A Symphony unto Oneself

A Symphony unto Oneself

Chapter 6

     The Story The Authors
Whitey gonum die [sang Injun Joe, cavorting lasciviously back and forth across the stage]
Gonum go'p to that Happy Huntem Ground in the Sky-yi-yi
Gonum wake up trampled under de buf-f-lo-o
Den we sendum on down to de land be-low

The barmaids went wild, shrieking and screaming at the lamŽ-clad figure leaving absolutely nothing to subtlety or the imagination as he gyrated his crotch against the mike stand up on the stage.

In dat endless ice and snow [continued Injun Joe, in a husky whisper, the band riding their instruments round the quieter edge of a subdued rhythm, waiting for the chorus to come round so they could really let loose]
Feedum to de Wen-de-go
Ain't no Win-neh-be-e-go
Can save-um from dis doom

And with that Injun Joe moved elegantly to the side of the stage as the spot light narrowed itās beam around his magnificent countenance, he gracefully exited to stage left. The crowd rose to its feet in a crescendo of adulation. The band went into a romantic up tempo version of "Over the Rainbow" , a lone spot cast an empty oval at centre stage. The crowd continued to express itās appreciation in wave after wave of roiling applause. There would be no encore tonight. Ignacious
The crowd began to realize that Injun was not going to return and they began to stomp their feet and shout angrily at the band who, being the troopers that they were, kept playing cheerful tunes. Someone, somewhere in the back of the assemblage threw an empty Corona bottle towards the stage where it smacked the side of the bass player's head, knocking him out cold. The crowd exploded into anarchy and rushed the stage. They smashed all the musicians instruments over the musicians heads and then the riot poured out into the streets. The peaceful townspeople pined for their lost Pencilthinmoustache. cuddles
"Cut to camera six!",screamed Mr Tickles in the control room. "And for fuck's sake get Pencilthinmoustache out there!"
There was a flurry of activity in the wings as the numerous assistants and their assistants scurried to do Mr Tickles bidding. Outside the uneasy rumblings of the massed audience built to a roar of indignation.
"Get him out there NOW!!
The crowd went wild with applause as soon as Pencilthinmoustache hit the stage. His arrow peppered corpse being strapped to a dolly wheeled out by a pair of bikini clad and buxom twins. The very foundations of the building shook with the thunder of the applause. In the control room even Mr Tickles managed to produce a glimmer of a smile. He hadn't seen a crowd reaction like this since he'd toured Gilligan's brain in a glass jar of formaldahyde back in '82.
"Ladies -- and -- Gentlemen," keened the anxious emcee --
Beginning with a series of clumsy, jerking steps not uncommensurate with the broken and (already, for it was the hottest day of July, and the flies were busy) stinking state of his body, the reanimated pride of Scotland Yard set forth upon the arduous journey of nine feet between himself and the mike stand. Blood bubbled from his mouth, from the hole in his throat, and from a wide variety of tears in his flesh from which the shafts of arrows or the jagged ends of broken bones protruded...
"The Trenton Scalping and Potlatch lounge extends a warm welcome to that esteemed son of the moors, the lift, the torch, and the clue --"
It was hard going, with two multiply-fractured legs, but he was English, he had that inbred British get-go all the way to the (now sorely depleted and ever depleting, sigh) marrow in his bones. "Offi-caaaaaaaaah --- " [and here a rousing drumroll]
He tripped once -- spraying the hushedly expectant front rows with a wash of blood and bits of flesh and adipose-tissue -- lurching forward and just managing to catch himself on the microphone stand, with -- unfortunately -- his broken (left) hand taking most of the force of impact. Bones ground together and he nearly blacked out from the pain. Where had he just been? Hadn't there been a bright white light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, and the sound of a deliriously Muzak'd version of Nena's "99 Luftballons" swelling around him like angelic choirs? Ah well; must have been a dream...
"Pencil! thin! moustache!"
The crowd howled, each hoping, in his or her heart of hearts, that there would be lions, and there would be Christians, and the twain would come to meet in a most dismembery manner --
He cleared his throat into the microphone, gave the crowd a steely nod, and began, the band warming up behind him, and began.

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