Impress Press

DICKSON BOBBLES

by

Mark Irwin

Preface (as in an Eucharist prayer)

Written by the character Sergius Gilmore, as a clarification of the garbled mess the author has made of this important spike in Mankind’s evolution.

There must be thirty-two million or so ways to differentiate correct from incorrect. It was my old friend Pliny V who so very often spent great quantities of time on the numerical accumulation of this minimal factor.

Whenever I ventured to his environment, always, there he would be, talking
to this acquaintance, that stranger - anyone he could grasp (and just as often to some he could not).

But I Sergius Gilmore, yours truly, was most certainly the most frequent. Hour upon hour, passing vast quantities of time amongst the many and varied dissertations (and digressions) of the most profound considerations - correct and incorrect.

It was from these modest beginnings that all of the following flutters forth (or fifth). With this foul alli-pun combo as ample proof I need speak only slightly concerning your needs to consider only the moments for what they be; not more, as per instance a meaning, a significance of consequence - a story. No and forsooth, please, criticism give not, even to the end; such small and private convolutions concerning correct and incorrect, concerning all dilemmas, being the only point taken. Such joyous asininities making we all a Stephen Leacock.

To give one slightly greater push towards ascension ( of myself, Pliny V, young Dickson Bobbles and all else unworthy of such desire) heed much more emphatically than you do now the words of this story.

One of the very earliest of our conclusions on the correct/incorrect horn transpired the instant we decided on our personal and yet collective brilliance within this endeavour. Irrevocably it is such, and though the acknowledgement of our collective brilliance must certainly strike you odd, it is of course no more than a natural repercussion of the general misdirection through which we speak: I mean the very substance of our responsibility as characters in this endeavour has necessitated our having some workable authority.

Thus, with this minor proprietary dilemma of absolute power resolved we can progress to discussions and re-distributions of all things relevant, to their categories. For example, Pliny V and I at great lengths, great widths, great volumnar dimensions within the issue of women, and children; not whether they should be allowed to bear them, rather, whether or not men should as well. The both of us, fast friends to the last, would go on, and on, and on; figuratively for weeks, literally for eons. With respect to this man bearing child dilemma we eventually felt unanimously self-searching enough to decide that men should bear children and women wear peni. (It is interesting to note how men acquired ovaries and swollen mammaries shortly after this decision).

Such a modest statement of our accomplishments ( though not to be thought of as insignificant - the least of all just as important).
And with myself and Pliny V being of modest personage I tarry not, moving directly to the heart of this brief introduction. This occurring shortly before Pliny V's death; he was I think, a 'little' overdue - nine months and three milennia to be imprecise. Regardless, the meat of this message concerns his discourse on 'hitching hiking' - as I believe it's called. At any rate it was close to the first of those nine months (Pliny V being particularly neurotic at this time) when he mentioned to me this 'hitching hiking' thing: Standing there in the rain wearing the costume of a particularly eclectic human; whenVolkswagon pulls up driving a man. Pliny V says it's really raining and Volkswagon tells him he's a shithead for standing in it. Pliny V, apologizing while maintaining conversation, mentions how fortunate it is that man is water cooled anyway. “A stroke of genius,” shouts Volkswagon as he revs man, 'gun it! gun it! gun it!'.

Like I've said (and as yet with no apology) Pliny V related this
to me while in his first overdue month. I, for my part, didn't make a big issue of his neurotic yearnings for psychosis but rather confirmed it privately as what I knew to be the perverted result of his private frustrations within (you guessed it) correct and incorrect: And, of course, deciding privately that to confirm Pliny V's yearnings, though intrinsically incorrect, was the thing to do as far as 'punctuation', a character little known in this effort, might be concerned. In short, I told him up front and to the right that getting wet in the rain is adequately correct; with respect to each other and yet not to themselves. I have this ability for clarification.
Pliny V encountered myself again in the second month, informing me at this time that he had overheard the following conversation bouncing hollowly off a fallopian connection within his (or someone's) brain. It had to do with bridges, he had received information that something was going to be bridged. Now he didn't know what and he didn't particularly care except that someone had as well mentioned the name of Dickson Bobbles in the course of this bridge conversation; Dickson being a good friend from Pliny V's first millennium - right from embryo, I'm told. Dickson was, basically, evolved as, 'Young man upon whom the world skipped’: This preliminary observation of Mr. Bobbles acquiesced by myself through concern for Pliny V's particularly precarious state at the time.

