An Early Childhood Chapter 24 Part 7


An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan is a mock surreal autobiography, narrated by a fictional Irish war hero, champion bodhran player, and television presenter. 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 adventure, pop culture, and literature of various kinds.

Continued from Chapter 24 Part 6.

                “Paddy!” Tancred hailed, “Are you okay?”

                “I dink he boke by bose!” I answered, searching for holds and grips with the tears in my eyes. It took me ten minutes to get to the top of the cliff again, but get there I did. This time, there were no pale, tall weatherlocks to greet me.

                “Where is he?” I asked myself, and it was then that I spotted the huge cloaked figure sprinting down the hillock some distance away.

                “Floudh Rak!” I screamed.

                The figure spun around, surprised at my survival.

                “You and me—one on one!” I challenged, discarding my weapons and removing my belt so that the Shatner-belly no longer bothered me. I hopped from foot to foot like I used to at the boxing gym, with my trainer Mickey. “What do you say?” I asked.

                The weatherlock drew back his head and laughed. He was fond of laughing, so he was. He took a few steps forward.

                “Unarmed combat?” he said. “Welcome – to die!”

                “Why are you so vengeful, Floudh Rak?” I asked him.

                “Motiveless malignity by its nature does not need to be explained. Your debasing of my cousin Dizzy McFlash all those years ago is all the reason I need, as a creature of evil, to wreak havoc on your life forever…or until… you… are… dead.”

                “Or until you are dead,” I countered, rolling up my sleeves.

                The first punch from the evil warlock stung my face like a thousand bees. The second almost made me retch as my stomach was crushed inwards. The third sent me flying backwards, and I struck the back of my head off a fallen log as I landed.

                The weatherlock laughed.

                “You will never kill me.” He picked my pistol off the grass and moved towards me.

                “Tell me,” I asked. “Why do you do evil instead of good?”

                The answer would be the last one I was likely to ever hear.

                There was the rat-tat-tat of a chattering machine cannon in the distance, undoubtedly the sounds of one of the huge rifles we had taken from our stores in the Madlin Stow.

                Floudh Rak the evil warlock fell to his knees, his eyes popping wide.

                “You’ll find out,” he told me in answer to my question, in an evil whisper that cut through the air like the loudest shout. “You’ll be seeing me again before you know it.”

                A thin tear of blood trickled down the warlock’s face before a rocket screamed as if from nowhere, across the grassy ground, plunging into him and sending his various limbs, and bits, and nethers, and stringy lumps of gut and organs into oblivious ontological obsolescence.

Continued in Chapter 24 Part 8.