An Early Childhood Chapter 21 Part 2

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: A TEMPORARY CHANGE IN CIRCUMSTANCE AND A SHIFT IN POWER (PART 2)

 Continued from the prologue of Chapter 21.

 An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan is a mock surreal autobiography. Its first chapter is here. It parodies misery memoirs (such as Angela’s Ashes by the late great Frank McCourt), as well as time travel and science fiction elements and other literature of various kinds - mainly Irish, but very often not. Very often.


            Well, having fully digested the trout of fierce intelligence, replete as it was in amazing fish oils, my smarts faded after my next passing and I was reduced once more to an incredibly talented yet not abnormally intelligent young revolutionary.


                Tancred, Sean, Fletch, John and myself began the process of establishing a new local government within my hometown, with me as the provisional mayor, fulfilling a prophecy made by Judge Rarely-Smyled long before. I moved into the mayor’s townhouse and Fletch Curtis moved into Constable Combover’s abode, where Colonel Sir Edward “Gold Bollocks” Tiptoft had lived before he and his regiment fled down the River Shandy, abandoning not only the rest of the conspirators, who were hiding in the forests, but Melanie Tiptoft who was also hiding in the forest as she had become more apelike in appearance – although still beautiful. More about her in a good while from now. Don’t worry, I’ll get to it, by Golly. But for the moment, let’s leave sleeping chimpanzees lie.

            One evening I was looking into establishing a new county council with its headquarters in my hometown, alongside a medical centre of quite high quality, in order to streamline my kickbacks, when there was a knock on the door. I pulled the door open to see Mayor Tully accompanied by three pat rafters standing before me smiling. You will recall that the pat rafters had been my neighbours when I was growing up as a young f'lahhh. They had now joined forces with the occupation movement of Englanders in Ireland.
             They were carrying rifles with bayonets affixed to them.

            “We’re here to take the town BACK in the name of Floudh RAK!” Mayor Tully said.

            The first of the three pointed his bayonet at me and lunged. I swerved to avoid the weapon and the pat rafter fell over my leg. I drew my pistol from its perpetual place at my side and fired two shots at the other two pat rafters and they fell back off the doorstep to be replaced by two more. A dozen – and even more – pat rafters barged their way into my house; I emptied the pistol into them and four more fell. One of them charged at me and I grabbed his nearest brother and the bayonet went into his torso instead of mine. I ran from this attack of the clones, throwing myself up the stairs and I grabbed the ornamental scimitar which my father had given me from off the wall and began to parry the thrusting bayonets with the sword as I slowly backed up the stairs, the pat rafters doggedly in lugubrious but determined pursuit. I hacked some twelve rifles in two before I reached the top of the stairs, and with a fierce kick sent into the chest of the leading pat rafter, sent them all tumbling back down the stairs, a couple of sickening crunches indicating to me that I’d mortally wounded another two.


            Meanwhile, at Constable Combover’s old house – as I was later informed – there was a knock on the door. Tancred, Sean, Fletch and John were passing the time playing a game of cards. Fletch got up to answer the door and Melanie Tiptoft stood before him, tears brimming over her lower, chimplike eyelids.

            “Michael Shadraff made advances towards me and I fled from the forest—but not before I heard what the conspirators are planning. They’re attacking the town again tonight in order to retake it and they’re going to kill Paddy Flanagan,” she told Fletch, and she almost swooned but he caught her in his arms before placing her on the chaise longue in the hall. Fletch grabbed his rifle and summoned the other men. He brought Melanie around and handed a pistol to her.


            “You stay here,” he told her.
            “Don’t leave me—”
            “Lock the door. Keep it bolted. Use the pistol if you have to,” Fletch said. He pointed at the other three. “Come on lads,” he said, “Paddy’s in trouble.”

The story continues in Chapter 21 Part 3.

Kat Dennings's breasts do it again

The breasts of Kat Dennings - busty brunette Max Black in the television sitcom Two Broke Girls - have successfully carried the ratings success into its third season.