Further, so Pliny V related, was this Dickson Bobbles character a character; physically an odditron, mentally digested oats and as pertains to his personality - the forthcomings of a toothless shark. All of this, I should point out on Pliny V's behalf, no more than a very time oriented and subjective opinion subject to change without notice. And on the off-chance you question the preceding character assassination of this Dickson Bobbles, then taste right now a little of the insides of his brain pan:

'Oh. Yeh,.. well thanks. See you.. Thanks again.' Yeh thanks, where the fuck am I? What the fuck was that? A blind man's dream? Lord! Must be the rain… Shrivelling experience, smart'n up brain I got enough problems with this fuckin' rain. Where the fuck am I? What the fuck, was that a dream - when? There's nothing here. Why the fuck am I standing here. I've seen places where there was nothin', but here, there rea11y is nothin'. Yeh nothin' - the fucking kkk prob'ly hung their niggers here. Poor bastards, last outta the trees I guess. Okay, get organized man. Get yourself together. Are you together ? FUCK!!! I don't even know. Maybe a fagg' t’ll come along. I can entice him with my body. Let 'im have me. If that's what faggots do. Wish that spiritual dick was here now. Watch him meditate the rain away. How’d he do it… OMA,OMA,MANO…OMA,MANO,PANO…SANO…FLUSHO…FUCK OFF RAIN!!!
Enough of this fool Bobbles? But please, there's more, quoth I, Sergius Gilmore, as per through and with the noted Pliny V.

“Thanks ma'am. Sure is wet... Volkswagons are really snug little cars”. Fuck Adolf Hitler. “How far you goin'?”

“Springton, about five miles. It's not very far but I guess every little bit helps”.
I should rape her. Yeh, steal her car, break into a hardware store, get a couple thousand rounds a' ammunition an' shoot ev'rybody I see in a fuckin' vo1kswagon. “You wou1dn't have any idea where there's a place to sleep in Spindon?'

“Springton. No, it's very small. Four corners in all. A dot on the map.”
Yeh, like your brain. “Oh well, I've been pretty lucky with rides lately.” What a fuckin’ liar. I’m gonna rape the old bitch. Look lady. Stop the fucking car… STOP THE CAR! Thanks. I'm gonna rape ya. Don't get excited, this kinda thing happens all the time.
Aaaigh!!! Help me! Get Away!!!

Lots of people really enjoy it, the only excitement they ever get. Especially if you're from Spin'don.

HELP! Please… (intermittent sobbing, intermittent pressurepointing, intermittent…) No. NO!
Dickson climbs out of the car, bumping himself appropriately as he ropes his imagination.

“Sorry I don’t go any farther than this.”

“No problem ma 'am. Thanks for the ride. Take care.” Fuckin' rain.

To say the very least Pliny V was and possibly still is, much upset at the experience, and, as I noted previously, the relating. And again I brought control to his quavering presence, assuring him of correctness - of Dickson Bobbles not being at fault for Hitler's invention of the volkswagon.

I pause now, at this point, for at just this instant in the rendering there is a shuddering tear, the drug hits as I reel after Pliny V, clumpity clump into and through the distant veil, flowing in sweeping part, backwards, both now subject to our total immersion within this or some unholy biosphere.

But not before I conclude this preface, this competent perversion. For I must, before summary, relate the good and true recounting of one Ackberg Quack. Ah, Ackberg, now there was a man; gosh and golly an organization of non-prurient interests. Founded nine trillion years ago
(9 x 1012 French or American - 9 x 1018 British or German) through the untiring efforts of the righteously disgruntled, dishonoured and de-esteemed Ack Quack (' berg' added as entitlement through the founder's own desire for a more prestigious name, one along the lines of 'Van' or 'Von' these unfortunately too commonplace for the already prestigious beginnings, Ack Quack. What a man. Never to have known him personally was an astounding blessing (praise be to tombstones). And beyond this elementary awareness it is not a large journey to depreciate his epitaphic exhumings upon and about all things trod (feets-wise). Oh yes, and intellect, akin to well set peat moss, marvellous endowment in the areas of non-accomplishment.

“Incorrect in all ways. Most definitely,” snorts Pliny V, “ the man was an outrage. He should have been incinerated, put into proper perspective.”

