The Productivity Deacons

What will we do with the body? And the arm? And the pile of mud?

A whisper came to me over a stale plate of croutons. It seemed to say; “Pick a shovel and get on with it.”

I liked your directness.

“Warble yurdfulbolbog,” you insisted. I always knew you had some Norwich in you. And finally I understood. You wanted to dig up your grandfather.

You let out a big smile. One of those salty smiles that made you take on the consistency of a cheap margarine.

“This is very novel of you,” I said.

You seemed pleased with that, but what you didn’t realise was that I was using you. I wanted to talk about my novel. You didn’t bite. Reverse psychology failed me yet again. Fuck you Freud, and your pipe.

I got down on my seventh knee (the good one).

“Oh Lordy. My yummy Lordy. Let me be a party-goer. Let me be free of all that has held me down. Free me of restraint.”

Meanwhile, you were digging up the grandfather. The son of a peat shoveler. The one who had given Humphrey Bogart an ankle massage. The one who had been to war. Now we were at war. A war with ourselves.

“To care or not to care? Perchance, a foot. Perchance!”

As you raised your grandfather from the grave, I felt pity for you. It was quite obvious that your dead grandfather wasn’t going to have a kick around with you even though that was your dream and you had a football waiting in the car boot. The sight of it made me sad and I hated you for drowning me in emotion.

I stared at the sky. Ah, dreams. Better to dream. Better to imagine a life on a distant star. One day they will crucify a Jesus on a distant star. I felt that this was a quite novel thought and I applauded myself for it. Little wins.

Then you came at me with an axe.

“Sprudinengalish,” you screamed.

I was a sight of concern. Perhaps I shit myself. A man with some Norwich in him bearing down on me with an axe. What an awful predicament. I didn’t know what to say or do, and I didn’t possess the seventh virtue (agility).

“My novel is about a French bouncer,” I sputtered.

This only incited you further. We fought for hours. I lost a pinkie toe.

At dinner that very same night you told me you admired me and you wished me the best and you hoped to one day re-attach my toe. All I could think about was my novel.

“Forget it,” you said solemnly.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

You slammed your hand on the table. The croutons flew into the air.

“Enough of this novel nonsense! You are a man of meat! How many times must I remind you of this pertinent fact?”

“At least thrice more,” I cried over the rising screams of the hob kettle. “At least thrice more.”