Continued from here, people!
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.
AN EARLY CHILDHOOD CHAPTER 27 PART 4: A VISIT FROM AN ARCH ENEMY?
Splish splash splosh! Uncle Barney sprinted down one sewer tunnel, shouting at me to go the other way. The Englanders above, led by Colonel Decker, hauled open the manhole cover. Peering down into the sewer at me, he and his men roared:
"Get out of it!" in unison.
I sprinted off on my own route, running miles and miles, splish splash sploshing along through the dirty water until I reached a dead end: A grille, and the kind not fit for barbecuing. A kind of a grating. It was very grating. My heart sank nearly half out of me, before being sucked back into my body from my arse.
A bullet struck the lock on the grate, and it blew open, falling the hundreds of forty-foot into the water of the River Thames, which spilled out in a streaming, steaming gush.
I spun around, looking at Colonel Decker, my heels teetering over the edge of the sewer. He held a pistol aloft, smoke emanating from it.
I raised my hands, the water splashing around us and out into the Thames.
"Paddy Flanagan! I am arresting you for shenanigans, rula bula, mischief, tomfoolery, mayhem, drunkenings to the nth degree, ree rawwww, paddywhackery, high jinks, and repeated shenanigans!" Decker roared.
"I didn't blow up Ireland!" I insisted.
Decker lowered his gun slightly, looking at me with his eyebrows raised in an akimbo, eyebrow-raising fashion - a perturbed expression of discombobulation.
"I don't care!" he shoutered. "I'll have your guts for garters!"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Dylly Oblong's wedding garter. I drew it back, and let fly. It struck Decker in the head, and he was so be-noggined with shock that he fell onto his back and started slipping quickly towards the Camden Town Seweral Gateway Exitway Cloaca, if one could be so bold. His figure suddenly became a veritable chunk of cholesterol for the arterial sanitary pipe network of London, and piles of poo started to strike this detritus-blocking Colonel of His Majesty's Armed Forces.
"Some people can only take so much shit!" he shouted, aiming his gun at me from where he lay. He started to move then, slip-sliding past me.
I stepped aside to let him gush out the hole he'd created in removing the grille, as he swung his weapon at me.
He fired five times before his fall, as he slid, and then there were numerous clicks on his descent, falling, slow-mo, into the torrential waters below. I looked down at my chest. I was completely unharmed, save for two flesh wounds in my shoulders. I picked the bullets out of my starboard clavicle, flicking them down into the depths below as I watched the waters, to see his frustrated head bobbing in rage.
He shook his fist at me. I walked away, retracing my steps. Nary another Britisher was seen before I climbed the ladder of success, for want of a better expression, out of the sewer, removing a manhole lid to return to the city proper.
To be continued...
To be continued...