The two of us are quickly abstracted from there with our passing over of Pliny V's castration at the hand of his fabled rapist friend Dickson Bobbles. Dickson himself involved in his own attempts to free himself via Habeas Corpus Non Non Presentere (as best I recall): A painful procedure and one which apparently did Bobbles no real good; already having been labeled as a result of previous indiscretions. Nevertheless Ackberg Quack himself put forth a few bolstering words on Bobbles' behalf. And of course you want to know how? Or why? How I cannot explain, but why is plausible-and with brevity, for Ackberg Quack, or Ack Quack as his intimates referred to him, was a good friend of nobody. Dickson Bobbles for a certainty being nobody, it was not a problem. I noted this to Pliny V as another point for incorrect or, in his own words, “Another point for incorrect.”

And with the veil that is this drug drawing all of us farther beyond everywhere we wander, now, you wonder as to the significance of your tolerance within this meaningless digression on irrelevance - the point of big feet, ombstones, Pliny V's castration at some point, a nine trillion year old institution, an illusory rape, 2 volkswagons, a court room, a name Ack Quack (with the 'berg' added), an unholy biosphere, Adolf Hitler, Springton (Sprindon, Sprin'don), a meditative transgression, a preamble within correct, incorrect and the various undecipherable degrees of knowing the answer - what have you got? Irrelevence? An introduction full of it? Irresponsibility? A carry-on that pervades the entire observation? Incoherence? The backbone of this fantasy fiction?

In short, the steep climb, the swift descent. Ladies and gentlemen, I, Sergius Gilmore, on behalf of all my compatriots, give you over to the for once and never of insomnia's nemesis, Mr. Dickson Bobbles…

***

With the preface being over I should mention that, in the interest of reader comprehension/comfort, it is recommended the preface be read after the story or, better yet, not at all.

***

WELL WITH MY FORCED CONDESCENSION

Well with my forced condescension 'to the rights of preface finished I shall begin this untidy task by informing you that the last summer Dickson remembers occurred when he used to say things like: ‘Did you hear the one about the Fuckawi Birds?'

Then, he was a tall, angular bodied, long-hair. Prone to unrelenting movements against the force of his own effort - a seeming congenital phenomenon.

'Where's the boss!” Demands the flashy-tied fat man, “ Who's in charge of this dump?”
Dickson follows the swaggering tyrant through the office doors, tripping over the step with a half-stumble into a pile of oily rags. “Sorry. I just work here. I don't know the boss, never seen ' em. Nobody's in charge.”

The fat man, one George Conklin, pulls forward the lapels on his shiny suit. “Look punk!” He nodshis head spastically towards his car. “You fucked my car up,” shaking his soiled lapels like elephant ears, “and look at this! Look at this!!”

“Dickson.” Replies Dickson, stepping back, slipping over the same step, re-stepping the step.
The fat man, George Conklin, impressive in his lack of control, “Look! Whatefver your name is. I’m supposed to be in Detroit right now! What are y ou goanna do about?”

“Well Mister, I really need this job. Part of my probationary rehab. I been havin’ real bad luck with jobs lately. I been tryin’ ta change my attitude.” Dickson shuffles his innocence. “I mean, don’t get so excited about all this. I mean their probably havin’ a riot or somethin’ there anyway. I mean, I probably saved you from getting’ killed. I mean,..” Dickson’s lips pucker together. I been fair. I been honest. What’s this guy tryin’ ta do. Make trouble for me? Prick.
George Conklin, still flapping his lapels, has his face in a sneer at the pout before him. “Listen sonny.”

“Dickson.”

The fat man takes his hands from his hand from his lapel and sticks his forefinger directly directly before Dickson’s eyes. “Listen boy. I’m gonna call the cops out here right now!”

“Why don’t you call the fucking FBI.”

George Conklin’s head twists sideways as if to check his hearing.

“Do you have any idea what a drag it is kissin’ pigs’ asses all day?”

George’s Conklin’s finger begins to shake. The irate fat man has Dickson by the throat now,

“You skinny punk! If you don’t smarten up I’ll do more than strangle you, you stupid! You ruined my car! My suit! You better do somethin’ about it!”
So Dickson kicks him in the balls, hard.

