A COUNTRY NAMED ‘LONDON’
with a soupçon of French France allowed…after all, proper Londoners own multiculturism
I met with a streetwise professor who was on my side…or was it the other way around? Matters not and regardless, we vented our respective fury upon each other as well as the very ground where inexplicit humans, akin to the ones my Dunkerque damaged father once knew after the conflict and before the wave of new-borns, brawled for elbow room.
Across the way, a firing squad prepared to slaughter a scapegoat who spoke not a word of English. She refused the blindfold the police constable offered, although did accept a last bonbon wrapped in shocking pink parchment. We had an inkling she was not best pleased. Perhaps the bonbon’s filling was not to her liking. In any event, she transformed into a crumpled, crimson limp marionette as a gazillion slugs proved their purpose for being.
I asked whether or not such butchery on the part of the constabulary’s firing squad was comparable to the uniqueness of a purposeful, shared Tourette’s syndrome. The professor’s nod indicated he thought that that was so.
Later, after the giant clock atop the prehistoric steeple had rung its midday chime, a carillon call for malleable morons far and wide, we found ourselves in the company of a most agreeable young lady without qualms. That she freely admitted she spent far too much time staring at the sun answered the question vis a vis her self-evident blindness. More importantly, she…her name I understand was unpronounceable hence I called her Lily…advised that she had, not that long ago, been the one who saved the last two unicorns from the indignity of Noah’s wretched arc. The professor butted in asking, “Where then, young Lily, are the unicorns now?” As quick as a flash she replied, “No one must ever know. That is why I stare at the sun. The visionless…be that actual or metaphorical…thankfully cannot read maps, therefore cannot give the game away.”
In dire need of nicotine the three of us, that is the professor, sweet Lily and I took to the tables outside of the tatty, yet irresistible tabac on the sunny side of the cobbled quadrangle, their caffeine rich ‘café petit’ a remedy for idle daydreaming.
It was there that the unkempt blond-haired, baby blue-eyed figurehead of the neo Master Race junta petitioned us to be allowed the seat next to sweet Lilys. “Why that particular seat?” I enquired of him.
His sanctimonious riposte, “She who cannot see will always be a friend to me. I know these things. I never lie.”
“How pray do you know these things?” demanded the streetwise professor.
Ensuring all ears were at the ready, his come-back, “Look around the square my friends. See him here, she there; see the gang digging holes in the wrong place; see them, those ones to your right, leaving the library with books they’ll never read; see how they all bump into one another. Sheer bliss, for these are my subjects. Millions of them, all as blind as bats. The blind will always believe in lies…not, I stress, that I ever lie…ho, ho, ho,” plus a swift guffaw or two, “Glory be, ‘tas been the making of me.”
“But I am blind and I know for sure that a friendship twixt you and I is an impossibility,” so said a fiery Lily.
“How so?” his ruffled reply.
“These ones you call ‘blind’ are but mesmerized. I need no eyes to sense that. Besides, I can smell you’re nothing but a contemptible monster amongst the creepy crawlers of your own fashioning. I would…and I’m sure the others will not stand in my way…be obliged if you follow me. I have something special you’d like to see. It’s just for you.”
Ever the salivating rake, he jumped at the opportunity. Then a surprise, albeit an inevitable one, sweet Lily held the Master Race monster’s sticky hand as the pair walked on and out of sight. Plainly he was of the opinion he would get his evil way with her. However, prior to their departure she had whispered in my ear, “I shall take him over to Noah’s place down by the riverside. I’ll tell Noah that this vile man is the last unicorn in the universe. Noah’s as daft as a brush and will be none the wiser. Noah doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Besides, unless the animals arrive in pairs he feeds them to the crows…and worry not, I need no map.”
Before I took of my leave I felt compelled to ask of the professor what he thought would become of the mesmerised locals now that their lord and master was ‘no more’. “I imagine they will move to the frozen north or possibly the wild west, perhaps even the flatlining east to be amongst their own kind. At least the citadel will be ours once more,” his take on the subject.
“Worry not. Her kind are made to survive.”