CBS announced the renewal of the hit series for the 2013-2014 broadcast season, with the decolletage of the actress once more succeeding where the writing, acting, and general tone of the sitcom have completely failed.

Contract negotiations between CBS and Dennings' bust had stalled late last year, but a Super Bowl commercial for 2 Broke Girls in February once more brought the breasts to the attention of network executives, reminding them of their prominence in the show's success.



In the initial stages of the show's production, CBS execs had been "lactose intolerant" when it came to recognition of the pair, believing that if the producers placed greater emphasis on the back-and-forth, spirited banter between Dennings and the blonde one, the sitcom might prove popular.




There was no discernible improvement in the dialogue over the passage of time, while Dennings' curvy shape has never lost its appeal - as this set of video captures, assiduously compiled over many hours - now shows.



The result? The network has renewed the multi camera sitcom, both the left one, and the right one - with the mammaries receiving a ten and fifteen thousand dollar raise per episode - respectively.




Locusts attack Madagascar


A swarm of locusts - the largest since the 1950s - has infested Madagascar. However, there has been a holdup over the country's application for assistance. The president of Madagascar, Andry Rajoelina, pictured, has been asked for identification to confirm his age - which he claims as 37 years - as he appeals to the international community to help deal with the crisis.

"Age corruption" is rife in the country, with many eleven and twelve year olds recently exposed as being too young to sit in the newly re-constituted government, having spent entire careers "playing hooley-booley" or "bunking off" from sneaker stitching school. The practice of corrupt children turning to politics in such an underhand way has led to a popular tongue twister in Madagascar, involving the stitching up of sneaky stitchers snitching. And, of course, mitching: Mitching that means a higher price for your Air Jordans at the check-out.


An Early Childhood Chapter 21 Part 1



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: A TEMPORARY CHANGE IN CIRCUMSTANCE AND A SHIFT IN POWER (PART 1)

 Continued from the end of Chapter 20. An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan is a mock surreal autobiography. Its first chapter is here. It parodies misery memoirs (such as Angela’s Ashes by the late great Frank McCourt), as well as time travel, pop culture, and literature of various kinds.

CHAPTER PROLOGUE: Using The SNOPES FACILITY to suss things out

            However, I digress. Melanie Tiptoft - who had declared her undying love for me - was slowly but shoorly turning into a simiAN other than womAN. Those two words have the same ending, so if I was to apply any logic to the problem at all, at all, I was sure to find a cure. I felt a bit miserable that Floudh Rak had disappeared without curing this posh Englishwoman. He had cast other spells, of course, and it was necessary to find cures for all of them.

            Anyway, I consulted my SNOPES dictionary to see if there was any veracity to her condition – her fondness for bananas, rare in those days in Dublin – certainly showed a veracious appetite!

            With her father Sir Colonel Edward General “Colonel Gold Bollocks” Tiptoft retired, or dead or what have you, being written out of the series to be replaced by Colonel Coote Decker, Earl of Mount Wrath, she had been abandoned by all and was now spending most of her days in a permanent residency as a model of sweatshirts, jerseys and jumpers with the Chimpendale’s Dance and Circus Extrava Gyanzee, which was on the upper floor of the National Theatre of Ireland building.
            The catwalk show was held every evening, and poor Melanie didn’t even have to wear a sweater. She would strut out along the catwalk, swinging her arms with panache, the knuckles dragging along the floor, sniffling with sadness at her chimp like appearance. Once a strikingly beautiful young maiden, she now had the appearance of more a kind of chimpanzee woman. A sight of pity, a sight of pity, a sight of pity, indeedy aye oh!

