I got up at about eleven, had a quick vomit, swallowed eight of the RED pills and fourteen of the BLUE pills, drank the BLACK liquid as directed and the tremors pretty much stopped. Every day’s a good day when you feel that bouncy.
With my energy renewed, I climbed into the attic and snagged four or five from the colony of rare protected bats that live up there. Straight onto the frying pan, a little knob of butter, a shake of pepper, small splash of whiskey over the lot and I’m ready for another clean-living day.
You know those days when there’s blood oozing up from the shore-holes and coffins are surfacing of their own accord, due to hydrostatic pressure, and flotation. With uplift. And buoyancy?
Well, it’s that kind of a day, and I couldn’t be bothered doing much. I have a ticket for the match tomorrow against Clermont-Auvergne, though it seems I’ll be the only one at the game. Everyone I met so far is ticketless, and somehow they’ve all started calling me fuckin bastard though I did nothing to most of them.
I bumped into Parkenstein at the Market, buying his fish, as he does every week.
Well? I said
Jesus, he replied, the town is full of goose-milkers, heron-stranglers and baldy grow-badlies!
You seem a little distracted, I told him.
Well, I’m a little shook, he agreed, shaking. I was at the do in the Damned Liar last night.
Oh right. The annual, perpetual Mousie Daly Memorial Cup for the pheasant with the longest tail.
The very same.
We stood there for a minute or two, contemplating the hail of frogs pelting from a turgid green sky.
I’d say that’s down for the day, mused Parkenstein, though I prefer it to the fuckin locusts. Anyway, the award ceremony didn’t go too well.
Go away! I said.
I won’t, he snapped. Go away yourself.
I only meant, get the fuck outta here, I appeased. Tell me what happened.
Well, the birds were produced, and the judging panel examined them, and finally they pronounced a winner.
And that was … ?
Father Esteban Obispo, the renowned missionary priest-bricklayer from Knocknagoshel.
Oh no! I could see what was coming. Doesn’t Bishop Philippe Despard-Cochon, the world-famous Belgian Inquisitor, always have an entry in that?
Indeed he does, confirmed Parkenstein. And last night was no different. The Bishop was full of his usual lethal cocktail of methylated spirit, Absinthe, Bailey’s Irish Cream and motorcycle lubricant.
He objected? I ventured.
Objected? Look here, Obispo, he roared. You’re a damn cheat, fraud, charlatan and liar. Unless I’m much mistaken, that’s the same bird with which you won this competition last year. And I’ll wager it spent the last twelve months in a fuckin fridge!!
Parkenstein removed a frog from inside his collar and grimaced.
Well, Obispo wasn’t going to take that, so he walked up and punched the Bishop in the face. They ended up rolling around in a welter of blood, teeth, dandruff and semen-encrusted cassocks.
An ugly scene, I said.
Ugly indeed, agreed Parkenstein.
And did the cops come?
Oh God, no. They were all at the annual doughnut-eating contest in the Fat Lazy Bastard.
He scowled at the sky as the noise of splatting frogs became a steady hiss. I’d get on a better jacket if I were you. It looks like there’s cockroaches on the way.