Saturday, 5 December 2009

The Haunting Of A Hare


It was a cold Sabbath day in December and the beasts of Piccadilly had already retired to their hovels to take stock of the day’s trading and activities. The muggers, junkies and rapists were all very happy with themselves and every shop doorway housed an unconscious drunk lying in his own piss, or depending on fortune, someone else’s, for this is a picture of London in the year two-thousand-and-nine and the spirit of Christmas is upon her. And somewhere in this filth infested capital, a man was purchasing a hare! The man, we shall call him ‘son of God’, took the hare back to his abode, somewhere off the jungle of St Andrew’s Road. Here, son of God’s sick wife, we shall call her ‘Queen of the world’, waited for son of God, or ‘Sonnies’ return. She had been reading a letter from her friend Prince Muckandust from Gujarat, to say he would be in England for Christmas and that he looked forward to meeting Queen of the world again. Queen of the world, or ‘Queenie’, wanted to return the hospitality shown to her by the Prince and his parents when she visited India… Just then, son of God returned and declared that the tabernacles were a heaving mass of vocal animals celebrating ‘Christ’s canned religion!’ Son of God felt sick to his stomach. ‘Burn them all!’ he cried.


On the following day a phone call was received from Prince Muckandust to say he was in England and that he would call upon the Royal couple at their palace in West London. And the news was met with silent torment. And it came to pass that Prince Muckandust and his acquaintance, Lord Huffanpuff, who was introduced as the Prince’s official ‘sacred cow’, which was to say he was the Royal bed warmer but he was later referred to as the ‘gimp of heaven’, paid homage to son of God and Queen of the world.
The palace was a humble affair decorated in the modern style of white walls with hangings and wooden floors. Dominant in the main room was a book case inhabited by various books on many subjects. In one corner was a small altar dedicated to some dark god in which Sonnie regularly sacrificed the small rodents which freely roamed the palace. On one of the walls hung an Indian painting depicting a night scene in a garden where a Prince is attended by maidens and sacred animals. In front of the window sat a statue of Buddha, surrounded by reflective crystals, his hands locked together, in deep meditation.
The Winter solstice had come and gone and the illusion of time hung heavy in the palace. The Prince was the very essence of ignorance. ‘He may have an air of aristocracy’, said Queenie, ‘but he has the manners of a pig!’, and knowing of the Prince’s aversion to the eating of flesh (not to mention soap and water), son of God fell into an unsavoury discourse on the natural beauty and versatility of pork!
The Prince would not partake of the grape, for his mind was a vision of pure clarity and his religion forbade any stimulant stronger than oxygen, which in certain extreme cases was removed from the daily diet of many of the religion’s followers and as a result death would follow, but it was a small thing to forgive in the attempt to follow a chosen way of life. As the evening quickly rolled into night, L……, the Royal servant, burst into the room with a deafening ‘Dinner!’ (Which was the only word he could speak) and a tender pheasant was produced to the roars of approval from Sonnie, who was known to digest the odd wild animal or two. ‘I am lost in the reason of your understanding’, the Prince was heard to say, as he tucked into something small and tasteless, green and harmless and full of nutrition, no doubt. Secretly the Prince was missing his mother’s milk!
It was truly a Royal Boxing Day feast and the Indian Prince was less than impressed. In fact, he oozed himself from room to room on his lady-like legs, puffing himself up to the size of a small chicken as he tried to live up to his imagined importance.
Outside, the natives along the Manchester Road were restless, knowing that the Holy One was amongst them and being entertained within their midst. And jubilation thronged all night long from Kensington. to Wembley, as the smell of burning flesh came thick from the Sinner and Saint public house. In fact, it all turned quite ugly and several bystanders found themselves being digested alive. Such was the atmosphere in West London that night.


The next day reports were heard how a child had been orphaned by the boiling mob of bag-snatchers and pornographers, and at least two old ladies had succumbed to the lure of the pot. But enough of pleasantries… Son of God and Queen of the world were sitting in their palace listening to the strains of a small boy outside being fed into a mangle for crucifying a cat in the name of Jesus Christ, when the Prince and Lord Huffanpuff dropped in. It was a wonder to behold their attempts to overthrow the Royal household with their pee-brained, effeminate behaviour. They didn’t so much walk into the Royal chamber as pour themselves in. Sonnie and Queenie quickly marched them from the palace and down to the Grand Ugly Canal where mobile phones, televisions and American tourists now outnumbered the fish! Stepping carefully among the turds, the Royal couple led the donkeys to [insert detested superstore of choice], that great slaughterhouse of consumable products! There, the donkeys soon tired and departed to whatever scene of sodomistic bliss they called home.


It was New Year’s Day when Sonnie and Queenie saw the Prince again. He turned up looking for a bed for the night and it was obvious that Lord Huffanpuff had grown tired of wet nursing the Prince and pandering to his disgusting whims. And so an old rag and urine soaked pillow (kept for special occasions when ‘people we hate’ and ‘dirty bastards’ should call in to stay) was found for the Prince. His gratitude knew no bounds and he was privileged to witness the Royal Hare being bathed in the Royal sink and prepared for the Great Feast. Out came the heart and lungs, followed swiftly by the liver and kidneys. Son of God felt as if a crime was being committed and the hare seemed like the corpse of a small child: ‘In the name of the fornicating Christ’, said Sonnie, making the sign of the cross over the hare: ‘I anoint thee’. And he burst into song:

‘We pluck the beast and wash the beast and this is what we do;
We drain the blood because we should and this will make fine stew!
The corpse is cleansed; the corpse is blessed unto our chosen God,
And Eaten as a sacrament by Queenie and her Sod!’


It was a dark, dark night and Queenie was still recovering from the flu when the inhabitants of the Sheep’s Gut Road came out in their drunken masses to shout ‘Happy New Year!’
‘Bollocks to the New Year!’ echoed Sonnie, as the rapists took Featherton Road while the muggers took Maiden Shamed Road, leaving the paedophiles and priests to take Armpit Avenue. In the proceedings a young nun was buggered and later burnt to death in Nunnery Road. In fact, it was an ordinary New Year in West London. And at their palace, in a haze of sweet smelling incense sat the Son of God and the Queen of the world, with a distant look of satisfaction on their faces for that night a delicious feast was eaten at the Royal household. The Prince had realised his dream of reaching the top of his tree by attaining nirvana, it seemed the air of West London was just too rich for him and so his delicate frame was cooked alongside the hare and digested to the babblings of the natives outside. Strange, but every time the Prince’s name was mentioned L……. would roll his eye and rub his tum with a deafening ‘Dinner!’

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