Photo courtesy of John_X


            There was no word on human beings reverting to a more apelike form in the SNOPES dictionary. But I decided to conduct further research, and using telegram communiqués, I contacted the encyclopaedic people to confirm that such cases did not exist in reality.
            According to the SNOPES “etymologists” and “lexicographers” – the confirming, encyclopaedic people of the dictionary – there had been a case, the SNOPES trial, in Tennwesseeeeeeyuh, as the Anglo-Sassanaigh would’ve pronounced it centuries ago, had the Latins made their discovery a little earlier.
            The case had only taken place a year or two earlier, wherein a man who had become an ape was trying to prove that it was possible. Unfortunately, the gorilla was now unable to converse with the court in English. He had lost his case, and he was thrown out of court when he went smashing through the window, running into the wilds of Nashville like that murderous feckin half-breed, Injun Bleedin’ Joe.
            When I imparted this sad news to Melanie Tiptoft, she tweaked her little nostrils and burst out the window herself, shrieking into the wilds of South County Dublin - to an area known as Tallaght.

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Buddhist monk seeks petrol for peaceful fireworks display/barbecue. No such resources in homeland due to nefarious pillaging by communist overlords.




Intellectually-redundant journalists required to fill remaining 5% of posts in US media corporations currently held by slightly observant people.
 


 LONELY HEARTS



Stunning celeb seeks rockstar husband to raise international profile yet again! Three used owners. Contact P Kensit, PO Box 1820.



Taliban widower, 62, NSOH, seeks submissive, masochistic teen virgin for immediate marriage, maybe beatings. Lost last wife in stoning incident following gang-rape.
 


 WANTED/FOR SALE


Comic artist keen to indirectly kill eighty Christians in the Middle East - coz he wants to continue to be a smartass - seeks whisk and bowl full of excrement.
Contact Haaaaarensen.Gaaaaabler@Taagere-Haaager-Nieuwspaaper.com.



Wanted: Escape route from Hague War Crimes Tribunal in 2015. Payment through Halliburton. Cardiovascular medication required. I'm not another Slobodan, damnit. How dare they. How dare they. Contact “The Puppeteer”.




Weak coffee required for covert assassination in 2015, Insh’Allah. Deliver to Muhammad al-Abdaq (Commis-Chef), c/o Scheveningen Prison, The Hague.





Solutions sought to treat out-of-control fringe movement. Contact Laboratoires Garnier, Paris.


 
Following objects required immediately: Laser sword (preferably green), artificial hand, propensity for patience, non-translucent mentor. Call LUKE.



Three-generation family needs new home. Current accommodations inadequate following re-development some years ago. Please contact Mr Charlie Wong, Women’s Changing Area, National Indoor Stadium, Beijing.



Adolf Hitler’s ageing nephew wants your assistance in continuing to mark the anniversary of his uncle’s death every year. He has one simple wish: To masturbate to orgasm in disgust - as he has done annually - since 1953. There's no time to waste. He has a terminal illness, and half a year to live, so he wants to get as many future anniversaries in as possible, over the next six months. Simply send a check now to the Dieter Schmidt Viagra Fund.


How Smart Is Your Right Foot? And How’s Your Flemish?



Give this a go! It’s not hard and it will blow your mind because it’s very clever and you will keep trying over and over again to see if you can outsmart your foot, but you can’t! I know all this because I’m very clever in some ways but not very clever in other ways! My friend who’s an orthopaedic surgeon says the trick is because of genetic predisposition! The reason a doctor is my friend is because in some ways I’m very clever.



1. While sitting where you are at your desk in front of your computer, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles. That’s not the clever bit.



2. While making your foot-circles, draw the number “6” in the air with your right hand. Your foot will change direction! Well? I’m right! I told you I was half-clever!!!



See??? Amazing!!! And there’s nothing you can do about it! You and I both know how silly it is, but before the day is done you will try it again, if you haven’t already done so. I know this because I’m half-clever!

Also, as soon as your foot changes direction, it means that you’re a paedophile. You need help. I got help from a Belgian network of child pornographers and six months later I have five amazing kids in my wine cellar! They’re all great but the language barrier’s a problem because I’m not clever with languages, so if you speak any Flemish, get in touch!

An Early Childhood Chapter 20 Part 2

Chapter 20: A bit of spillage and a whole lot of problems (Part 2)

Continued from Chapter 20 Part 1.

