally, his estate would take us to the cleaners! Forget it, that's my decision. I'll see you all in the morning.


    A thunderclap, a changing of red to green and down came the sluicing. Instantly drenched, Sulphi set off up the road a bit before turning right onto the byroad to Bethlehem-In-Ossory, or to use its latin name, Bethlemium-Inum-Ossorius. A nice downhill gradient to her port of call which isn't a port, but she has always seen her Mountfemme as quite the roadboat, and has thought of her previous bicycles in the same way. Even, when much younger she had gotten an admirer of a young lump who was handy with soldering to fix up a mast device on her carriage at the back. Without any understanding of the way of things, she fastened her auntie's Egyptian beach towel to the mast and set off, down a hill. She got the hang of it then, posthumously, with her sturdy new bicycle by learning to fasten the towel properly, on a more structured mast. Though this time she had to let the lump get his bit. She'd have gone to any, or accepted any lengths to get her roadboat out on the tarmaced surface of the sea.


    Freewheeling the most part, she came to the turnoff for Fibs. Steering into it without brakes Sulphi had to quickly reef the back-brake, and skid around to about-face, as bearing down on her from the direction of Fibs came a coach, taking up the entire boirín with nothing to spare. Seeing it indicate left, she rode over to the right-hand side of the expansive turnoff. As the coach slowed to a hiss and turned towards Bethlehem-In-Ossory, her watchfulness steadied on what seemed to be the series 86 1241959 again, writ in grime. It dawned on her now what the prerequisite is, the sequence that'd always been there for her; her birthdate, togged out as a sordid service provider's mobile. The bastard had said it'd be a piece of piss once she went about it intuitively. With the hair dank on her head she started pedaling after her number.


    Setting off after the coach with an uncertain feeling of possibility, she reckoned it would at least pull in once it reached B-I-O, so with her thumb she moved up the gears and hammered on. While not being the sharpest corner on the lapel, she knew the driver wouldn't be able to tell her who decorated the rear of his livelihood, and that she'd have to call it to see if in fact it was an active mobile number. Far from coincidental; for someone with the savvy it'd be straightforward enough to acquire a number of one's choosing, whether already up and running or not. Maybe have to obliterate some unknowing person's mobile history. Now apparent to her; this conniver operates outside the authority of vodafone and o2, a particular fraudulence being just one knob on his knuckledust.


    The coach pulled in outside O'Tools, the man's man shop on B-I-O's main street. Sulphi glided in behind it, and with a gloved finger half-arsedly rubbed the number off with spit. They weren't digits any unknowing cretin seeking a glory-hole date should dial. She'd have to remember to go back and remove the biro one in the photo-booth. With the capsule up her rear threatening to simulate a foul occurrence, she walked her Mountfemme across the road to a cluster of trees, to make a call.

 

                                                                    *


    She waited for the coach to pull away and dialed her birthdate. Two rings, bad line, a somber English voice;

– Have you it still?

    – Yes, it's secure, she confirmed.

– Ok. We can see you amid those trees, where have you got it?

    – The capsule is secure I told you, do you have the drawings?
– I'm afraid we must have it now or we cannot uphold our end, speaking of which, remind me what our end is again? he said.

    – Do you have for me; the original drawings of the bicycle with a gangplank by Raleigh's founder Frank Bowden? Sulphi asked.

– Yes, we have the drawings. I should inform you that presently we have a heat scanner trained on you that's titanium specific. Our capsule does indeed look to be securely concealed, we knew you'd be resourceful. Did you enjoy the path we compiled that led you to dial this, sorry, your number?

    – Crafty alright, almost didn't. So what now? [She'd had it with this.]

– As you look around and come to realise, we have distracted the inhabitants with a gadget sale down the local hall. Now what we need you to do is leave the capsule on the grass, right where you are. You'll then receive the drawings.

    – If you know where I've got it, you know I can't do that, she said.

– Didn't you hear me madam, we have cleared the inhabitants, for your modesty. Now, quick about it if you please.

 

                                                                                                         *
 

    She closed her phone and looked about. Thoroughly out of her comfort, she began to peel down her damp jeans, along with the undergarment. She had been after those drawings for years. Now this criminal with his antiquarian mania has her squatting in broad daylight with cacs down, in the middle of town through trees of scant cover. Sulphi doubted whether all the inhabitants could possibly have gone to the hall, but irregardless, out it now slid with a short drop to the grass, and it was probably as relieved as she.
    Never having inquired as to the capsule's content, Sulphi didn't look down. She had seen it earlier while weighing it and her options up. As she walked over to the path with her bicycle, a hefty engine could be heard turning over and a waste collection lorry appeared. A binman hopped off the back-corner and without offering her any acknowledgment went over to the trees. He discarded a glove on his return and sealed the top of the Ziploc bag. Climbing up into the lorry's cabin, he slammed its door and in the same motion a tube-style document holder was visible being lobbed from the window onto the grass.
    Sulphi loved her drawings so very much she wouldn't give them in anywhere to get framed. She felt lucky to have crossed paths with such incredible sourcers of proper loot. She didn't feel as though what transpired made her much of an operative outside the law. Maybe a bit of a plunderer. As Dick Roubideau once said in her favourite bandit film The Carriage Wheel Is Broke,
    – The flip-side of not doing burglaries is thiefdom.

more to be added without reason...

© 2019  John Dowling

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