The relief man arrives. Short, bouncy, bald - a falsetto voiced excitable. “What the heck's goin' on Dickson?” Bouncing around the two of them like a spastic piece of complexioned rubber” Is this a stick-up? Did you call the cops? Where's his gun?'

Dickson slips down the step on his way out of the office. “Yeh. Yeh. Yeh. Do it.”

“Do what?' Shouts the relief man, now flourishing a windshield scraper over the crouch holding crumple of George Conklin.

Dickson is on the tarmac, slipping as he tries to avoid the rubber tubing, Ringgg - Ring - Rg. “I don't know. Call the cops. Kill 'im.” I don't care. What the fuck. I don't care. What's the use. I don't need it.

The excitable is at the door, shouting after the disappearing Dickson, “Maybe you should stay. Help me watch 'im.”

“ Naw, he's harmless. If he tries anything suck on his brain. You'll be a hero chub. Your big chance. Don't blow it. See ya.” Bonk, I'm gone Pliny. And it's still rainin'. Lord!
It's at the first red light that Dickson's car stalls and great clouds of steam begin to climb over his hood. Ratcrap! In the pourin' rain. Ratcrap! The lights change and horns begin calling him from behind. He climbs out, opens the hood, starts screaming at himself, kicks the bumper with his shin and limps away.

SHORT RAIN
FAT RAIN
SMOOCHY RAIN
OR
DICKSON’S COMING TOGETHER

Everything's wet. Everything! Lord! What a way to spend your time. I'll see Noah and his fuckin' ark in a minute.

”Of course Dicky baby it's a lot better than all the bu1lshit back there at ald Ack Quack College, eh? Dicky bab?.”

Dickson rolls backward off his crossed legs, his eyes encompassing Sergius from the feet up. 'Fuck off Sergius, what happened ta yer stutter, elephant head?'

Bobble of Sergius. Dickson rolls over on his stomach, likes it, rolls several more times. The spinning of the grass, sky and people make him dizzy. His nose starts running. He stops rolling. Here comes a car. Here car… Koochy… Koochy. Looks like another Volkswagon. Lord I hate 'em. Fuckin' Germans. I don't care if it's a fuckin' go-kart… Here go-cart. Koochy… Koochy…

The bug pulls up a hundred yards past him, slithering sideways into the gravel. Dickson sloshes in an awkward canter up to the machine, splatting like a drowned sponge onto the driver, throughout the car and into the seat. “Sure is rainin' hard eh mister ?” The driver wonders.

“Thanks for the ride. Volkswagons are really snug little machines. I dig em a lot.”

The driver mumbles inaudibles.

“Eh?” Dickson is wringing the cuffs of his sweater onto the floor. “Beg your pardon?”

The driver shuffles in his seat, “ said, the wife’s - waiting for her to meet a transport in it.” He laughs while he says it. Watching Dickson out of the corner of his eye, wondering about the wisdom of stopping.

“Oh. Heh. Heh.” His shoes off now, wringing his socks. “That’s nice.” You stupid cunt! You're prob' ly the one who'll meet the transport. With me beside you. Flicking the water from his face and hair onto the windshield, the driver, various other peripheries. Lord I hate volkswagons. The stupid cunt, he's tryin' ta kill me. prob'ly goin' the other way, saw me and turned around. Stupid cunt. Mopping himself up with his just wrung handkerchief - I'll sleep. That·s what I'll do. Sleep. Never know if it happens.

The volkswagon slithers to a stop. “This is where I turn off.”

Wretching up, shivering out of his almost sleeping slouch. “Oh. Yeh, well that’s great man.” Musta been all of fifty feet. “Thanks. Seeya.” He steps out of the car. “Thanks again.” Hope you meet a transport soon. Where the fuck am I?

“Didn't the orderly remind you that Doctor Rotstein has been waiting to see you?”

“No. I been busy. Come back tomorrow.”

“Up on your feet, right now mister.”

Dickson swings around on his back, trying for a peak up her dress. “You’ve got one second or I' ll send for an orderly”

The nurse turns and walks off with Dickson right behind her. I love ya I love ya I love ya pink panties. Let's date. Let's fall in love. Call me jock rash. Pink panties. Ooh la la.

MRS. VIERMA SAYS GOODBYE

I’m getting’ outta here. Enoughs enough. I gotta have more goin’ for me than this crap.
Dickson didn’t pack a great many things; Dickson didn’t have a great many things.