Act II – Scene II

EXT A STREET - 1987 – AFTERNOON


HUNT AND DRAKE EMERGE, SPRINTING, ONTO THE STREET FROM A SIDESTREET.

HUNT
So that’s the end of that, then.

DRAKE
Looks like it’s back to our boring old lives. (SIGHS.)


HUNT
I’ll miss him.

DRAKE
Me too. (PAUSE.) He was very sexy.

SUDDENLY, FLANAGAN COMES SPRINTING OUT FROM THE SAME SIDESTREET, BREATHING HEAVILY.

FLANAGAN
Hunt! Drake! I’m back!

DRAKE (EXCHANGES GLANCES WITH GENE)
No…we just sent you home in a car.

FLANAGAN
You sent me home – but now I’m back again!

HUNT (THUMBING AT THE PATCH OF TARMAC.)
No…we only sent you back two minutes ago.

FLANAGAN (LOOKING AT EACH OF THEM)
Are you…are you sure?

DRAKE
Yeah. Do you not remember? You just shagged Gene’s car back to your timeline?

FLANAGAN
Oh. (A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED.) Okay then. Right, well…see you then.

HUNT
All the best, Jippy!

(BLACK AND WHITE FLASHES START TO FILL FLANAGAN’S FORM AS HE WALKS BACK INTO THE SIDESTREET WITH HIS HEAD DOWN. HE EMERGES AGAIN A MOMENT LATER, HIS FACE GLOWING AND FLASHING WHITES AND BLACKS.)

FLANAGAN
Are you…are you sure?

HUNT AND DRAKE
Yes, we’re sure!

FLANAGAN
Okay. Bye.

(HE DISAPPEARS INTO THE ALLEYWAY. A BLUE FLASH ILLUMINATES THE SIDESTREET.)



            With Floudh Rak the weatherlock thumping on the front door, Billy Boy and Melanie crouched down behind the curtains.
            “Maybe Paddy’s escaping Tír Na nÓg by car. Coz he went in via the railway system at Pearse Station, and maybe the public transport infrastructure isn't highly developed in some places over there,” Billy said.
Pearse Street Station. Photo courtesy of Rob Ketcherside

              He went into the hallway and - as my arm was emerging from the picture that he had doodled - he gave the clipboard a little rub.
            “There’s a great clipboard, you’re doin’ brilliant,” he said in a sing song tone.
            “What are you doing?” asked Melanie the chimpanzee.
            “I read somewhere that a few words of encouragement and soft sounds will often help a whelping clipboard through the pains of labour,” Billy explained. 
                He scrambled back to the curtains and peered out the window.
            Outside, Floudh Rak had unsheathed his sword. With its hilt, he hammered into the door, which started to splinter.
            “What are we going to do about Paddy?” Melanie asked.
            My arm was emerging from the clipboard.



            In a flash, the door smashed open and I was standing in the hallway - having emerged from the clipboard - very tired in my leather flight jacket. I smashed my shoulder into the wall in pain, and then the other wall, a discharge of ectoplasmic energy sparking off the walls with my body's shading altering, flashing black and white now and then. I whipped off my jacket and threw it to the carpet. In my white tee shirt, in immense pain, my hair still in an 80s quiff, I staggered and stumbled off the walls like your typical Irishman.

            Floudh Rak roared as he saw me, and raised his sword to charge and run me through. I fell to my knees in submission, clamping my hands in front of me in prayer. I closed my eyes. It was then that a massive lightning bolt shot out of my arms, engulfing the evil weatherlock.
           "AAAaaaarrggghhhhh!!!" he roared and he disappeared.
            The room went unusually dark. There was a smell of burnt hair and farts.
            “What the hell just happened?” Billy Boy wanted to know.
            “There was still too much residual energy from the inter-dimensional time-travel,” I explained. “I’ve just released it.”
             “Did you just fart?” Billy asked.

             No,I replied, trying to explain. That's the after-echo effects of the ehhh... the inter-dimensional transfer.

