23rd January 2017
This
morning saw me enjoying a delicious breakfast of crumpets and denim, a meal
sadly interrupted when the mercurial artist named Squiggly Ronald poured
himself into my house through a crack in the skirting board.
“Alright, Poncho?” Ronald asked me, all the
while not failing to notice the exhaust pipe which had been impaled through my
face for the past three days after an altercation with the head librarian at my
local library.
I merely nodded in reply, all too aware
that despite his artistic bent, Squiggly Ronald fed on spoken words like some
kind of language vampire. Ronald was indeed, to borrow a description once
shared with me by MC Hammer, “a reet fookin’ odd one, by jingo!”
“I made you a drawing,” Ronald continued,
before delving into his grubby satchel, half-chewed toffees and tiny ceramic apes
spilling forth as he rooted like a hog snuffling for truffles.
Ronald withdrew and displayed the piece of
paper on which his filthy fingers had wrought imagery which he called art but
which to me looked to be the insane scribbling of a man made of pigeons.
“That’s shit, Ronald,” I commented, only
too late realising my mistake as Squiggly Ronald snatched my words out of the
air and gulped them down with relish, as if they were delicious, bite-size
portions of Battenberg.
I quickly reached beneath my seat and
brought up the assault rifle which I kept taped there. I spewed hot lead in
Ronald’s direction, firing wildly, but too late: Ronald had already fled
through the same crack from whence he came.
Once again Squiggly Ronald had made a supper
of my sweet mind-words, but I swore that this would be the last time.