“Diston!” A hard, grating work camp voice, “vone vor ya!!” Mrs. Vierema, a once refugeed European ‘lady made good’ of multinational vintage; someone secure in her view of 'it just not an easy life und ve all got trouble', shouts more fully, more urgently, “Diston!! TELEVONE!!!" Like nothing else exists but Vone's need of Dickson.

Dickson drops his two shirts on the bed, “YES! COMING!!” Then, with that same congenital ability, slips and bangs his head on the doorknob as he grabs for it.

“Vat’s zamata? Vat you do up dere?

'Nothin' Holding the bannister rail with his hand, while he shakes his head in pain, bounce tripping down the stairs. Nothin'. Hit my head.”

“My God und Jesus save me. You scared za life from me.”

“Please! Gimme the phone.”

“You should know better dan ta do dat vit my heart.”

Dickson turns the bottom step and knocks the phone stand over as he tries to grab the receiver from her hand. Mrs. Vierema gives a shuddery little jump that moves more of her each time the receiver bounces. She backs a little out of the hallway with a slow shaking of her head, her body pulling itself in automatic empathy.

“Hello Dickson?”

Yep. God himself. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

“That’s nice.” Idiot.

“Me! Bob! At the station!”

“So? The fat pork rape ya?”

Mrs. Vierema's body jerks upward in an involuntary spastic rotation, her arms flinging outward. "Diston!!' She crosses herself several times as Dickson jerks around to face her, contorting his face into silent frustrations.

“Listen Dickson, the cops were here. I think they're lookin' for ya. The guy you beat up was pretty bad pissed off.”

“Who looking?” Mrs. Vierema ‘s head starts moving like she’s tunignin for telepathy. “Who vants ta know vere you liv? Who?” Her wagging finger finds its way to Dickson’s face. “I run a propra house here. You tell dem dat!”

“Shut up!” Dickson is grimacing, shaking his his body like the fierce thing he isn't.
Mrs. Vierema crosses herself several more times, unconsciously edging herself further from Dickson's agitation.

Bob, standing at the station pay phone, begins a short-stepping, nervous dance; his shoes twitching back and forth like their dodging each other. “They'll catch you Dickson!” Reliving all the television of which he'd been the inert recipient, “There's nowhere ta run ta!”

“Who's runnin?” You idiot. The fuckin' Edge of Night! “I'm leavin’.”

Mrs. Vierema gasps air until her face looks about to explode. “You leavink?” Her breath trails the words in a winnowing passage of airas she smacks her palm to her forehead. “Vat 'bout my room?” Moving forward a few steps, emboldened by something more important than her personal safety. “Vat 'bout my notis?”

“The guy wasn't really trying to hold us up! It's a mistake!” Dickson can imagine Bob’s nervous little jig. “Don’t run! You can't get away! Nobody ever does!”

“No shit.”

“Mrs Vierema rushes her hand from her heart to her mouth.

“That’s just amazin’.” Click and Dickson is bounding up the stairs, three at a time.

“How do I find anoder boarda on no notis?”

Slipping at the top, taking that step with his chin.

“It's two veeks notis! You know datI I vant two veeks!”

Dickson throws his shirts into the bag, zips it without catching a finger and heads back down. I'm at the bottom of the stairs. I throw the old dynamite a phantom Gale Sayers, slip through her, hallway, doors, more doors, bonk. I'm outside - she's suckin' wind in there and it's still rainin' - Fuck!

AND THERE UPON HIM

And there upon him, out of the nothingness, a form appeared, unearthly, devil and god - the Demiurge - another volkswagon. Bonk.

“Did you wish to see me Doctor? I'm frightfully, what a card, busy. I can give you five in the eye, ten in the knee, three more in the shin and hee hee hee, maybe five minutes.

Doctor Rotstein is well trained, very self-assured; a competent man- in possession of a strong aura: Not an enjoyable thing for anyone in this odyssey - Dickson, Pliny V, Sergius - not even 'ol' Carl', an elderly gentleman whom, I'm told, is to be arriving soon.

Yeh, right enough. This character Rotstein is gonna gum the works, righto. I've told ya' before, told ya' all about these intellectual types. An' ya' just keep tellin' me it's okay.

Sergius gulps in the distance, “Sssssoo….rry Ddddddick…son.”