             “Did you just fart?” Billy asked again.
              Yip,I replied.
            “And is Floudh Rak gone?”
            “He’s gone for now, anyway,” I replied. “I didn't mean to do that, shooting bolts out of my hands. I don't really know what happened myself. And who’s to say when he’ll turn up again?”
             And who was to say indeed, says I to you?

To be continued in Chapter 21

An Early Childhood Chapter 20 Part 1



Chapter 20: A bit of spillage and a whole lot of problems (Part 1)

 An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan is a mock surreal autobiography. Its first chapter is here. It parodies misery memoirs (such as Angela’s Ashes by the late great Frank McCourt), as well as science fiction, pop culture, and literature of various kinds.

 

Continued from the end of Chapter 19.
            Billy Boy Cullen set to work painting a huge mural on my apartment wall. He stood back to view his work – a dark mountain with hints of red to indicate the streams of lava descending the rugged slopes.
            Melanie Tiptoft – now more chimp than woman – sat at the table watching Billy Boy with his Rolf Harris paints, admiring his work.

Photo courtesy of John_X

 She was eating her sandwiches. She looked at the doodles that Billy Boy Cullen had drawn of motor cars on his clipboard. As she leaned forward, she tipped over the container of ectoplasmic antimatter on the clipboard.
 
            “Dammit!” she shrieked in fright, picking up the container and leaping back. “I’m sorry, Billy!”
            Billy turned to look at the pictures of motorcars he’d drawn, now covered in ooze.
            “Ah here,” he said. “What are yeh after doin’?”
            The images on the first page of the clipboard started to change. The driver of the car looked out the side window, and beckoned towards the pair - in a cartoonish, rudimentary but cutting edge manner - as they looked in disbelief. They exchanged glances with each other and looked back at the image. It beckoned again. Melanie picked up the clipboard, and a hand reached out of it. Shrieking again, she threw the clipboard in fright into the hallway.
            She looked at Billy Boy.
            “That looked like Paddy Flanagan!” she insisted.
            “It did,” he agreed.
            There was an ominous knock on the door.
            “Who is it?” Billy Boy asked.
            “It is Floudh Rak the weatherlock, come to wake my minions in the Shamoo Tanty Hills!” boomed a voice from behind the door. “I believe you have a lovely mural that I can employ in order to do so?”

Act II – Scene I

EXT A STREET - 1987 – AFTERNOON

THE GIANT LARRY WEATHERCAPE IS SPRINTING DOWN THE STREET. THE QUATTRO SKIDS AROUND A CORNER ONTO THE SAME STREET, SOME DISTANCE AWAY. CLOSEUP OF FLANAGAN AT THE WHEEL. RETURNING TO THE STREET VIEW, WE SEE WEATHERCAPE TAKING A PISTOL FROM HIS OVERNIGHT BAG. HE POINTS IT TOWARDS THE QUATTRO AS IT BEARS DOWN ON HIM. WEATHERCAPE FIRES OFF A SHOT. THE CAR SWERVES BEFORE RETURNING ON ITS PATH. WEATHERCAPE FIRES ANOTHER SHOT. THE CAR SWERVES AGAIN TO AVOID THE BULLET.

CLOSEUP OF FLANAGAN LOOKING AT THE DASHBOARD. CLOSEUP ON THE SPEEDOMETER. IT REGISTERS AT 80 MILES PER HOUR AND CLIMBING. FLANAGAN PULLS THE CAR’S CIGARETTE LIGHTER OUT OF ITS SOCKET AND MOVES FORWARD TO STICK HIS PENIS IN. HE STARTS MOVING SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH, BUILDING UP MOMENTUM. HE LOOKS AT THE SPEEDOMETER AGAIN AS HE STARTS TO PUMP FAR MORE VIGOROUSLY.

CLOSEUP OF CLOCK: IT READS 85 MILES PER HOUR.

