An Early Childhood Chapter 26 Part 3

An Early Childhood Chapter 26 Part 3: A Visit to Middlesex


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 26 Part 2.


                “Better?” asked the drummer.

                With a smile and the transformation complete, Dyll clicked her fingers, the band started up again, and she sang huskily into the mike:

                “Bippity bop bip bop bamboozle!”


                “Slippitty bop-bop-bop-scabadabadabaddy dooo-wop!” Dyll continued, scatting through a whole set of jazz non-standards.

                She caught my eye, and I was held by her gaze, enraptured – like a fruit-fly caught in a Venus plant. Without averting my eyes, I pulled the tattered, torn, dampshred of a photograph of herself that Eaglekins had given me, and held it up.

                She took the mic with her off the stage, and was sitting next to me for a few moments as she sang mellifluously into my face.
 

                “Sheppaddy Bip Bap Bip Bap Booo – Dubbiddy Bap Bap bap bim Doooo! Flibbidy Jip Jap Me and Youuuuuu…” she shrilly declared, before ascending to the stage again to thunderous applause.

                The set finished up, and she skipped off the stage and sat down beside me.

                “What are you doing with my picture, Honey Bunny Sugar Plum?” she asked.

                “I’m afraid I have some tragic news,” I said. “Eaglekins... is dead.”



                “Eaglekins? My little Eaglekins?” She took my drink and with a bob of her Adam’s apple, downed it in one gulp. She gasped.

                I glanced over at the bar, and raised my hand, indicating an order to the barman.

                “Well…wha…how did it happen?”

                “Train accident,” I said quietly. “I’m very sorry. If it helps you feel better, he was likely going to be killed anyway.”






                “Why?”

                “He’d been taken hostage by Irish republicans.”

                “Ah.” She seemed saddened.

                “He left you some property.”

                “In Ireland?”
                “Yes.”
                “But didn’t Ireland just explode?”
                “It did, yes.”
                “Alright. Look, lovey, let's get out of here now.”
                “Alright.”

As we left the club, we saw the same orphan boy to whom I'd given the skin cream, now covered in a scab like cocoon of healing.
                "Eh up, what the hell is that?"
                "That is a hibernating child, who will soon be healing so well internally that he'll break out of his crusty shell to a life of good health!" I declared.
              Continued in Chapter 26 Part 4.