Doctor Rotstein leans forward over his desk, indicates a chair for Dickson. “But you asked to see me Dickson. What can I do for you?”

Just another smart-assed fuckin' Doctor this Rotstein character. You gotta watch these intellectual power belts. Right Doc, I mean you get inta a lotta heavy stuff, right? “Oh yeh, well I'm afraid I'm still only able to give you maybe five minutes. I do have other demands on my time.” Dickson turns mean. “And I'm tired of all the bullshit stories, I want some real factual get your teeth into it communication. Understand? Jelly-Ass!”

Doctor rotstein sinks back into his chair. “I see.” He responds calmly as he nods towards the previously offered chair.

Dickson drops himself dejectedly into the chair. That's right Doc, fuck me up by bein’ all intelligent and composd. Yeh, we really need ya' here. “I'm telling ya'. I have these dreams, two of ' em, a volkswagon and Temple Truth.” FUCK! Wha' d I tell him that for?

“Very interesting Dickson.” Doctor Rotstein smiles reassuringly, “Which one would you like to tell me about first?”

Dickson becomes pensive, physically sorting himself into an articulate posture before beginning,

“Well the volkswagon, it belonged to big mamma fat ass. It's rainin' ya see and when I get in she tells me not to worry about her interior cause volkswagons are really tough little cars. She says her husband told her and he oughta know 'cause he's a trucker, drives a big tandem. I say to her that that's nice; and does she wanna fuck. Well she says she's not goin' all that far - naturally - but I'm welcome to stay the night. They got an extra bed. Thanks a lot I says, ya' missed your chance ta fuck the King of Siam. Just then this big tandem trailer comes highballin' outa the rain and smack. Creamo. Ya know what I mean?” Dickson finishes as abruptly as he startedandjusts sits there looking expectantly at the therapist.

Doctor Rotstein only now moves slightly in his position, passing a slow 'hmmm' between his teeth.

Dickson’s jaw drops. “Well Doc?” Yet more expectantly, “that’s it. I mean, don't ya see? It's gonna happen, just like it was supposed ta.'

'Hmm. Yes. Why don't you tell me about temple truth while I think about this other.'
Dickson looks at him suspiciously, “Did you capitalize that?”

“Capitalize what?”

“Temple Truth.”

“Should I?”

“Most definitely.”

“Okay. Consider it capitalized.”

“Temple Truth, huh?” Dickson turns very boyish.” “Ah Doc, I was just actin' crackers on ya. Ya know? For a joke? I already been ta Temple Truth. Already been.” Dickson pulls back his lips.

“See these teeth I don't have? Left 'em there.
Doctor Rotstein smiles and nods while he pushes a button on his console.

“Well Doc? What about my extra terrestrial vision? Wanna talk about that? Don’cha see? It all fits together.”

An orderly opens the door as Dickson rises in his best Pavlovian manner. “But ya'll think about it won't ya Doc?”

Once outside Dickson walks a few hundred yards in solitude before climbing the fence he swears isn't there. Whatever unfulfilled endeavours it is for others, it ain't for me. I'm not shorta nothin'. He stretches out on the grass, again, the essence of the day coursing through him - like a trillion neutrinos. Just gotta drift on down this road here. It's not partic'larly recognizable, still, astounding impulses. Sensations flooding my senses in their maligned re-arrangement. Enough. He rolls over on his back. No whimsical farting around here, the sun blinding him as he looks directly into it - this is Carl Ferguson's gaseous envelope to be sure!

“Pssst. Dickey baby. Pssst!”

Double pssst – must be important.

“Wanna be in a group together?”

Fuck me. Long nosed ol’ Fergie’s gonna sniff it out.

“Were you saying something Mr. Bobbles?”

Dickson stares absently for a full minute. It’s his style, his disease. Then it comes back from somewhere else. Yeh Ferg. Just asked someone to fuck me but I can ask for you too. No trouble at all. “Excuse me Sir. Just trying to get our group together - just a bit over eager I guess.” What with my plans for some in class de Sade experiments - you inert fart!

CHOO CHA CHA

“That’s him!” The two of them standing there, mumbling out of the sides of their mouths, obviously not obvious, winos or cops -Bert and Trenchcoat. “Naw Bert. Too neat, too short and too much luggage. Our bird'll be travellin' light ya know.”
Bert grunts out of the side of his mouth. He knows.