FLANAGAN (AGGRESSIVELY)
How’s this for fuel injection? Come on, you fiery red bitch! (SLAPS THE DASHBOARD) Show me the way to go home!

(LARRY WEATHERCAPE REALISES TOO LATE THAT THE CAR IS TOO CLOSE TO GET OFF ANOTHER SHOT. HE THROWS AWAY THE PISTOL. THE CAR ERUPTS IN A FIERY BLUE EXPLOSION IN FRONT OF HIM.)

CLOSEUP OF LARRY WEATHERCAPE’S FACE, FILLED WITH FEAR.

WEATHERCAPE
Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!







THE HUGE LIGHTNING BLUE EXPLOSION ENGULFS LARRY WEATHERCAPE AND THE STREET SUDDENLY GOES SILENT AND UNUSUALLY DARK. WHERE LARRY WEATHERCAPE STOOD, THERE IS ONLY A PATCH OF WET TARMAC. THE CAR, TOO, HAS DISAPPEARED.

Continued in Act II Scene II.

An Early Childhood Chapter 19 Part 4



CHAPTER 19 CONTINUED from Chapter 19 Part 3.

FLANAGAN
But how will I generate the 2.21 gigawatts of power to fuel the flux capacitor? We don’t have plutonium, Hunt. We’re not at Sellafield. Are you mad, man? Have you gone insane? The only thing I can think we could use is a bolt of lightning and we’d have to know exactly when and where that bolt of lightning strikes, and that is impossible, unless I knew that there was a bolt of lightning that hit a Quinnsworth supermarket in 1987 during Hurricane Charlie. But wait! I do know that. Because back in Dublin, in 1987, there was a Quinnsworth struck by a bolt of lightning in 1987 that burned down, and that’s why I remember it. I shouldn't remember that, but because it's a dream and in the dream I'm from the future rather than the 1920s, I do remember it! So that’s it! (CLICKS HIS FINGERS, DELIGHTED WITH HIMSELF.) Eureka! We have to get to Dublin – and fast! Do you have a thing called cheap flights in this era?

HUNT (FROWNING)
What time period did you come from again, Flanagan?

(FLANAGAN looks into the air whistling.)

HUNT
Haven’t you forgotten something, Inspector?

FLANAGAN
No! We have to get to Quinnsworth.

HUNT
Haven’t you forgotten something about your arrival here?

FLANAGAN
Arrival by birthday cake?

DRAKE
And the juices that were produced, Paddy?

FLANAGAN
So I have a lot more orgone energy? Is that what you’re saying?

HUNT
We’re sayin’ bolt.

FLANAGAN
Yes, but even more powerful than Usain Bolt!

HUNT
Don’t you mean Ben Johnson?

FLANAGAN (PUTTING ON A PAIR OF SUNGLASSES THAT HAVE APPEARED FROM NOWHERE)
I’ll bend my Johnson! (HE TURNS TO THE TWO OF THEM.) It’s been an honour working with you both. (DISAPPOINTED.) I never got to go to Quinnsworth in the end. Oh well…

DRAKE
Inspector?

FLANAGAN
Yes?
(SHE KISSES HIS LIPS)

DRAKE
You never had to.

HUNT (PHILOSOPHICALLY)
Maybe the message here is that…there’s a little bit of Quinnsworth…in all of us.

FLANAGAN (TO DRAKE)
Goodbye my lover. (TO HUNT) Goodbye my friend.

DRAKE
Maybe, Inspector, you can look me up in 2008…see how I’m doing?

FLANAGAN (GETS INTO THE CAR, LOOKS OUT THE OPEN WINDOW.)
That’s not going to happen, sweet cheeks. You died in the first episode. You’ve been dead all along. (HE LOWERS THE SUNGLASSES DOWN THE BRIDGE OF HIS NOSE SO SHE CAN SEE HIS EYES AND WINKS AT HER.)

FLANAGAN
See you, dickheads – to the max!

THE CAR SHOOTS OFF WITH A SQUEAL OF TYRES.

Continued in Chapter 20 Part 1.