“Look at that Bert. What a set of tits man.”

Bert spastics his head around, widening and narrowing his eyes, his feet moving and unmoving themselves in their own peculiar anticipatory shuffle. Realizing his own behaviour, he stops, pulls his newspaper from under his arm, unfolds it and takes it methodically up before his face, his eyes just scanning the top. “Where?”
'Tits' is directly in front of them now, no more than ten feet away as Trenchcoat points directly at her, watching Bert's eyes as they move methodically down his arm to the tip of his index finger.

“Wow. Look at ‘em jiggle man! Man!”

Tits' looks directly at Bert, a sarcastic smile spreading across her face, “Pig.”

Bert pulls his paper up over his face. “Wha’d she mean by that? You think she knows were cops?”

“No, but I know why you made plainclothes.”

“Why?”

Trenchcoat walks off abruptly as he speaks, “Cause you’d be too hard to spot in uniform Bert.”

”What?”

Trenchcoat grimaces as Bert, baffled for only a moment, rolls up his paper and quicksteps afterhis partner, grabbing a last lustful glance at ‘Tits’’ fading ass

“How much to Vancouver?”

“Day coach?”

“Yeh. How much?”

“Uh, six fifty five.”

Dickson drops his bag as he pulls crumpled bills from his pocket. “Okay. When does it leave?”
The ticket agent pushes air through his lips, his mouth anal, in a wind passing way. He raises his left hand, clenched except for the middle finger, pointing it to the huge flashing timetable elevated in the middle of the station. Dickson ignores the finger, turns and bumps directly into Trenchcoat.

”Is your name Bobbles?”

“Uh,..” Dickson jerks himself back against the ticket counter.

Bert arrives beside his partner with a loud chaotic, “Police Officers! Fereeze! “ As he runs

directly into Dickson, pushing hims sideways along the counter. The others in the area ease back now, joining one another as non-fugitives. Dickson is left behind, again.

”Listen fellas, you’re makin’ a big mistake.” Dickson keeps inching backwards along the counter as Trenchcoat begins to fade around the back of the crowd.

“You’re charged with assault causin’ bodily harm.” Says Bert, pushing his forearm back and forth like he was directing a small truck through a large space. ”Anything you say can be taken down and used in evidence.” He motions to the floor. “Now, assume the position, sonny.”

”I didn’t do nothin’! The guy hit me first! You crazy?” Dickson turns and charges wildly along the corridorbetween the crowd and the ticket counter.

Bert follows at an equally uncontrolled gallop, gun over his head, hand shaking back and forth as though on fire, Halt! Police!’ The crowd falls further back, stumbling and shrieking as Bert steps on and around those already fallen victims of Dickson’s mad charge. “Halt! Police!”

Dickson breaks past the counter, in front of the rowed doors, streaking past the first few before Trenchcoat steps out before him at the other end. Dickson halts abruptly, his feet stumbling under him as he turns and charges seven or eight strides into and partially through exit six.

The glass and Dickson have splattered one another indiscriminately. Trenchcoat walks through the non-existent door and kneels beside the face down figure of Dickson. Dickson makes low gurgling noises and slow twitchy movements as Trenchcoat watches the blood seep from him.

Bert and his gun arrive and begin to create a one man cordon with his own impressive semi-circular motions. “Okay folks. It’s all over. Keep back now. That’s it.” He turns from his impressive crowd, gun still in hand, peter-pointing it towards Dickson. “We got him, eh partner?”

Trenchcoat is still looking at thegrowing pool of blood as he replies, “Yeh, we got him all right.” His voice doesn’t sound proud. “Now put it away and get an ambulance.”

"Yeh. You tell him Trenchcoat. Button your fly.”

IN ALL FAIRNESS

In all fairness, here’s Temple Truth; two versions, with the thirst, first.

“Hello? Is that you God? Hello?? Hello??? Oh, Well I'd like ta
talk ta him. Oh. Well is this Temple Truth? Oh. Well how do I get in touch? Oh.”

So he went, presented here with the same melodramatic attitude as sponsored the plan's inception, limping into the courtroom, carrying one hundred and eighty-seven stitches, about forty pounds of bandages and an ankle cast - his ankle breaking while being transferred from stretcher to bed.

In his whole life he'd never been in a courtroom before, so, despite his less than one hundred per cent ability, he was immediately absorbed by the encounter: The judge, a small old man, white haired and skinnily boned; his flesh having long since disappeared - peered at him through an old man's horn rimmed spectacles. Still and all though, Dickson figured the old guy to be okay. Nor did he particularly mind the stares of the clerks and hangers on – and they were staring. That's right. Look at me. How can I be the bad guy again? Lord! But the short fat one, 'Mr. George Conklin’, him and his lawyer, sitting there, glaring. Lord! They wanna eat me! Crap on you, gobblers! And yet Dickson manages, 'Keeps his cool' as he reaches his seat; him and his public defender – front row center.

But, it is misleading to let you think this kind of control, order and fair play lasted long. For no sooner did Dickson glance over at the empty jury box than he saw them, all of them , and more: Big mama fat ass, Temple Truth, Sergius, pliny V, about nine million volkswagons, the Springton lady, half a dozen white hooded cross burners, Ackberg Quack, garbled mantras, Adolf Hitler, mole-headed old Mrs. Vierema, the FBI, Carl Ferguson, a large pair of pink panties - all this and more, pouring out of the jury box ad infinitum …

“I'M INNOCENT!” Screams Dickson, kicking his chair from under him, pointing hysterically with both hands at the exploding jury box, “THEY'RE ALL IN IT TOGETHER!!!” Knocking his counsel to the floor, “LEMME 0UTTA HERE!” He is scrambling over the top of the table, stumbling and banging through things as he trys to get to old judge before the contents of the jury box reaches him. “HELP ME JUDGE! YOUR HONOUR! YOUR HOLINESS! IT'S THEM! IT'S THEM!”

HEY DICKEY BABY

“Hey Dickey baby, havin’ a good summer?”

Sergius! Why the fuck do I encounter this asshole every time I try to relax a little. Where's he really from?

“Sergius Gilmore, clown of the KKK… Here from nnnno…where?”

Fuck! How did he find out about the fence? It used to be nice here, I could be alone, at least from Sergius and the others. Just the fence, the grass and some trees, a few, not many mind you. But no people! They all stayed back there, even Sergius - the gelatined mass, more towards the buildings. Maybe, I'd say, about two or three feet away. They thought the fence there. Fools! I knew that before though, about them being fools I mean. Long before now people were fools. I mean really, not even understanding the purpose of a fence. There they stand, side by side, and next to one another, all along the very edge. Standing there but doin' nothin'. Except of course for assholes like Sergius. Look at him standing here in front of me. Sergius, you are a gelatined asshole!

“'I don't remember summer Sergius. You know that. And you obviously don't remember where the fence is do you?”

“Sergius jello-shuffles to a stutter that emits nothing, “Rrrrot-stein,..”

No you don't. But I remember, and I remember the rope too. Strung up on those beams ,way, way up - a long way down. It'd been there since I was a kid, since forever. Yeh. I remember the rope too. Used to swing on it; then it was a rope for haulin' up hay and swingin.' On. But that day I went back there, just layin' there, starin' up in a floatin' dream, the barn creakin' like some great galleon under a light wind, floatin' about in the sky, with me upended, starin' down through the bottom, into the heavens themselves. It was so little effort to climb up into that fat rounded belly of a hold, knot the hay rope around my neck, stop thinkin' about the cold water as I drop down, down, down, jerk-hangin' upwards from the great hulk of this ship- suspended upside down from the heavens as they poured through the wood withered cracks of that roof…

“…wants to s..ss..sssee you.”

Sergius is pleased with himself and so inept generally that Dickson takes great pleasure in shattering Sergius with a new dilemma. “I'm busy. I can't see him right now. I'm leavin'…”

“Nnno! Yyy…ou must! He ttt..old me you mmm..”

I can't think of why I didn’t do it that time. What saved me? Could have been the headlines, 'YOUNG MAN INTENT ON SUICIDE - SAVED BY LETHARGY.’
Yep. That's when I did it. After those headlines flashed before me. I wonder why I never told Doc Rotstein about it. It's prob'ly the one thing he'd believe. Yeh, find out I was dead and release me. Yep. Not gonna tell 'im cause that's a hard contract to fill at the worst of times…
“…must…”

* * *

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Writers Welcome Blog!...A John Austin blog: Advertorials Pump Life Into Print

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Dickson Bobbles - A short Story

Last Of The Good Guys by Mark Irwin